Confessions of a Virgin Sex Columnist! (6 page)

"What?"

"Um…" she starts. "You need to read these yourself."

"Oh god, what now?" I ask, grabbing my phone and looking at the screen.

At first I don't notice what she's laughing at, but then it hits me. I race to click on the little envelope at the top of the screen, dread tightening into a deep, dark pit at the bottom of my stomach.

Your place or mine?

That's all the first message reads. Your place or mine!

Are you kidding me? Is that serious?

I'll choose neither, thank you very much.

I delete his chat from my phone, erasing it completely before I click on the next message from a different guy.

Sex?

And that's it.

Delete!

I click on the next, heart racing, vision turning the slightest hint of red.

Your gorgeous…
Okay, well that one's not so bad, except for the incorrect grammar. Not ideal, but at least he was trying. I scroll down and read the second half of the message.
I want to lick chocolate fudge off your body.

What the?

I mean, does someone actually think that is a good pick-up line? Or not even a pick-up line, but just an acceptable thing to say to a human being you've never even met before? Scratch that. Even if we had met, heck, even if we were dating, I'm not sure I'd ever want to hear that from someone. Ever.

I turn off my phone.

"Bridget, is this for real?"

She licks her lips, a sorry expression creeping onto her face. "Well, it's not the ideal first online dating experience. But, what's that saying? My mom always used to say it. You have to kiss a lot of frogs before you find your prince?"

I gawk. "Kiss a lot of frogs…?" I trail off, shaking my head. "He asked me to lick chocolate fudge off of him. Not just chocolate, but chocolate
fudge
!"

"What?" Ollie shouts from the kitchen. A moment later, his head pokes around the corner. "Who? What's going on? I'll be back in a second, wait for me before you guys say anything else."

I ignore him. "This isn't a dating app. This is a sex app! You put me on a sex app!"

"I didn't know that…" Bridget cringes. "I don't have a profile. I just have friends who use it. Ollie uses it!"

Speak of the devil.

At that moment, Ollie walks in with a bowl of dumpling stuffing and empty wrappers, ears perked to listen in on the conversation.

The perfect unsuspecting prey.

"You let her put me on a sex app!" I shout and jump off the couch, slapping him repeatedly in the arm—crush completely negated by the fury scalding my blood.

"Hey, watch the food." He swerves around me, almost dropping the bowl.

Just what I need right now—pork bits splattering all over my apartment—not. I drop back, still fuming, but calmed somewhat after my outburst.

"What sex app? What's going on? All I heard was something about licking and chocolate fudge…" He trails off into a fit of confused laughter.

"This!" I shove the phone in his face. At first, he turns serious, focusing on the screen to read what it says. But then I watch him mouth the words
chocolate fudge
and a moment later he's convulsing again.

I snatch the phone back. "I'm deleting this app. That's it. Online dating is so not for me."

"Oh, come on," Bridget urges. "That was just bad luck. We could try a website instead of an app. It can't always be like that. I mean, right, Ollie?"

"I don't know, sis," Ollie teases. "I always start my conversations by offering to lick hot foods off of a girl. I mean, really, it’s just good manners."

Can I hit him again? I really want to hit him again.

Bridget beats me to the punch—literally.

"Ow." He sets the food down and rubs his side. "That actually hurt."

"Good," Bridget and I mutter in unison. And then we lock arms and collapse back onto the couch. A sigh travels up my throat.

I'm right back where I started.

Single. Prospectless. In need of a boyfriend, and ASAP. Well, except now I'm even more exhausted and even more hopeless. And I had thought the situation couldn't get any worse. Clearly, I'd been wrong. Oh, blissful ignorance, why did you abandon me?

"What am I going to do now?" I grumble, sitting up to reach for a dumpling wrap. Ollie scoops a handful of the pork stuffing onto my roll and I start folding, repeating the process over and over. It's sort of soothing in its monotony. Bridget joins us and the room goes silent while we work, folding and crimping, folding and crimping, over and over until a bowl of raw dumplings sits full on the coffee table.

"I have an idea." Bridget sits up straight, looking at me with a triumphant expression. There's a very high possibility that I won't like the sound of this, but I keep quiet. What do I really have to lose at this point?

Uh, do me a favor. Don't answer that.

"Ollie!"

What? Did I just hear that correctly?

Ollie and I make eye contact—panicked. I know I must look just as alarmed as him, if not more. Terror makes my hands tremble, sends a painful shiver down my spine. Bridget can't know… She doesn't know…

"Ollie can set you up with someone at his restaurant."

I yank my gaze to the floor, releasing a heavy breath, blinking and then swallowing before I lick my lips. "I'm not so sure that's a great idea."

"Yeah, me neither," Ollie says, and I don't hear any joke in his tone this time. Like me, he's dead serious.

"Oh, come on. I'd set you up with someone, but you know all my friends. They're all your friends. But Ollie can vet the guy, make sure he's not crazy."

"A blind date?" I ask, hesitant for oh so many reasons. That's just the easiest to voice to Bridget at the time.

"Come on, guys. For me?" Bridget pleads, pulling on both of our heartstrings. And like always, I doubt either of us will be able to say no. Especially because, according to Bridget, there's no reason for either of us to say no in the first place.

I look at Ollie.

He looks at me.

And at the same time, we give in. "Okay."

"Perfect." Bridget leans back, grinning, and grabs the remote from the coffee table, clicking on the television.

"I'll go cook these," Ollie says and lifts the bowl of dumplings from the table.

I bite my lip. Thinking. And then just go for it. "Can I help?"

He pauses, cocking his head, but then shrugs. "Sure."

I follow Ollie to the kitchen, unsure of what I'm really doing here. But it felt right, in the moment, to come with him. I watch from a few feet away while he turns on the stove, grabbing a frying pan and dropping in oil. It pops and sizzles, growing louder when a handful of dumplings are tossed in. His movements are fluid, utterly confident, lazy yet commanding. The muscles in his forearm flex as he rapidly shuffles the spatula around the dish, completely controlled.

Pulled by some unknown force, I step forward, closer, so I'm leaning over his shoulder, hardly an inch away from his body. My eyes are on the pan, but my attention is completely on him.

"So, um, thanks," I say, not turning my head.

"It's no big deal, I'm happy to help."

"Well, it means a lot, to me at least." I lick my lips, nervous.

Ollie steps back, turning to me. And even though I don't want them to, my eyes find his.

"You want to try?" he says after a moment, offering me the spatula.

"You're trusting me in the kitchen?" I mock.

He shrugs. "There's a first time for everything, Skye."

"Oh, this isn’t the first time. Don't you remember when you tried to teach Bridget and me how to make crème brûlée?"

One corner of his mouth picks up, puckering a dimple into his cheek. "Giving the two of you a blow torch was the biggest mistake of my life."

"We almost lit your mom's Christmas towels on fire."

"Almost?" He lifts his eyebrows in amazement, aqua eyes shining bright. "I seem to remember burying a certain Santa-covered cloth in the backyard before she got home."

"Oh, yeah…" I trail off. "I might have forgotten about that."

"Well, I didn't." He snatches the spatula away. "Maybe I should rethink this offer."

"Come on." I jump forward, reaching for his hand. "Give me a second chance."

"A second chance?" he asks, stilling his body. The air feels charged.

I nod, not really sure what we're talking about anymore. But my answer would be the same either way, I think. "Yeah, a second chance."

Ollie hands over the spatula. I dip it into the pan, pausing to look at him before focusing on the dumplings. I get under one, flipping it onto the spatula and depositing it on our serving platter. So far so good. I get another. But when I try to go for the third, it's stuck to the bottom of the pan a little and I press too hard, sending it flying across the counter—airborne.

Ollie sighs. "Let me show you."

And he wraps his fingers around mine, gently gripping my hand. I close my eyes, reveling in his warm touch. He guides me, flipping and turning, as though we're dancing and not cooking. I'm lost in the movement, in the subtle rub of his skin on mine—soft yet coarse enough to be manly. I don't realize the pan is empty until he pulls away and the barest shiver travels up my arm.

I don't say anything as I turn around and leave. I just walk to the couch and snuggle under the blanket next to Bridget, suddenly ice cold.

I've never been on a real, one-on-one, first date! Pathetic, I know. But all of high school was dominated by my obsession with Ollie. And my nearly four-year relationship with John started as a month of anxious flirtation culminating in a 2:00 a.m. make out session in the basement of a frat house…the sheer definition of romance.

My palms are sweating. My boobs are sweating. I think even my butt cheeks may be sweating. Okay, sorry, that last bit might have been too much information. But, well, I'm freaking out.

I'm going on a date.

A blind date.

My hair was blow-dried. My makeup perfectly applied. My outfit carefully selected by Bridget with absolutely no say from me—and these tights aren't exactly helping the situation. Thank god I'm wearing black. She at least had the foresight to put me in something sweat-stain proof.

Okay.

Breathe.

It’s just a guy. A date. No big deal.

If it works, awesome. If not, my boss might fire me and find a sex columnist who actually goes on dates and has a sex life. So, no pressure.

Way to calm yourself down, Skye.

I shake my head. Time to snap out of it. I'm about a block away from the restaurant, so it is time to put my game face on. Smile? Check. Alluring eyes empty of the terror coiling in my stomach? Check.

Then I pause, stumbling on the sidewalk before I regain my balance. What is his name again? I take out my phone, glancing at my recent text messages. Glenn! Glenn… What does the name Glenn say? Well, I guess it would say more about his parents than him, but still. Glenn. What about, like, Fabio? Or, I don't know, Ryder, or, ooh, Cole?

Then again, Skylar sort of sounds hippie, especially since almost everyone I know just shortens my name to Skye. Or, well, like a boy's name, which I've gotten before. So, yeah, I'm in no place to judge.

And on that note, I've arrived at the restaurant.

Taking a deep breath, I step through the front door, pleasantly surprised by how nice the place looks. I'm definitely not in college anymore… Crisp white linens cover the tabletops. A wine cellar stretches along the back wall. Soft, ambient light fills the space, made more romantic by sparkling crystal chandeliers and carved wooden moldings. And a hostess who is probably dressed better than I am greets me as soon as I walk inside, inquiring about a reservation.

"Oh, um, I think it's under…Glenn?" I ask, sounding like an idiot, because of course I don't know his last name.

"Glenn?" she asks, skeptical.

I lean in, whispering girl to girl. "Sorry, I can text him to see if he's here. I'm sort of on a blind date."

"Oh, Glenn!" she suddenly exclaims, with an excited tone that instantly has me on edge. "You're the girl who has a date with Glenn. Let me show you to your table."

I can't help but notice the emphasis she placed on
you're
, as though she had heard of me before, as though she somehow knew Glenn, as though he specifically mentioned the date to her. But when I sit down at the table, no one is there, so I flip absently through the menu while I wait. And about halfway through the entrees, the realization hits.

No…

No!

I'm sitting in a restaurant on Fifth Avenue.

A new restaurant that just opened up.

A high-end American steakhouse.

No…

But as I peek over my shoulder, watching the man who is undoubtedly Glenn walk through a door clearly meant only for staff, my heart sinks to the floor. This is Ollie's restaurant. Well, Glenn's restaurant, but he's not really the one I'm concerned with. And the closer he walks, smiling, waving in greeting, the more I want to crawl under the table, curl into a ball, and just disappear. Which is a shame really, because I don't get enough of these moments to waste them. You know, moments when a really good-looking guy is approaching and you know for certain that his charming smile actually is meant for you, and not some leggy blonde standing behind you? Yeah, that doesn’t usually happen to me, so I really would have liked to appreciate it.

But I can't. And I don't. My feet tap nervously on the floor and my heart leaps into my chest when he comes to a stop next to the table.

"Skylar?"

I hastily stand on unsteady feet, somewhat surprised I haven't fainted yet, and shake his hand. I was supposed to shake it, right? That wasn't like him going in for a hug or something? I sigh, too late, and stutter out a reply. "Uh, you can just call me Skye. And you're Glenn, right?"

"Yeah." He takes his seat.

I keep standing, frozen in place for a moment—caught between needing to stay for my job and wanting to run for my sanity. My job wins out. I sit. "So." I swallow. Be cool. Be casual. You're just making polite conversation. "Is this the restaurant you work in? I didn’t realize that when you asked me to dinner."

"It is." He nods, not even bothering to pick up the menu. I can't help but notice he has a nice smile, warm and friendly. And really white teeth too. No dimples, though… Wait—where'd that thought come from? Ugh, not the time to think about Ollie. Especially when Glenn is still talking. I lean in, refocusing, trying to catch the tail end of his sentence. "…a little unorthodox, but I thought hey, why not? This way I could make our dessert beforehand and you could taste a little of my food."

I nod, furrowing my brows, pretending I understand, when really I'm grasping for what to say next. He mentioned dessert. His cooking. Oh, and what did Ollie tell me? Not that I want to think about Ollie, and then I remember.

"You're the pastry chef!" I blurt and then shift uncomfortably on my seat, hoping that didn’t come out as loud and crazy as it sounded. Knowing my luck, it came out even louder and even crazier, especially since he's giving me a confused sort of look. And then I realize, he must have told me that already, during those few moments when I completely zoned out and stopped paying attention. Not the best way to start a date.

I swallow.

My butt is sweating again.

"So, what did you make? Or is that a surprise?"

"No, not a surprise." He shakes his head, but keeps his eyes locked on mine. They're a nice color, a milk chocolate brown that sort of works perfectly for a man who makes desserts for a living. "I made one of my specialties—a medallion of cheesecake resting on a cinnamon crumble, topped with raspberry compote and toasted coconut shavings. Oh, and a caramel, butterscotch drizzle."

Holy crap.

I gape.

That sounds amazing.

He just chuckles at my expression. "So, that sounds good?"

"Delicious." I grin back. Maybe I'm not so bad at this.

"So what do you do?" he asks.

Such a simple question, innocent really. It’s not his fault that it sends me into a coughing fit as I choke on the water I just swallowed and try my best not to spit it out all over the table. So not attractive. "I'm a writer," I finally say. "I work for the style section of a newspaper. But enough about me, I want to hear more about these desserts. Are you a cupcake man?"

"I am," he says cheerfully. I silently applaud myself on the successful sidestep and try not to salivate as the discussion veers into his favorite flavors. And for a moment, I really think I might have found my dream man. I mean, hello, breakfast in bed eating red velvet cupcakes topped with homemade cream cheese frosting? Yes, please!

But my elation fades in the blink of an eye when a waiter stops by our table, setting down a little treat, roasted butternut squash puree "compliments of the chef." Oh, the soup, the soup looks great. It’s what's on top of the soup that has me balling my fists under the table.

A pesto-drizzle winky face.

A freaking winky face—a smiley face that's winking. And there's only one person who could have put it there.

I spin in my chair, looking back toward the kitchen entrance, but Ollie isn’t there. Coward! Hiding in the kitchen to escape my wrath—

"Everything okay?" Glenn asks.

"Oh, sure," I mutter and turn back around, quickly downing the little shot glass of soup to erase the evidence. "That was so nice of them, to do that."

"Yeah, the guys back there are great. Speaking of, how do you know Oliver?"

I swallow my anger, trying to bring the charming, first date personality back around. "His sister is my best friend, we all grew up together. I mean, he's practically my brother." Except…not at all. But Glenn doesn’t need to know that. I quickly change the topic. "So, how do you like living in New York? I've only been here for about four months, but I love it."

And just like that, the date is back on course.

Turns out Glenn has been in New York for a long time, twelve years. He came here for culinary school when he was eighteen and decided to stay after he got a job at one of his favorite restaur—wait! Twelve years ago he was eighteen… He was eighteen twelve years ago… I quickly do the math—I may be a writer but that doesn't mean I can't add. Still though, I'm doubting my skills as the truth hits.

He's thirty?

He's thirty!

I try not to spew food across the table as internal sirens blare, instead nodding absently to give the appearance that I'm paying attention. But really the word
thirty
is jumping around my head, knocking everything else out of whack. And then my brain does that thing where the entire world seems to warp around my thoughts, and the longer I look at Glenn, the more distinct the numbers three and zero imprint on his forehead. And no matter how hard I try to listen, all I hear from his lips is,
I'm thirty. I'm thirty. I'm thirty
. And all the wrinkles I didn’t see become more pronounced. Is that a gray hair?

Thirty. That's an eight-year difference. When he was eighteen, I was ten! Oh, great, I just cringed because of how disgusting that is, but come on, I was playing with Barbie dolls when he was in college doing college age things.

And now he's speaking but I don’t hear anything. Wonderful.

Focus, Skye.

Focus.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah," I blurt way too cheerfully. Calm down, just calm down. Thirty isn’t that old anyway. He's more worldly. More sophisticated. I wonder how many women he's slept with…Oh god, if he ever hears that I'm a virgin, he'll think I'm an infant! A child! And suddenly it's not that thirty seems old, but that twenty-two seems way too young.

Oh thank god, the waiter is coming over. I sigh, saved for a few minutes.

"Are you ready to order?"

We decide to split a porterhouse steak and a few vegetable sides. I'm not even paying attention to the food—my thoughts are racing ahead for something mature to say. And then the waiter catches my eye before leaving, throwing a little side grin my way and I know, I just know, he's a little traitor passing information off to Ollie in the kitchen. I wonder what he's going to report? That I look pale and crazed? Probably accurate…

I take a sip of my water, tossing a nervous smile in Glenn's direction.

"Tell me about your family," he says.

Good, that's easy enough. Well, not really because my family is completely complicated, but it didn’t used to be. We were a perfectly happy suburban family—that is until my father decided to cheat on my mother with the live-in babysitter next door when I was fifteen. And then my house became World War Three for a few months. He was kicked out. Then let back in. Then kicked out. Then let back in. I learned to ignore clothes dropping past the kitchen window when I was doing homework, to tune out the raging shouting matches before I went to bed. More often than not, I escaped to Bridget's house, relishing in the normalness of her completely happy parents. But how do you tell that to a relative stranger?

"It's just my mom and me," I say, settling on those less complicated words. "My parents got divorced when I was a teenager, and I don't really spend too much time with my dad." I shrug, ignoring the pitter-patter of my racing heart. "What about you?"

"I have a big family," he says, affection evident in his tone. And it's sweet.

For the next while, we compare holidays and childhoods before we move onto travel and hobbies—all things I assume are pretty standard first date topics. And Glenn is just as sophisticated as I thought he might be. In culinary school, he studied abroad in Italy for a year and I'm enthralled by his stories about Europe—the food, the people, the culture. I've only ever been to England, but I yearn to travel—to see all of the places he's telling me about, to taste every meal and know for myself if it's all as delicious as he says. Somehow, I already know it is. The next hour passes in the blink of an eye. I forget to be nervous because I'm actually having fun.