The Big O (The Virgin Diaries)

T
he Big O

Copyright © 2016 by HJ Bellus.

Edited by: Kellie Montgomery

Formatting: HJ Bellus

Cover Designer: Cassy Roop @Pink Ink Designs

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of HJ Bellus.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

D
edication
-

To the damn letter O and to women around the world hunting down THE BIG O. May your toes curl with happiness and enjoyment! -HJB

T
he Damn Diary

Dear Diary,

Sweats, check. An ample supply of new movies for the weekend, check. A box of powder doughnuts, check. Pedro on my lap gnawing on a rawhide. This is it, my life in a nutshell. I’m a loser with a teaching degree and a wild desire to be swept off of my feet by Prince Charming. Not only do I want to be swept off my feet, I want him to pound me into next Tuesday. He needs to ride me like he stole me and toss my V card right out the window.

For now, it’s the damn “Notebook”, junk food, and my dog.

Love, O

“
H
e’s
way too feminine for my type. I mean, I need a little burp and farts to a man.” I take a large bite of my bagel smothered in cream cheese. “He looks like he can shit glitter and then make it rain sprinkles.”

“O-livia knock it off. You’ll never get laid at this damn rate.”

I shrug and talk around a mouthful of bagel. “I’ll be the crazy Yorkie woman.”

Scout nails me in the shoulder. “Look there, Olivia, give him the sexy stare.”

“Ewww, no.”

I get that Metro may be for some, but not me. I want the calloused hands and construction worker hat.

“Are you daydreaming again about your rough and tough man?” Scout asks.

“You know the pot roast kind with abs and scruff, that’s what I want,” I say, washing down my bagel with my favorite diet soda.

“You had that with Lester, Olivia.”

A shower of diet soda sprays out my mouth and rolls down both my nostrils, causing a shit storm of a brain ache. “Shut your damn mouth when you talk to me.”

“Well, you did,” Scouts insists.

“That was a blind date, asshole, and he was nasty. His fingernails were longer than mine and filled with dirt.”

“Well there’s your manly man, O.”

Scout Jones is the only living person on the face of this planet allowed to call me O. She’s been my best friend since kindergarten, we’ve owned matching Easter dresses growing up, and have been by each other’s side for years.

When my mom passed away it was Scout and her mom who took me in. I mean my dad did his best, but running his own mechanic shop and grieving the love of his life pretty much used up all of his extra time and energy. It’s never easy when you lose your wife to breast cancer and then are stuck with an eleven year old blossoming daughter. Like I said, my dad did his best and made it work with of course, the help of our neighbor, Scout’s family.

Dad even eventually got comfortable with buying feminine products and used auto parts to give me the birds and the bees talk. I still have nightmares of a spark plug shafting the shit out of a washer with oil going everywhere. I cringed and I do believe my ovaries even sent Hail Marys to Jesus that day in the shop. When Daddio pulled out a piston and began preaching about the different places boys shouldn’t be allowed to stick their wieners in, I ran for it. In fact, it was clocked as the fastest sprint in the history of feared sexed speech sprints.

All I can say and will, to my dying day is thank God for Scout’s mom, Lily; she saved me in every blossoming womanly way possible. Scout and I went off to college together a whole whopping twenty-five minutes away from home, went through the teaching college together class by class, and then landed a teaching job back in our hometown.

We’ve dubbed ourselves “courageous-badass bitches.” No shit, we even made ourselves sashes and blinged out crowns. Then proceeded to drink bottle after bottle of Moscato until I pissed myself laughing when Scout got a Cheeto stuck up her nose.

Now, here we sit in our hometown mall doing our best to dodge all of our old classmates and their blossoming families. We’re known as the hometown closet lesbians who trade furs at night in their canoes or something like that. Scout dared me to stare at a vagina on the computer screen one night without gagging. I blew chunks and then had nightmares hoping my kitty was prettier than the pounded pussy on the screen.

Let’s-be-honest, and set the stage of my real life situation. I’m twenty-four, a first grade teacher, have a Yorkie named Pedro, a goldfish named Fish, have never had sex, or a serious boyfriend, and I’m the town lesbian who pukes when she sees a pussy. Nothing really to be jealous of at all.

“Olivia, woof down your biscuit and let’s go splurge on our last day of spring break.”

I very kindly flip her the bird and shove the rest of my bagel in my mouth. “You mean max out our Old Navy cards. Don’t make it sound so freaking glamorous.”

“Same thing, bitch. Let’s roll.”

Scout and I couldn’t be any more opposite. Me, jet black, board straight shiny hair, Scout, bouncy beautiful golden locks. And of course to pair with the gorgeous blonde hair, she has long legs for miles and ample curves. I’m short and lie every single fucking time when asked my height. I always pad myself at least a good four inches. My tits are a decent size C while Scout’s are perfect and ginormous filling out all of her outfits.

“Scout, I really have enough khakis and skirts from Old Navy to choke an elephant.”

She slams her hands over her chest. “You evil, rotten, dirty pot licker. Never say that again.”

And we go to Old Navy and then every other department store in the mall. Scout’s not shy about maxing her card out and living the American dream of wallowing in debt. I’m a bit more reserved when it comes to money. My dad, always the conservative businessman, taught me well.

“Scout, let’s go. We will be late for dinner.”

She scurries with her heaping arm full of clothes up to the counter while I tap my foot relentlessly on the cement ground, waiting on her. Every single Sunday we have dinner at her parents’ house. My father, George, walks across our backyard and waltzes right through their backdoor with his twelve pack of Miller Genuine Draft beer. We are one very charming knitted ball of oddity type family.

“Your mom is going to kick your ass,” I tell Scout as we walk into the fresh spring air of Oregon.

“She’ll get over it.”

“Last time you were late for Sunday night you got a meatloaf pan to the right eye.”

“Mom’s getting damn batty in her old age,” Scout replies.

We both settle in the car and on cue, my butthole puckers with each yellow light Scout blows through, but she makes it to her mom’s house with thirty seconds to spare. I stretch out my fingers, letting the flow of blood return to my knuckles. You’d think after years of Scout’s driving I’d be a seasoned pro, but like she tells me, I’m a certified chicken liver pussy.

“Taylor has a cousin and wanted to know if you’d like to double date with us next weekend,” Scout announces before we get out of her lime green VW Bug.

“Pass. El No. I mean hell to the fucking no. I’ve been on enough of your damn blind slash double dates of hell.”

“You’ve seen Taylor; he’s smoking hot and this is a blood cousin, so same gene pool.” She waggles her eyebrows.

“No, Scout, I’m done with your torture. I’m not dating. Your legs spread easier than melted butter and you love having sausage all up in your taco. Leave me out of it. I have several seasons of
Saved By the Bell
to get reacquainted with.”

“So, I’ll tell him yes.” She fist pumps the air. “Saturday at seven.”

“I’ll have the liquid shits, bitch.” I slam the door, giving up on her desperate attempt to torture me.

“Olivia.” I look over to the front porch of my childhood home to see my father clothed in his red plaid button shirt, which he’s deemed as his “town and Sunday” shirt.

“Using the front door, Dad?” I ask shading my eyes from the glaring sun.

“Looking for Oscar; that damn son of a bitch escaped again.” His right hand is wrapped in a paper towel.

“Did that pecker bite you again?”

“He had a stick caught in his mouth and was choking. He didn’t bite me.”

“The dick accidentally sunk his teeth into your flesh, right?”

I follow him down the sidewalk, behind him as he hollers out Oscar’s name.

“And Olivia, stop with all the dick calling. He’s a wiener dog for Christ’s sake.”

“He’s Satan, Dad.”

“I like him.”

“There’s the little, cocksucker.” I point to the black villain hiking his leg up on a hydrant.

“Come here, boy. Here, boy, Oscar.”

“Jesus, you’re nicer to the dog than you were to me as a child.” I pat his shoulder, watching his face light up as Oscar stampedes towards him. “You’d throw me a cold hot dog and hoped I survive.”

“Like I’ve always told you Olivia, you can’t take a hotdog to a steak dinner.” He bends down and scoops up his dog and then wraps an arm around my shoulder as we head back towards our house. “I love you very much.”

“I know, Dad.” I lay my head down in the crook of his arm. It’s always been my safety net, the comfort zone where all my problems disappear. “I just like teasing you.”

“I know, you little shit.”

Oscar bares his teeth to me and I swear they’re stained a light pink.

“That bastard’s growling at me.”

“He senses evil,” Dad chimes.

“Old man has jokes. Go get your beer and let’s eat dinner.”

Dear Diary,

Do you find it funny that my name is Olivia Olander and I live in Ontario, Oregon and teach school in room one and have never had an O?

Love, O

M
ondays have
to be the evil spawn of Satan multiplied by infinity. I’d rather be sitting at home in my yoga pants seeing how many needles I can stick into my palm before screaming uncle than functioning on a Monday morning in an elementary school. All the bold primary colors spiral out of control, causing my head to pound and ache and not even coffee can control the vortex of pain.

“How was your morning?” Scout asks, throwing her Lean Cuisine into the microwave.

“Like a donkey’s farting asshole, you?”

“I teach fifth grade; it always smells like farts in my room.”

“True dat,” I mumble riffling through the newspapers scattered on the table in the teacher’s lounge.

Who in the hell even reads the paper anymore?
I look up to the other professionals in the staff lounge, three of whom probably taught Fred and Barney how to print with a chisel into stone. They carry flip-phones and still use an overhead projector for every single lesson.

Absentmindedly, I stare at Mr. Voulch, the fourth grade teacher, and wonder if, in his prime, he was the shit. I mean, like real cool and legit and all that snazz. My vision scans over his bolo tie and I take a minute to admire the glossy tan stone in the center of it. The green stain on his white button up shirt assaults my vision and I stare at it like there’s no tomorrow.
Is that a boogery snot stain or pea soup?

I clutch to Scout’s arm, pulling her long torso down to me, so I can whisper in her ear. “I’m going to be Mr. Voulch.”

“Uh?” She turns to me.

“He’s never been married right?”

“That’s the word on the street,” Scout replies.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I whisper.

“What in the hell is wrong with you?” she asks, pulling her meal out and prancing to the table, not letting her hand get burned by the edges of the hot plastic tray.

I settle next to her, pulling out my peanut butter and jelly and continue to whisper like a ninja.

“That’s going to be me. Just look at him. Teaching and never been married and for fuck’s sake, look at that stain on his shirt.”

“You’d wear a bolo tie?”

“Jesus, Scout that’s all you got out of that?” I flop my head down on the table and hold back from pounding my forehead on it. “I’m a virgin and hopeless.”

“Mr. Voulch.” I hear Scout’s voice. “Do you own a Yorkie?”

“No.” The sound of paper rustling goes off and then no further conversation.

“See, you’re fine, champ. He doesn’t own a Yorkie. All is clear.”

“I guess I’ll go on the date Saturday.”

“I know. Already told Taylor you would. How am I supposed to teach fifth graders who are just coming into their hormones Geometry? Fuck my life.”

“Have you and Taylor had sex?”

“Jesus, Geometry to sex, O. Get a grip.”

“You’re going to think O, Scout. My damn name is Olivia Olander and I live in Ontario, Oregon and teach at Oregon Trail in room one, so yes, I just did switch the damn topic.”

“Have you used that toy I bought you?” Scout raises both of her eyebrows up.

“No, the fucker scared me and I tossed it right back into the package.”

“It has a ten volt battery that will zap you into next year.”

“I just want a man and the O.”

“Quit being so desperate, O, you’re too cute for it.”

“I’m Asian.” I slump back down on the table.

“And that matters because?”

“Because I want to be Barbie,” I joke.

“But you have slanted eyes and cute dimples.”

“You’re right, but I want a man like Jillian has and I want her SUV and picket fence and baby bump.” The lunch bell goes off and I stand up. “Oh, and the infinite amount of Os Douglas has given her.”

“Douglas has a small dick. I nearly chipped my front tooth on his pelvic bone when blowing him our junior and then he got warts our senior year. That shit’s like diamonds…forever. No need to be jealous. Hike those titties up and go teach phonics to the future of our country.”

“So inspirational, fuckface,” I say a bit louder than intended, while throwing my stuff away.

“You two need a good whipping and about a year’s worth of church.”

We both turn to Mrs. Jackard, the kindergarten teacher and preacher’s wife, and smile.

“God bless,” I say before slamming the door to the staff room.

I’m off to save the day, one alphabet and peepee dance at a time.

Dear Diary,

Just another day down. Living the American dream with my Yorkie and…Shit, my life sucks, so I’ll keep this shit real.

Love, O