Page 1 of Tasty Cherry

1

MILA

Thank God virginity isn’t visible, or mine would definitely be showing.

I dance with my third man of the night, feeling despair that this Colorado bar isn’t going to cough up a solution to my problem.

I’ve simply got to find someone to break into this flower shop.

Cut this grass.

Bust a hyme.

Or if you’re kicking it old school: pop this cherry.

At least my current dance partner is in the right range. Male. Twenties. Not scary. And most importantly — interested. That’s been hard to come by.

Which is why I’m here. I’ve been trying all summer to get this V-card cashed in.

Time is running out. I start a new job tomorrow, a live-in situation with five interns. Camille, my best friend from college, has told me to get this taken care of or I’ll be the talk of my new coworkers if anyone finds out. My hymen situation is something I’ll never live down.

I can hear the nicknames.

Hey, Veek.

Good afternoon, VILF.

How’s it hanging, nergin?

Goodntight. Poptart. V-squad. Dusty Murphy.

Maybe I shouldn’t have looked on Urban Thesaurus.

But I know Camille is right.

I’m not attached to my status. I’ve tried to give it up plenty of times over the years. Now, I’m desperate.

I’m a college graduate about to meet potential long-term friends and maybe get a real dating life. But I have this thing I don’t want hanging over my head. It makes me feel awkward and weird, like I can’t do a casual hookup. And trust me, I’m totally fine with a casual hookup!

But first-time sex will feel too big, too important to whatever guy it ends up being.

Or, it will be the subject of ridicule.

I don’t want that scene.

I want to be saucy, experienced, ready for what happens next.

So, I need this situation handled, like Christian Grey did for Anastasia.

I want someone to manage it for me.

Maybe it’ll be this man leading me around the dance floor. He’s the best chance I’ve had all night. He reminds me of Jack Black. Shaggy hair, huge smile. His attention is riveting.

Better than the other two. The first one was polite and danced us across the floor as smoothly as an ice skater.

But he was easily sixty.

Still, I would have done him, except he thanked me kindly and left me at the stool where he found me.

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