Page 33 of Perfect Praise

In ninth grade, Camilleand I took an internet quiz to find out how kinky/vanilla we are.

I thought I was paste—the plainest vanilla. Not even vanilla bean. It told me I liked my vanilla ice cream with a cardboard cone.

And it’s not that I’m some inexperienced woman who saved herself for the man she loved. I’ve been having sex since my first awful high school experience, with boyfriends and flings alike. Things were good, got even better—it’s just always been… regular?

Well, look at me now, random internet quiz. Turns out, I might be more adventurous in bed than I previously thought because, according to Google, I have a praise kink.

I never knew two small words—good girl—could open up this entire new world for me.

The only problem is I don’t know where to go from here. I haven’t seen Locke in over two weeks, and I’m not about to make some dating app profiles just so I can tell a man to call me his good girl. Which also makes me realize, there’s something specific about Locke that makes me come alive because I throw up in my mouth when I think about Russell calling me that.

Locke wasn’t at the tournament in Pebble Beach last week or Scottsdale this week.

I’ve gotten exactly zero texts or calls from Hottie Icicle.

And I think I saw him speed away on a golf cart when I got here this morning to drop my camera equipment off at the club.

I’d say he was avoiding me if I also didn’t think this was his entire personality at the same time.

Maybe I’m not cut out for the no-strings-attached sex with the sexy but emotionally unavailable man—kink or no kink. I still have a heart, one that desperately wants the all-consuming love… but I also kind of want to experiment with my newly found sex drive.

I can’t get Locke’s deep voice out of my mind. Sex for me in the past had always been rather quiet. Now my body wants to do everything and anything just to hear Locke talk to me like that.

I don’t know if I should be thankful or embarrassed, maybe it’s a little bit of both. But I’ve definitely been overthinking.

My phone dings as I’m locking up the closet.

Camille

Is he there?

Me

Won’t matter if he is. But I think I saw his blond head scurry away.

Camille

Make him talk to you. He can’t avoid you forever.

Me

I’m telling you, him not thinking it’s a good idea is all I’m going to get. He probably thought that it was generous of him to say fivewords.

And it’s not a good idea.

And I need to move out of your house, so apartment hunting is more important right now.

As I walk out to the parking lot, I stuff my phone into my purse without bothering to wait for Camille’s reply.

I don’t need Locke’s explanation, and he obviously isn’t the best communicator, so I don’t expect him to want to talk to me. I know how he feels.

He inadvertently discovered something about me, and he wanted to have sex. But in the middle of a hospital stairwell was the last place that should have happened, and he’s thankful he got reminded how much I talk and how much I feel and how much I ask questions and how much we see each other before it went too far. There’s nothing more to it.

I throw my purse into the passenger seat and slip the key in the ignition, but my car rumbles and goes dead.

My day goes straight to shit when I try three more times and each time it sounds like my car is squealing from the depths of hell.

In a moment of sheer nuttiness, I punch the steering wheel before I lay my forehead on it gently and whisper to myself. Well, my car.

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