The virgin romance novel.., p.1
The Virgin Romance Novelist, p.1Meghan Quinn
The Virgin Romance Novelist
Published by Hot-Lanta Publishing
Cover by Meghan Quinn
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All characters in this book are fiction and figments of the author’s imagination. www.authormeghanquinn.com
The Briar Patch
Her bosom heaved at an alarming rate as his rough hand found its way down to her soft, yet wiry briar patch…
“Briar patch? What the hell are you writing?”
“Jesus!” I screamed, as I slammed my computer screen of my laptop shut. “Henry, you can’t just walk up on me and start reading my stories.”
“Stories?” he asked, while creasing his brow. “Bosom, briar patch? Are you writing a sex scene?”
“Why, yes. In fact, I am,” I said, while sticking my chin up in the air.
He crossed his arms over his chest and said, “What the hell are you referring to as a briar patch?”
Feeling the heat of his question start to show on my face, I turned from him in my chair and stacked up my notes so they were neatly put together. Briar patch was a well-respected term to use to refer to a lady’s’ private area, at least that’s what my mother taught me.
“Rosie, what were you referring to?”
Clearing my throat and with my chest puffed out, I looked him in the eyes and said, “Not that it’s any of your business, but I was referring to a lady’s peaceful pleasure garden.”
I watched as Henry carefully studied me with those blue green eyes of his that have spent the last six years studying me and my eccentricities. He was my first ever true friend, and he accepted me for who I was the first day we met: a homeschooled, sheltered, naïve girl being thrown into her first day of college.
Finally, he threw his head back and laughed, causing me to tense immediately; even though we were best friends, I still felt self-conscious about my lack of “modern verbiage.”
“What’s so funny?” I asked, while holding my notebook close to my chest.
“Rosie, please tell me you don’t call a lady’s vagina her pleasure garden.”
“Henry,” I hushed him.
That garnered another laugh from him as he wrapped his arm around my shoulders and walked me out of my room of the apartment we shared together with our other roommate, Delaney.
“Rosie, if you can’t say vaginay out loud, then there is no way you will be able to write about throbbing penises and aroused nipples.”
Heat washed through me at the mention of a throbbing penis, something I’ve never experienced firsthand. The only penises I’ve seen were courtesy of Tumblr and some careful Googling. I would rather study one in person, because from what I could see from the Internet and what I’ve read in other romance novels, they had a mind of their own…twitching and rising when aroused. I was fascinated to see an actual boner take place. What would happen if I touched it? That was a question that was constantly on my mind.
Growing up, I was very much sheltered by my parents. I was homeschooled and spent many days on the beach or in my room reading. Anything written by Jane Austen was my go-to book, until I found one of my mother’s dirty novels in her night stand. We didn’t talk about sex, ever, so it fascinated me to read a book about heaving breasts and thick bulges. I couldn’t help it; I was hooked.
Ever since then, I’ve been reading romance novels. When I was young, I would only read in the library, so I was never caught by my mom, and I got away with it. During college, I focused on my school work, so it wasn’t until I graduated that I started reading again, feeding the passion for romance inside of me.
“Hey, are you even listening to what I’m saying?” Delaney, my best friend and roommate asked as she looked at me with her hand on her robe-covered hip and her hair tucked up into a towel.
“Umm, no,” I said with an innocent smile. When did Delaney even show up? “What were you saying?”
Rolling her eyes, Delaney repeated herself, “Have you started writing your romance novel again?”
The way Delaney said romance novel in her haughty voice was a little frustrating. I had known Henry and Delaney since my freshman year in college, where we met at freshman orientation and found out we were all majoring in English. For those four years, we had the same classes, same schedules and same housing. We moved off campus after our freshman year and lived in a small three bedroom apartment in Brooklyn, where we currently still live.
Unluckily for me, the walls are thin, the space is tight, and I unfortunately get to know every single person my roommates bring home on an intimate level. Henry was a ladies’ man, no surprise there, given his tanned skin, blue-green eyes and brown hair that was styled just right. Delaney, on the other hand, had a couple of relationships throughout college, but was now serious with her latest boo, Derk. Yes, Derk. Hideous name, especially when it’s screamed at the top of Delaney’s lungs as her headboard slams against my wall.
Now that we’ve graduated, we’re still living together, but going our separate ways in the work force. Henry got a job with one of the top marketing firms, Bentley Marketing, editing ads, and Delaney is working as a freelance writer for Cosmopolitan. She started writing articles about anything from haircuts for the summer to how to maximize your orgasm count in a night. I had that article saved in my notebook, as research.
Me, well, I wasn’t as lucky when it came to the job force and was unfortunately offered a job at Friendly Felines, where I write about the new and upcoming clumping formulas in cat litter. Our offices are located in Manhattan, but in the smallest of buildings, where my boss insists upon having a gaggle of unneutered and randy cats, who seem to be in heat every day. Have you ever listened to a cat whine from needing a little attention when in heat? Yeah, sounds like its dying. Try writing in an environment like that. I’m a walking fur ball when I leave work.
To keep myself from ending up as a crazy cat lady who doesn’t mind when she eats thirty percent cat hair with each meal, I decided to write a romance novel. I’m the girl who lives in fantasies where love always prevails and a hero is just waiting around the corner to swoop in on his white horse to save you. Given my love for love and my ability to get lost in my writing, I didn’t think it would be so hard to write my first romance, given the fact that it’s my favorite genre, but I forgot about one little speed bump in that plan. I was still a virgin.
Answering Delaney’s question, I said, “Yes, I’ve started writing it again. I felt like it was time to revisit Fabio and Mayberry.”
“Please tell me you did not actually name your character Fabio,” Henry said with a snort, while he went to the fridge and pulled out three beers.
“What’s wrong with Fabio?” I asked, slightly offended. “I will have you know, Fabio was a well to do name in the eighties and nineties for the romance genre. He’s the king of all romance. You just can’t go wrong with a name like that.”
“Rosie, you know I love you, but I think you need to get your head out of your books for a few hours and realize we’re not living in the eighties and nineties anymore. We’re living in an age of Christian Grey and Jett Colby, dominant men with kinky sides. Stop reading that heaving bosom shit and get your head in th
“There is nothing wrong with a heaving bosom,” I defended, thinking about what I was just writing. What else would bosoms do in the heat of passion? Jiggle? Jiggling reminded me of my Aunt Emily and her Jell-O salad, not two passionate humans rubbing bodies together.
“There sure is,” Henry said, as he handed Delaney and I each a beer. “When I have a girl writhing under me, I’m not thinking, damn look at her heaving bosom. I’m thinking, shit, her tits are jiggling so damn fast from my thrusts that I’m going to blow it all in a second.” Of course, he would say jiggling.
“Eck, Henry. You’re so crude,” I responded.
“Hey, I’m just telling you how a guy thinks, might do you some good.”
“No, what will do her some good is actually losing her virginity,” Delaney said, while taking a sip of her beer.
Embarrassment quickly rushed through my body as I awaited Henry’s response; he had no idea of my sexual experience, I kept that to myself…and my loud mouth friend, Delaney.
“What?!” Henry said while looking at me wide-eyed and almost a little hurt. “You’re a virgin? How did I not know this? How come you didn’t tell me?”
“Delaney,” I gritted out, feeling completely mortified. Being a virgin wasn’t something I made public, given the fact that I was now twenty-three and only had two kisses under my belt of sexual proactivity.
“Sorry,” Delaney said with an innocent smile. “It just slipped.”
I didn’t believe her one bit.
“You’re seriously a virgin?” Henry asked again, still dumbfounded from the news.
“Well, if you must know. I am. I just haven’t found the right guy, yet,” I said, while staring down at my beer bottle, starting to feel slightly sorry for myself.
“I can’t believe that. I’m, I…” Henry stuttered, trying to find the words to express his shock. I didn’t blame him; we told each other everything. I’m surprised he wasn’t madder at me for holding back such vital information.
“It’s not like I haven’t tried,” I defended. “I just, I don’t know…”
“You haven’t tried,” Delaney said with a pointed look. “Don’t lie. Marcus and Dwayne don’t count. You barely poked your head out of your books long enough to kiss them on the cheek. You’re living through your characters when you need to be living in real life.”
“I’m not living in my books; they’re just my friends,” I replied softly. Any serious reader would know what I’m talking about.
“Don’t say that,” Delaney said, pointing at me. “We talked about this, Rosie. Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth are not your friends.”
“Pride and Prejudice is a fine example of literature and romance,” I shot back.
“You need to get fucked,” Delaney shouted. “You need to drop the books, spread your legs, and get fucked, Rosie. If you have any chance of writing that book of yours, you need to experience the sensations firsthand.”
“Ha, firsthand,” Henry chuckled to himself.
“What does that mean?” I asked confused.
They both looked at me and shook their heads.
“Masturbation,” Delaney eluded.
“Oh, gross. I would never do that.”
“Wait, hold up,” Henry said, while standing up and pointing his beer bottle at me. “So, not only are you a virgin, but you’re also telling me you’ve never even masturbated?”
Gulping, I said, “You mean, touching myself?”
“Damn, Rosie,” Henry said in disbelief. “How come I’ve known you for six years and I’ve never known about your sex life, or lack thereof?”
“Maybe because you were too busy banging your way through the English department,” I said in a snide tone, starting to get irritated at Delaney and Henry ganging up on me.
“Hey, got good grades, didn’t I?” he smirked.
“You’re irritating,” I said, while trudging back to my room.
“Hold it right there, missy,” Delaney said, as she got up and pulled on my arms. “You know I love you, right?” Her voice softened.
“I thought you did.”
“Don’t get all salty on us; we’re only trying to understand you. You want to write a romance novel because you want to have a future other than writing about the latest and greatest shit scooper, right?”
“Yes,” I answered, exasperated. “I also just love the idea of making my own love story, making two people fall in love who’ve been living through such different circumstances. It’s all about the find when it comes to love, the moment when you meet the one person in your life you can’t possibly live without, that was what intrigued me.”
“Agreed, but you know sex sells, correct?”
“Yes, I know that firsthand. I like books that have a little friskiness in them.” Although, the books I read were slightly outdated, things still happened in them, things that made my entire body heat up.
“It’s called sex, Rosie” Delaney corrected. Fucking, fornicating, poking the donut, making milk, smushing.”
“Porking,” Henry cut in. “Slapping the ham, knocking boots, dick twerking.”
“Riding the bologna pony, getting some stank on the hang down…”
Henry cut a look over at Delaney and said, “Getting some stank on the hang down? You’re better than that, Delaney.”
She shrugged her shoulders and was about to start up again when I said, “I get it. Sex, see I can say it.” Even though it felt like I had cotton in my mouth.
“Try saying it without developing a light sheen on your upper lip.”
Instantly, I started wiping at my upper lip, feeling mortified.
“There was no sheen,” I defended.
“Oh, yes, there was.”
I waved my hand in the air, trying to erase the conversation and said, “Just get back to your point before I storm off.”
“Fine,” Delaney continued. “Sex sells, so if you want to write a book that’s going to turn on all the lady folds around the damn country, then you’re going to have to put yourself out there and experience what it’s like to have an orgasm, to have a man squeeze that hard little nipple of yours, to know what a dick feels like in your hands, in your mouth, in your pussy…”
“Okay,” I held up my hand. “I get it. I need to have sex. How do you suggest I go about doing that without paying someone on the corner?”
“Tinder,” Henry suggested.
Delaney seemed to consider his option for a second, but then shook her head. “Tinder is too aggressive. I think she would wilt under the pressure. She needs to be taken out on a date first, not meet up at the closest motel. We need someone who’s going to take it easy on her.”
“You’re right,” Henry agreed.
“What’s Tinder?” I asked, feeling a little curious.
Smiling brightly, Henry pulled out his phone from his pocket and nodded his head at me to come closer. I sat on the armrest of the couch with him and looked at his phone as he pulled up an app.
“Tinder is a hookup app. It shows you all the girls or men, in your case, who are in the area and are using Tinder. You can look through the different profiles and see if you’re interested in them or not with one swipe of your finger.”
“Really?” I asked, while looking at his phone in fascination.
Once the app was open, a picture of a female came up on his phone. She was wearing a bikini and had some of the biggest breasts I had ever seen.
“Oh, my God,” I said. “Is she one of your girls?”
“No,” he laughed. “But if I swipe saying I like her, and she says the same about me, then it’s a match, and we can communicate with each other through the app…send text messages, possibly hook up.”
“Yeah, I don’t think I’m ready for that.”
“You’re definitely not,” he smiled, while texting on his phone.
“Are you writing her? What happened to Tasha, your college sweetheart?”
“Tasha is out. She got too clingy, plus, it was a match with this girl, and I’m down for some big jugs.”
“Ugh, you’re a pig.” I turned to Delaney as Henry laughed and said, “What’s my next option?”
With a giant smile on her face, Delaney said, “Online dating.”
“Yes!” Henry fist-pumped the air while finishing up his texting. He grabbed his tablet off of the coffee table, the man had money, and started typing away. “Minglingsingles.com here we come.”
“Oh, good pick,” Delaney praised. “She won’t get too many creepers on that website.”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” Henry said, as he started typing away. It seemed like Henry’s displeasure with me not confiding in him had worn off, because he was in full-on Henry helping mode. Typical Henry, it was one of the many reasons why I love him.
Within minutes, he had a profile up and ready for me to fill out with a picture of me from our graduation. I was wearing a red polka dot dress, my red glasses and black heels, blowing a kiss at the camera.
“Don’t use that picture,” I said, trying to grab the tablet from him, but he was too quick and spun away. “Guys will get the wrong idea from that picture,” I stated.
“And what idea would that be?” he asked with a snarky smile.
“That I’m loose…” the minute the words left my mouth, I realized what I was saying. “Ugh, never mind. Do what you need to do to get me, um...some action.”
If I was going to do this, if I was going to try to fulfill my dream of writing a romance novel, then I was going to have to start becoming more comfortable with talking about sex…and that started today.
“That a girl!” Delaney said, while nudging my shoulder. “Before you know it, you’re going to be going at it just like Derk and me.”
“Yeah, by the way, can you keep the screams to a minimum?” Henry said, while typing away on his tablet, not looking up. “I don’t need a boner over hearing you having sex.”
The Virgin Romance Novelist by Meghan Quinn / History & Fiction have rating 4 out of 5 / Based on32 votes