I was that girl.
You know, the highly intoxicated chick celebrating her thirtieth birthday with her two best friends—who are happily married. And the more I drank, the more I wanted to do something reckless to celebrate.
By reckless, I mean the sexy and alluring man dressed in a business suit standing near the bar. You know his type—tall, dark, handsome. I was sure he was out of my league, but I’d had just enough alcohol that things like that no longer seemed to matter. I’m not fat, mind you, but you can tell I like french fries, so there’s that.
He took me home, and I enjoyed the hottest birthday sex of my life. Well, until it came to a screeching and rather unwelcome halt.
There’s nothing quite like being interrupted mid-ride with a little voice asking, “What are you doing to my daddy?”
Just kill me now . . . or so I thought.
Come to find out, the man I rode like a bull at the rodeo is my new landlord.
She says she needs some help ... in the bedroom.
Come again? No, really come again.
Sweet, nerdy, lovable Keaton.
She's my best friend and has been for years. Sure she likes numbers and math, and thinks doing other people's taxes is fun. And I like ... none of that stuff. She's obsessed with her cat and reads novels I'll never understand, and yet we just click. There's no one I'd rather share breakfast burritos with or binge watch hours of Netflix. She's my person. And so when she takes off her glasses and asks me to help her improve her skills in the bedroom, I barely have to think about it.
Of course I'll help her. There's no one better for the job.
I've been there for her through everything, why should this be any different?
But what happens when she's ready to take her new-found confidence and move on?