There was humiliation, and then there was getting denied by a hottie after he’d had his tongue down your throat and his hand on your peach.
There was embarrassment, and then there was fessing up to your judgy coworker Tammy that while you had gone on the prowl last night you hadn’t actually managed to prevent your now-inevitable revirginization.
I really needed to get better at lying or start refusing to answer questions.
Also, I’d finally decided that Tammy wasn’t my friend.
Just because she was in her late twenties (like me), worked for the same company, and was also single (couldn’t imagine why), that did not automatically make us friends.
Her behavior towards me recently had made it clear that she was not, in fact, my friend.
New resolution: find real friends.
Preferably the kind who wouldn’t side with my cheating jerk of an ex-fiancé when we broke up…if I ever had another cheating ex-fiancé, which I wouldn’t, because relationships were off-limits, thereby making a fiancé an impossibility.
And my new friends would also be the kind who didn’t judge me for trying to gain some sexual satisfaction. And they definitely wouldn’t judge me even harder for failing in that quest.
Louise happened to overhear some of my conversation with Tammy, and now she was avoiding me.
Louise and I were more friendly than friends. The kind of friendly that evolved through a shared lunch hour and mutual dislike of the odor emanating from the microwave. She’d gone so far as to claim the table near the odiferous microwave in her attempts to avoid me at lunch.
Between me ditching Tammy and Louise ditching me, I’d lost the only approximation of female friends in my life.
One, that was sad that work acquaintances were the closest I had to friends. Work acquaintances who hadn’t been all that supportive—or even nice.
And two, it was now abundantly clear that I hadn’t really moved on with my life after my split with William.
Acceptance was the first hurdle, and I’d well and truly conquered that one.
I am a friendless freak in need of new companions who might one day become friends.
Bam! Hurdle jumped.
I was ready to get this hunt started, so I leaned into the familiar for advice: I googled how to find new friends.
Google might know the best vibrators for hitting my G-spot, but Google was not helpful when it came to finding friends.
Google said I should reach out to coworkers.
Already did that; bad plan.
Google also said that I should join a sports team or an exercise class.
Google didn’t understand my complete lack of coordination. I was maxed out with yoga in my living room and walking. Without human companionship. Because I had no friends.
Join online social connectivity sites.
Just going to those sites made me nervous. What was I supposed to do? Show up at some event where I didn’t know anyone? I’d been in Derek’s for a total of five minutes before I’d caved and tried to find courage in a glass of cranberry vodka.
Volunteer.
I already did that, and for once Google wasn’t wrong. I did make several friends volunteering. They all had four legs and fur, but they were definitely my friends. We bonded during our walks. But those friends couldn’t speak and didn’t stick around for long—thank goodness. I wanted them all to find their forever homes as quickly as possible.
Take a continuing education class.
Again with the walking into a room full of strangers. What was with Google thinking that I could just stroll into a crowd of people I’d never laid eyes on before and strike up a conversation?
The friend plan was a bust—for now—so I made a deal with myself. I’d skip the friend hunt, but I’d keep plugging away at my original revirginization prevention plan. Since my first attempt had failed miserably, this time I’d take into account my obvious extreme introversion. (When had that happened? I used to just be a little shy.) My shyness accommodation would be an incremental plan of acclimatization.
Go to a bar, have a single drink, stare at the walls, and check out the people…eventually, then leave.
If I did it enough times, it was bound to get easier. And eventually, maybe I’d work my way up to eye contact with strangers.
And then, maybe, eventually, more.
Why could I chat with whomever whenever, so long as there wasn’t the faintest possibility of a date—or sex—resulting? In my regular, not-looking-to-get-laid life, I had no problem making eye contact.
I sighed and reminded myself about that whole recognizing-you-have-a-problem stage. I was supposed to be past it.
But back to the plan. I had one, so yay for me.
I wasn’t nearly as excited about it as I might be—probably because of all the unknowns—but I had one.
I wanted to have sex, and this was a sex plan! I should be excited.
My lack of enthusiasm had nothing to do with the fact that no man could possibly compare favorably to Bain. “Not at all,” I said with my fingers crossed behind my back.
But then I got a little more excited about the plan when I decided that I could allow myself a crutch.
I’d go to the bar I already knew. Some familiarity would make it easier.
I didn’t for a second think I’d run into Bain.
No way was Derek’s his regular bar. The odds were definitely stacked against that possibility…right?
So a few days after Tammy the terrible made me feel like both a slut (for trying to prevent my revirginization) and a loser (for failing), I headed out to Derek’s.
It was relatively painless.
I didn’t look at the door every time someone walked in…or if I did, so what? At least I wasn’t staring at the walls. And I had one drink and left.
Rinse and repeat, to the point that the two regular night-shift bartenders had actually caught on to my little ordering game.
I was trying a different whiskey every night. I blamed that untouched glass Bain had ordered for me. The memory of it had taunted me, making me wonder if I’d have liked his brand of whiskey. Or whiskey in general.
Simple question with an easy answer, and after the first glass I ordered, I decided I might actually like the stuff.
My routine was quickly established. One drink, a little casual glancing in the direction of the door when new patrons appeared, finish my drink, pat myself on the back for being a brave bitch (progress! I could even call myself a bitch in a cute, snarky, almost-badass voice in my head), and then leave.
I was downright predictable.
Until McBain’s.
Lisa, the bartender who’d ignored me that first night, had since learned that I knew how to treat a working girl right. A working-in-a-bar working girl anyway.
Bartenders busted their behinds and deserved to be correspondingly compensated.
Once she discovered that I tipped well, and she didn’t even have to wiggle her rear or flash her cleavage, I became her new favorite patron.
“I’ve got a good one for you, tonight.” She placed a glass with a small quantity of whiskey in front of me. I’d swear it smelled faintly of cinnamon. Smoky cinnamon.
“I thought we already agreed that there would be no more Fireball or similarly flavored liquors.”
The other bartender, Mike, had delivered the sickly sweet stuff the first night he’d served me. I’d already developed a taste for the “real” thing, as Lisa termed decent whiskey, and had been deeply offended. Mike and I hadn’t had words, but we’d come close.
She smiled and threw over her shoulder, “Not a cinnamon whiskey, hon.” Then bustled off to pour two beers for another regular.
I sniffed it and found that she was right. That faint hint of cinnamon was gone when I got a proper whiff of it. Odd, because I would have sworn… Didn’t matter. I took a sip, and my eyes almost rolled back in my head.
So good.
Except good was nowhere near the right word. Divine?
I looked heavenward and asked my granny’s forgiveness. Not that she hadn’t been known to tipple the odd glass of gin—for medicinal and celebratory purposes only—but giving booze heavenly attributes? She would not have approved. Then again, I tended to take the Lord’s name in vain a lot. So that particular ship of approval may have sailed.
As I inhaled again, trying to recapture the scent of cinnamon, Lisa returned. “You like that one, right?”
I nodded then took another sip.
She had a smirky look on her face. “That’s McBain’s. From your hot hero’s distillery.”
I came close to snorting whiskey out of my nose. An experience that even the delicious McBain’s wouldn’t make pleasant.
I hadn’t even realized that Lisa had caught the grabby guy’s peach pinch and Bain’s resulting handling of the situation. It had been rather heroic. His behavior in the parking lot afterward? Significantly less so.
Once I’d swallowed and caught my breath, I glared at her. “You are an evil woman.”
She laughed and turned to serve more customers.
And I tried to regain that elusive hint of smoky cinnamon.
Four glasses later, I decided that while it was there—I knew it was there—for some reason it was just out of reach.