Harper possessed a rare talent - she could blend two worlds that the universe swore could never coexist: her humdrum life as an accountant by day with her steamy famous alter ego crafting erotic tales online by night.
But her double life unravels in...
❝Bet you thought that I would come back, boy You never thought I'd make a comeback, boy And if you ever try to come back, boy You'll regret that bet that you never will forget that❞
Ουπς! Αυτή η εικόνα δεν ακολουθεί τους κανόνες περιεχομένου. Για να συνεχίσεις με την δημοσίευση, παρακαλώ αφαίρεσε την ή ανέβασε διαφορετική εικόνα.
I can't remember the last time my vagina did somersaults.
It must have been in senior year of high school when I'd gone out on my first, real 'adult' date with a guy named Spencer. After a lot of time spent sucking face in the front seat of his car, we'd made our way to the back. And his hands? Well, Thing 1 and Thing 2 had made their way to second base.
Third base would have followed soon after if not for the pounding on the window sill that interrupted us, disrupting the my first ever pounding that should have graced the downstairs region that night.
I'd looked up, half my tits out and my hair a total dog-in-heat styled mess to see the human form of a fireball standing on the other side of the separator, shaking her head at me in disapproval like a mother would have, I imagine, if she spotted her daughter going at it.
Cue the vaginal somersault.
I experienced it the first time in junior year when the Big Bad Bitch of Crestview High had cornered me, the new girl, up against my locker and demanded to know how my hair was so 'flawlessly pretty.' It was like being aggressively complimented by the meanest and prettiest mermaid come to life.
The positive harassment had continued for six years. From junior year all the way to our college graduation, Megan Sawyer had made my vagina feel things that no man ever could.
Frightful, wonderful, entirely platonic things (for the most part).
It was Megan that guarded me, and my virtuosity, treating me like a precious maiden from the 1800s whose 'flower' did not deserve to be plucked by the men of our generation. All the while, she got railed constantly for the both of us, delivering me spicy anecdotes of her sexual endeavors while I tried to finish abandoned bowls of soup gone cold in the process of hearing her.
It was also Megan that showed up at the cemetery on my father's anniversary every year. And Megan that insisted on meeting Lucas and accompanied me without fail on every visit to see my brother ever since, not 'learning' to love him but effortlessly doing so from the start.
Megan was a mean queen. But I was the lucky little soul chosen to be her princess, until the end of college at least.
Because at some point of the mess we call 'growing up in college', I'd fallen for her twin brother. We'd dated on and off for two years, with Megan involuntarily put in the worst spot of having to tell me each time he'd cheated. The mean queen shtick never quite worked with him, you see. Not even when he broke my heart, each time with the excuse of 'I'm just trying to figure things out.'
In the mess of interventions and forced reconciliations, the words 'birds of a feather' had flown out of my lips and done the damage they hadn't intended to do.
