"
Girls like you don't write sex books,"
my nasty little inside voice said.
"Maybe you should go back to temping?"
This was the inner demon torturing me as I scanned the room of famous and fabulous people lingering inside the pricey loft. And maybe she was right? What
was
I doing here?
The invitation had been addressed to me, and as much as I'd been tempted to add a plus-one, I'd resisted and come alone. But it was late and I was bored, and the daily nine-to-five that kept me occupied and alive was already calling my name.
Lately, it seemed, I was always going to parties alone. I didn't mind that so much; it was going home alone that really annoyed me.
I gave the room another visual once-over and took one last sip of my complimentary wine while I considered starting for the door.
I attempted ignoring my pesky inner voice, but in the past six months her tenacity had gotten more intense; she'd even begun picking at my sexual urges; it wasn't bad enough that I had to listen to her about my weight, I'd even had to listen as she attacked who I found attractive.
"Maybe that's why we're always going home alone; you haven't had your boobs done."
I changed my thoughts again; I wanted to be happy while I drank.
I remembered one very memorable party I went to several months ago when this incredibly drunk girl, who said she was an avid reader, practically tore my clothes off on the balcony of her ex-husband's condo.
Those experimental lesbians never seem to get it right, but they can be so much fun to play with.
One minute she was in tears about her divorce and the next her tongue was inside my mouth and her hands were groping my ass.
Here's the thing though: drunk, aggressive straight girls are a huge turnoff. Okay, yeah, I did let her grind on me a little - she was really cute - and I got just a tiny bit wet when she opened her shirt and pushed my face between her tits; I hadn't been getting any for a long time so I let it go too far.
The best part though, was after she stumbled backward while trying to get her clothes off and dropped on her ass in front of everyone. She was fine, but one of her friends was apparently checking me out while the two of us were sort of making out.
The drunk chick had started unbuttoning my shirt while she was macking on my neck and I hadn't noticed it was still partly undone when her friend came up and very sweetly told me she liked my bra.
Now, no ordinary girl just walks up to someone late at a party and tells you how much she likes your bra unless she wants to see your panties too; and she really wanted to see them.
That's what I thought anyway.
We made out in the spare bedroom a little until she told me she was in a relationship and that she wasn't sure how she felt about eating me out while her girlfriend was gone for the weekend.
That's what else you have to be on the lookout for, tempting dyke girls in relationships who can't keep their mouths shut about their feelings.
She had great tits with those little pencil eraser nipples, and she didn't wear any underwear and she smelled like fresh-baked bread.
After she told me about her girlfriend - which, by the way, she did after she'd taken my panties off and rubbed her face up the length of my stomach and across my tits - I told her I was actually celibate and that I was violating my own no-sex rule by letting her undress me in someone else's house.
I was lying, of course, but I didn't want to give her the satisfaction of denying me the fantastic sight of her face between my legs while I grabbed her hair and held her there while her tongue licked every inch of my clit.
She never did though; she was too uptight about her girlfriend finding out so she stopped before things got too personal for her.
What a Venus flytrap lesbian tramp; she sure knew how to kill my buzz.
I left that party and went home and masturbated, first with my fingers and then with my vibrator; I pictured her between my thighs the whole time.
I would have been moaning her name except she never said it. I didn't get a name or a number or anything, just her pathetic
'I have a girlfriend'
sob story.
Her words were still in my head but so was her scent, so I breathed her in while I fucked myself silly.
But that was a good party.
"That was last year, girl. You haven't had any real sex since."
Reality is such a bitch sometimes.
I shook it off and tried focusing again on the happy faces of the beautiful people and the rhythmic beat of the eclectic Euro music; I even thought about the shoes I'd picked for the party; I thought they made a statement, but nothing seemed to quiet the mounting trouble inside my withering self-confidence as the uneventful minutes ticked by.
Why hadn't anyone even tried to pick me up? I looked cute; I'd made a point to wear my glasses so everyone there knew I was cute
and
smart.
I wondered if I looked too intimidating; I'm tall, but I don't make a big deal about it; I never wear heels.
I attempted to act distracted and ran my fingers around the rim of the empty glass while I casually made my way toward a bar tray; it was time to go.
But as I tried setting my glass down, something - rather, someone - grabbed hold of my attention. I tried to avoid looking across the room at the very center of all the activity, but resisting the pull of a powerful magnetic attraction only increases the tension.
It was HER. Cinderella had finally made it to the ball.
There she was bathing in the spotlight of all that interest, radiating self-confidence and gesturing appreciatively at the many gracious compliments I'm sure she was getting as she made her grand entrance.
I couldn't take my eyes off her and I hated her for it.
It was the one and only Giselle Freeman, and the light pouring down on her impressive body looked as though it had been tailor-made to emphasize her curves.
She was shorter than I had imagined and her shoulder-length, light brunette hair was done up casually; her makeup very natural around her eyes, and those luscious, natural breasts of hers filled out her top and stood at attention all by themselves under the sheer material.
Those
were tits to die for.
Her hair, highlighted by the halo of light, floated around her face like she'd just stepped out of a shampoo commercial.
She stood there, dressed as though she'd been painted, in a short, black, slit skirt, see-through top (of course), and sexy-as-hell-hot-girl glasses.
The worst of it was how adorable she got when she flashed her smile; and that laugh, it was infectious.
How dare she be
that
good-looking?
I was suddenly very horny. Two glasses of wine and already I was horny. Okay, maybe I'd had three glasses of wine, and to be honest, I'd been horny for weeks.
"Damn, she looks good,"
my inner me acknowledged.
The party was for her; Giselle was there to promote her book, The New Age of Sex, and everyone at this oh-so-chic party was eager to get close to her. My own book, A Young Girl's Guide to Personal Pleasure, had been a fantastic flop, so I was there hoping for insight on publishing a successful sex book.
Yes, and I was really there because I wanted to meet her.
I had published a sex book and I couldn't get laid except by posers and timid girls who were already in relationships; this world can be cruel.
I picked up a copy of Giselle's book when I came in just in case I did get the chance to talk with her. Yes, I was horribly jealous and thought she was the most beautiful demon I'd ever seen, but I was also extremely curious.
And yeah, I was horny, okay; the more I watched her the hornier I got; she was the devil; no horns, no tail, just all body out on display.
One glance at her photo on the back cover was all the convincing I needed; she looked more like a smart-girl lingerie model than any writer I'd ever seen.
For weeks her name seemed to be everywhere and I had made a point to check her out when the book splashed all over the place like a new sex trend.
As I continued studying her every move from behind my empty wine glass, I desperately wanted to be in that conversation, to be one of the fabulous people smiling and laughing at everything she said and did.
My big problem though, the gigantic problem racing through my increasingly tense limbs was this: I wanted to be her, and I wanted it all.
The more I witnessed the spectacle, the more I wanted to race home from the party and tear the pages from my own book.
With every delicate gesture she made, and with each look of adoration those fans gave her, the more I began to question why I'd ever accepted the invitation if all I was going to do was torture myself.
Maybe I just needed another drink.
I was getting really steamed and even hornier.
As I watched her pretend to laugh at the ridiculous comments I was sure people were making, I started to wonder if she'd actually written the book or was she, as I suspected, just a very sexy carrot dangling out for all to see.
"Now you're talking. She's just a fake; a literary mannequin."
Talk about false advertising; how did a girl who looked like
that
write a sex book?
She probably couldn't spell S-E-X.
It was eating me up; I had to know for sure.
That was it; maybe that was why I'd come to the party; maybe that was the reason I'd tolerated all the neglect of my own efforts.
