Sex Says

  Sex Says

  Published by Max Monroe LLC © 2017, Max Monroe

  ISBN: 9780997540666

  All rights reserved.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Editing by Silently Correcting Your Grammar

  Proofing by Indie Solutions by Murphy Rae

  Formatting by Champagne Formats

  Cover Design by Perfect Pear Creative

  Photo Credit David Vance Photo

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Intro

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  To Fitbit.

  Thanks for reminding us every hour, on the hour, just how much we weren’t walking while we were writing this book. That was a real Leslie thing to do. Asshole.

  And to jokers, troublemakers, pranksters; to adults who still feel like kids.

  Every once in a while, we see a review complaining that “this isn’t how people in their early 30s think and talk”—and it always makes us laugh.

  They’re right, mostly. People in their thirties can be really mature, responsible individuals.

  But they can also be people like us—like our characters. And researching our kind of people is a lot more fun.

  My name is Lola Sexton, and I’m a sex addict.

  Okay…that’s a lie. Truth is, I’m a dating and relationship columnist for the San Francisco Times. Think of my column as a game of Simon Says—an adult game for all of the curious little sex cubs out there.

  My readers call me Sex, and in a world of people searching for themselves and their perfect someone, Sex always Says.

  Sex Says: do as I say and not as I do when it comes to dating advice.

  Sex Says: don’t be afraid to try new positions and learn what you love—though make sure to stretch before the Chinese Dragon.

  Sex Says: if you let guys walk all over you, you could end up smelling like feet.

  Don’t fall in love with guys like Reed Luca.

  Wait… I meant to say, Sex Says: don’t fall in love with guys like Reed Luca.

  He might look like God’s gift to women, but he’s not. He’s a total prick.

  Oh, God… Did I just jinx myself?

  The blank, white screen of my Word doc stared back at me. Write Write Write the black cursor taunted with each synchronized flash. Write Some-Thing Write Any-Thing…

  “This isn’t good, Louie,” I said above the background noise of my go-to Spotify playlist—the exact soundtrack of songs that usually aided my writing cause, but tonight, seemed lackluster in its earworm ability.

  Blup. Blup. Blup. Blup. Blup. Five little, mismatched bubbles floated from my goldfish’s lips as if to say, You, dear Lola, are a procrastinating asshole.

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence, dude.”

  Blup.

  Translation: Whatever.

  Louie’s far-too-plump fish body wiggled a bit, and then he swam off to do whatever fishes do—probably yoga—behind his favorite hiding spot: the neon sand castle inside his spacious aquarium. Sad as it may sound for a thirty-two-year-old woman, he was the only man in my life. And usually, he was also my favorite man. But tonight, his sarcastic bubble responses weren’t exactly reassuring for a girl on a deadline.

  That girl—well, procrastinating asshole—was me: Lola Sexton, Creative Director, President, and CEO of Sex Says, the very best column in the San Francisco Times.

  AKA, The Writer. Maybe you should use some of this overextensive foray into hyperbole for the actual column. Huh, Lola?

  This week’s column wasn’t coming easily. The words weren’t flowing off my fingertips in their usual faucet-like fashion, and shit was stagnant inside my normally free and creative—and probably a bit on the eccentric side—mind.

  Hell, I felt stagnant. Torpid. Wordless. Ideas were scattered like fucking fireflies behind my eyes, and yet, I couldn’t grab ahold of a single fucking one. If this was a sinking ship, I was hurtling toward the bottom of the sea without a boat or a life jacket, or even a neon sand castle to hide out in.

  Why, oh, why, did I wait until the very last minute to write this one?

  I mean, it was already four in the morning, and this bad boy was due to my editor in less than five hours. At precisely 9:00 a.m., Pacific Time, Joe—my editor and, sometimes, bane of my existence—would expect this week’s column to be sitting prettily inside his inbox.

  Jesus, Lola. Get it together. Focus. Just put your fingertips to the keys and type. It really is that easy. Just. Type.

  If I had been keeping a tally, I’d say that was Mental Pep Talk #101 of the night. My brain might as well have been a rusty faucet, and my creative juices were the brown water drip-dropping out of it at a slow and sluggish pace.

  Sad. Fucking. Shape.

  Not to mention, my focus was almost nonexistent. Every five minutes, I’d drift away from my Word doc to Google search random things like kittens or kittens wearing shoes or kittens wearing hats or kittens sleeping…

  Was it obvious I really wanted a kitten?

  If it weren’t for the Pets Forbidden rule of my apartment, I probably would’ve adopted a tiny, cute, and cuddly kitten instead of a sarcastic goldfish who never agreed with anything I said.

  Louie should be thankful I’ve broken the rules for him. I mean, I could easily get evicted if my landlord caught on to his scaly presence in my apartment.

  The opening, addictive rhythm of “I Follow Rivers” by Lykke Li filtered from the speakers of my laptop, and I leaned my head back and tried to let the music, the sound, the lyrics wash me out of the sludge and into a waterfall of inspiration.

  Jesus. Just. Write. Something. You’re not trying to solve world peace with this column. You just need to give your readers something to think about. Something that could help their relationships, add to their dating experiences, or spice up their sex lives.

  I brought my head forward and stare
d at the blank screen and decided just to put my fingers to the keys and type, just spitball random thoughts into the Word doc and hope I could make something out of nothing.

  Buckle your motherfucking seat belts, bitches. I’m about to give you a column that is mostly fueled by gummy worms and Red Bull and coffee, and I’m on two hours of sleep and I love my job, but since I was a total asshole and slacked on my deadline, I think I would rather be dead at this point. I feel like I’m losing my soul to this column because I can’t think of anything to write, and I would much rather be sleeping in bed.

  Yes. My bed.

  Beds are the best.

  Beds are cozy.

  Sex happens in bed.

  See?

  I’m totally staying on topic here.

  Sex Says sleep in beds. They are good for your health and sex can happen there and who doesn’t like sex? Well…unless it’s with some guy named Paul who uses an overwhelming amount of exclamation points in his text messages—then sex is not exactly enjoyable or an experience you’d want to repeat.

  You’d think so many exclamation points would equal exciting sex, but in reality, it translates into sad, sad sex. The saddest sex that has ever happened to me.

  Paul did not live up to his exclamation points.

  His exclamation points were basically metaphors for his horny, rabbitlike thrusts that had one speed. Just BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM.

  Yeah. Thanks, but no thanks, Paul. I’d much rather stay home watching reruns of The Golden Girls behind a mouthful of chicken lo mein than subject my vagina to such cruel treatment.

  Welp, this obviously isn’t working.

  My eyes slid up the screen to the time in the right-hand corner. 4:32 a.m.

  Oh, for fuck’s sake, I just spent thirty-two minutes talking about my bed, Paul, and The Golden Girls?

  I had approximately four and a half hours to pull a column straight out of my ass. My eyes were heavy and my thoughts were scattered, and basically, I was a clusterfuck of facing the consequences of my procrastination. Writing a sex and dating column for the San Francisco Times was normally easy for me, even enjoyable most days. But every once in a while, that little parasite called writer’s block would come out of nowhere and latch on to my brain.

  And it doesn’t even consume extra calories like a tapeworm. “Ugh,” I groaned aloud.

  As I sat cross-legged on my bed, with my laptop resting on my thighs, I knew I needed to come up with something to light a fire under my ass, or the San Francisco Times really would fire my ass—and then I’d have a reason to Google search kittens wearing shoes—along with goats in tutus—because I’d have a job on some kitschy internet blog posting articles about it.

  I shut my laptop, got off my bed, and decided I needed to get the hell out of my apartment and let my mind breathe for a little bit. Maybe I’d find a cozy spot to write this column in my favorite diner that just so happened to open up at five a.m. for the early birds, or the late-night-procrastinating-insomniac-assholes like myself.

  I dragged on a pair of jeans, slid on my black Doc Martens, tossed my dark locks into a messy bun, put my laptop in my messenger bag, and headed for the door.

  One of the things I loved most about living in the Mission District of San Francisco was that there was an abundance of fog-free days—something most of the city couldn’t claim. With its hipster vibe and cupcakeries and music shops and cool, vintage clothing stores, this was an up-and-coming kind of neighborhood within the city limits. And the weather in this part of town was definitely one of the high points, especially in a city that tended to be in a perpetual state of mist.

  Unfortunately, today was an exception to that rule. The early morning fog loomed as far as I could see, shrouding everything in front of me in a thick, white cloud. It swooped and skirted around the buildings and trees, and the streetlights were barely visible beneath the haze.

  I made the two-block walk to Howard’s in record time, and the second I stepped inside, Howard himself greeted me with his usual full-cheek grin.

  “Lola girl!” His rotund belly vibrated beneath his coffee-stained apron.

  “Hey, Howie.” I offered a halfhearted wave and snagged my favorite seat at the counter.

  He furrowed his brow, and his gray eyes creased at the corners as they took in my pathetic appearance. “Deadline?”

  Nothing said deadline like bloodshot eyes, dark circles, and jeans I should’ve washed two weeks ago.

  Yeah, okay, my mind taunted. Focus on the jeans so you don’t focus on the grease in your hair.

  I shrugged. “Something like that.”

  A sympathetic smile raised the corners of his lips. “When are you gonna learn?”

  “I’d like to say soon, but I’d probably be lying.”

  He chuckled softly and tapped the rim of my reading glasses. “These new?”

  I nodded. “Yep.”

  “Red rims…” He crossed his arms and rested them on top of his belly. “I dig it.”

  “Thanks.” I had a thing for buying an array of cheap reading glasses in every size, shape, and color. Well, it was also out of necessity. My eyes were shit, but I had a bit of a phobia about eyeballs. Consider it a ‘trigger” for me that stemmed from my older sister, Annie. She had the gross talent of being able to flip her top eyelids back so her eyeballs bugged out. And when we were kids, she had done it all the fucking time, often chasing me around the house making zombielike groaning noises.

  Thanks to Annie, I had to go through life as a sufferer of Ommetaphobia.

  Not only that, but my eyesight wasn’t that great. And because of my phobia of eyeballs, I couldn’t do the adult thing and see an optometrist. Nope. I had to self-medicate with reading glasses.

  Basically, Annie had lived up to the whole big sister reputation and ruined my life. And Ommetaphobia wasn’t even the only phobia she’d caused. I also couldn’t stand to have a porcelain doll anywhere in my general vicinity, the number nine was some kind of satanic symbol, and don’t even think of asking me to water your lawn—but those were all different stories for another day.

  Howard slapped the counter, startling me out of my childhood, and asked, “What’s your poison, Lola girl?”

  “Toast with strawberry jelly and a fresh cup of joe, please.” I pulled my laptop out of my messenger bag and set it out on the counter.

  “Coming right up!” Howard shouted jovially, and with a pep in his step, disappeared behind the swinging door that led to the kitchen.

  It was safe to say Howard had gotten some good, good lovin’ from his wife Nina last night. He was normally a cheery kind of guy, but at this hour of the morning, he wasn’t usually one step and a smile away from breaking into a song and dance.

  Way to go, Howard and Nina. You little sex freaks.

  “I can’t believe he didn’t call last night,” a woman behind me said with a disappointed sigh, and my ears perked up like a dog who’d just heard his owner open up a bag of potato chips.

  “When was the last time you talked to him?” her friend questioned as I continued to rudely eavesdrop on their conversation.

  “Last week.”

  My spidey-sex-column senses were rising.

  Surreptitiously, I glanced over my shoulder and found three twenty-something girls dressed in sweats and comfy hoodies, sitting together in a booth and drinking coffee. One had the saddest face in the world, and the other two just looked concerned.

  “Sorry I made you guys get out of bed this early, but I just don’t know what to do,” the sad one said.

  “It’s okay,” her friend reassured. The other one didn’t look like being dragged out of bed pre-six a.m. was okay at all but schooled her face into something more sympathetic before either of her friends noticed.

  “I mean, what do you think is going on?” the sad one questioned, her face somehow managing to look sadder. “I thought Jeremy and I had a really good thing going. I really liked him, and now, it’s like he’s become distant. He’s not answering phone ca
lls. He’s not calling me. And don’t even get me started on my text messages. It’s like they don’t even exist to him.”

  Jeremy sounds like an asshole.

  “Why do I feel like this always happens? Is there something wrong with me?”

  “Of course not, honey,” her other friend responded. “You’re beautiful and funny and super sweet. Any guy would be lucky to call you his girlfriend.”

  “Ugh,” the sad one groaned. “I swear to God. I think I’m just going to quit dating. Men suck, and I hate feeling like this all the time.”

  Those were words and frustrations probably every woman actively in the dating world had muttered more than once. Dating on its own was hard, and when a guy wasn’t up front with you about his intentions or didn’t have the balls to tell you he didn’t want to pursue anything further, it made it ten times harder than it needed to be.

  The little inspiration lightbulb went off inside my head, and thanks to the saddest chick in San Francisco, I knew exactly what this week’s column would be about.

  Hallelujah!

  I almost went over and kissed her right on the mouth, but I realized that would’ve been a little awkward. I mean, she was in mourning, and it’s surprisingly hard to kiss someone with a frown on their face.

  Howard strode through the kitchen doors with fresh coffee and my toast, not to mention a smile that screamed, Hello, world! My name is Howard, and I had sex last night!

  “Here ya go, Lola girl,” he singsonged as he set my breakfast down in my front of me.

  “Thanks, dude.”

  He winked and started to head toward the booths with a check in his hand.

  “Psst,” I whispered. “Howard.”

  He stopped in his tracks and raised an eyebrow in my direction.

  I gestured for him to come closer, and he followed.

  “Whose check is that?” I asked in a hushed tone.

  An amused smirk crested his lips, making the laugh lines below his nose more pronounced. “Considering there is only one other set of customers in here, I’m going to say it’s for the booth of girls over there by the window.”