The Virgin Romance Novelist

  “Ah, I see. So poop scoop is good for the resume,” he teased, making me laugh.

  “Sometimes, you have to take what you can get.”

  “I’m glad I’m not an intern then.”

  Sucking on my straw, I pulled away and said, “So what do you do, Alejandro?” I knew what he did; it was on his profile, but I was trying to stray away from cat talk.

  He casually sipped his drink and maintained eye contact with me while he spoke; it was quite impressive, actually.

  “I’m an artist. My loft apartment is actually right around the corner. If you’re comfortable with me later on, I can show you some of my pieces.”

  Weirdly enough, I was comfortable with him, even though he could be abrupt at times.

  “That sounds wonderful. What aesthetic do you work with mostly?”

  “Oils, only oils. I find mixing the colors and working with the thick paint gives me more movement on the canvas.”

  “I’m sure your art is just dreamy.”

  Dreamy? I looked down at my drink and noticed I was almost finished with it. Phillip was right, they were good, but I could already feel it sneaking up on me. Time to slow down.

  “I’ve never heard dreamy, but I do have a gallery in Soho.”

  “Do you? Wow, so you must be very good.”

  “I do the best I can,” he said, being modest, obviously, if he had a gallery in Soho.

  “So, where are you from? You’re clearly not a New York native with that beautiful accent?”

  He smiled at me and grabbed my hand so our fingers were linked together.

  “Spain is where I originate from. My father wasn’t too proud of my artistic abilities, so when I was eighteen, I decided to make a life of my own where I wouldn’t have my father looking down on me. I was able to move to America, earn my citizenship, and provide for myself. I am quite proud.”

  “As you should be.” I wanted to applaud him, but thought it might be too much, plus, our hands were linked and I was enjoying the light circles he was creating on the back of my hand.

  “Here we are,” the waitress said as she set down two plates of tacos.

  Sitting on three small corn tortillas were fish tacos with a cream sauce, cabbage slaw, and lime. To the side was a little tortilla bowl of beans. It was fresh looking Mexican food, something I enjoyed immensely.

  “This looks amazing.”

  “Yes, querida. These will be the best tacos ever to grace that bonita mouth of yours. You want me to show you how to eat them, yes?”

  “Please,” I gestured for him to continue.

  Sadly, he released my hand and grabbed the lime from his plate. I watched his strong hands squeeze the lime juice over his tacos, and then with a quick roll, he picked up a taco and took a bite.

  “Simple.”

  “I guess so.”

  Just like Alejandro, I grabbed my lime, squirted the juice over my tacos, and took a bite. The acid of the lime hit my tongue first, followed by the spice of the sauce and the cool flavor of the fish. Food-gasm hit me head on as I felt my eyes close in pleasure and a light moan escape my mouth.

  “These are amazing,” I admitted, once I swallowed.

  “Watching you eat them is even better,” he responded with heavy lids.

  Oh, I was in trouble.

  The rest of our dinner, we ate our tacos, talked lightly about our lives in New York City, and stole glances at each other every chance we could get. Delaney was right, Alejandro was a must to go out on a date with. Just from the way he looked at me, I could feel Virginia flapping in agreement and my breasts screaming, yes please.

  Alejandro paid our bill, not bothering to acknowledge my offer of help. He stood up from his chair and held out his hand.

  “Would you like to see some of my art, querida?”

  “I would love that,” I said, as I stood up and felt myself wobble. After one margarita, I was feeling it for sure.

  With his hand gripping my elbow, he led me out of the restaurant, around the corner, and up a set of stairs. He wasn’t kidding, he did live close.

  I waited as he unlocked the door and led me to the second floor, where a big sliding metal door was locked. Once again, he unlocked the door, moved the door to the side, turned on some lights, and led me inside.

  Color invaded my senses as I took in picture after picture of colorful, but very naked, women.

  Oh, my God.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Squirrel Tail

  “Do you like my art?” Alejandro asked, as he led me inside his apartment.

  Big nipples, small nipples, square nipples, abstract nipples, vaginas with hair, vaginas completely bare, vaginas spread wide, vaginas with fingers in them…

  “Wow,” I said, as I took in the vast amount of naked woman gracing every inch of his walls. “I didn’t know a vagina could be green.”

  He chuckled next to my ear and whispered in a deep, husky voice, “It’s art, querida. A vagina can be any color you want it to be.”

  Nodding, I walked over to some of his smaller paintings to get a better look.

  “Do you just paint naked woman?”

  “No, I do self-portraits as well.”

  “You do?” I asked, interested and tipsy. I could feel myself swaying back and forth.

  “Yes, would you like to see?”

  “Please, I would love to see how you capture yourself.”

  “This way, querida,” he guided me to the back of the loft, where there was a massive bed in the middle of the room with the fluffiest comforter I had ever seen.

  “Wow, your bed looks comfortable. Can I jump on it?”

  I heard myself say it, but still, I didn’t care that I sounded like a teenager.

  “You can do whatever you want on my bed.”

  I heard the innuendo in his voice, but chose to ignore it as I took my shoes off and hopped on his bed. Instantly, I was sucked into the plush confines of his comforter.

  “Oh, I can’t jump on this, it’s too unbelievable. What kind of comforter is this? Goose down?”

  “Not quite sure. I can look and see if you would like.”

  “No, I want to see your self-portraits.”

  Yes, the margarita was taking its effect. I told myself to be cool, but my brain was giving me the middle finger and did whatever it wanted.

  Alejandro walked over to a chest and opened it with a click. His back flowed with his movements, and I was instantly aware of the fact that I was in a small loft with an extremely attractive man and laying on his bed. That was the farthest I had ever been with a man in all of my virgin years.

  “Querida, are you watching?” he asked, staring at me.

  I realized I had zoned out, so I shook my head clear and focused on the painting Alejandro was holding. The painted side was facing him, ready to be revealed.

  “Yes,” I said, while I sat on my knees and placed my hands on my thighs.

  With a debonair look on his face, he turned the picture and revealed his self-portrait.

  It took a second for my eyes to adjust, because I was expecting to see a picture of his face, with his slicked black hair and maybe a shirt with some buttons undone, but instead, I was staring at a two foot, what I assumed was, a self-portrait of his penis.

  “Oh, my,” I studied. “Um, is that life size?”

  Laughing, he shook his head, “No, that would be too much, querida but I appreciate your confidence in me.”

  The portrait was interesting. The background of it was just a swirl of colors, but the penis portion was most definitely a penis with a head, some veins, and a set of balls that lay next to a pair of legs. It was erotic, that was for sure, and after the initial shock, I was kind of digging the colors.

  “You have a great eye for color,” I praised.

  “Thank you, I will show you more.”

  He went back to the chest and started taking out more pictures, all of his erect penis. As I perused each and every one of them, I thought to myself, how could someone p
aint this many pictures of one’s penis? The pictures were nice, but he must think very highly of himself to have so many pictures of his dick. Growing more and more curious, I realized I had to see this penis; I had to see what the big deal was.

  “How do you do the self-portraits?” I asked, curious.

  “What do you mean, bonita?”

  “I mean, do you umm, sit there with an erection and paint?”

  “Why, yes. Is that strange to you?”

  Is it strange to be sitting in a room with an erect penis and painting while looking down at it, uh yeah…that was weird.

  “Not sure,” I lied. “Just wondering about your process.”

  “I see. I usually sit down, naked and think of a bonita senorita, like yourself, Rosie, and lightly caress myself until I feel like I’m fully erect. That’s when I take out my brush and start painting.”

  That could explain all the angles of the pictures, they were all angles from up top.

  “Interesting,” I said, while staring at his crotch.

  “I see the way you stare at me, querida. Do you want to see the muse for my self-portraits?”

  What a creepy thing to say to a woman, especially when you are speaking about a penis, but I found myself nodding my head. Yeah, that margarita had way too much tequila in it.

  Taking in my request, Alejandro climbed on the bed and leaned against the pillows and head board. With precision, he started to undo his jeans, and I watched in fascination as he pulled them down slightly and allowed just the head of his cock to jut out from the confines of his pants.

  Holy shit, I was looking at a real live dick. A dick!

  I inched closer, curious to see if it really looked rubbery like in pictures, or if it was a different texture in real life.

  “Your eyes are making me hard, Rosie. The way you look at me, I’ve never had a woman look at me like this before.”

  I just nodded, wanting to see more.

  His hands went to the waist of his briefs and jeans, and in one smooth movement, he pulled his pants down fully, allowing his penis to spring free.

  I was about to move even closer, until I caught a glance at everything that was sitting between his legs. I glanced back at a portrait and then back at the real life thing. To say his pictures didn’t portray his model was an understatement, because sitting right in front of me was a long erect penis, displayed upon a wild set of curly hair covered balls. It looked like Chewbacca was staring up at me, winking and mewing his crazy ass sounds.

  Henry warned me of such a thing, that men didn’t necessary think they had to shave, and boy, was he right. Alejandro didn’t even know what a razor was, according to the pubes I could start braiding.

  “Nice, yes?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I nodded, feeling like even though there was a crop of hair on his balls, I was still interested in what he had going on.

  “You can touch.”

  There are moments in your life where you wish you could have an out of body experience and see everything you were going through from above. This was one of those moments. I was slightly drunk, thank you margarita, but I knew what was happening was odd, not normal, not something I read in one of my romance novels.

  Usually, when the man and woman started having a sexual encounter, it was more romantic, more smooth, more hot and heavy, but this felt like I was conducting a science experiment.

  Going with the flow, I straddled his legs and leaned forward so I could inspect his penis a little closer. I was drunk. If he thought what I was doing was weird, then I would blame it on the booze, but from the way he stroked himself and he continued to grow, I could see that he didn’t care what I was doing.

  “Rosie, the way you look at me, it’s too much…and your cleavage, it’s just spectacular.”

  I looked down and saw that I was giving him a great view of the ladies, and frankly, I didn’t care.

  I lowered my head even further down, and surprisingly, opened my mouth and licked the side of his penis, but missed and licked the side of his leg. Damn margarita.

  His chest heaved just from the one lick. What possessed me to do so, I would never know, but I liked the way he reacted to it, so I licked him again, but on the other leg, like I was trying to lick an ice cream cone.

  “Oh, bonita, you tease me.”

  Was I teasing him? I wasn’t quite sure. I thought about taking him in my mouth, but his hand was still wrapped around his cock, mostly at the head, so I decided to work the base of his penis, but was stopped by his hand that was now pumping harder. I stuck my tongue out again and licked his leg once more, since that was my go-to licking spot, but this time, he moaned out loud and got more comfortable on the bed.

  Well, if anything, I was good at licking legs, something to put on the old sexual resume.

  Rosie Bloom—still has a brand new hymen, but can lick a man’s leg like it’s her job.

  Energy filled me and a new sense of purpose ran through my mind as I eyed his entire “muse.” I was going to do this, I was going to get down and dirty. Since his stick was occupied, I decided I was going to lick his balls.

  I dipped my head down further, eyed the fur pie staring me in the eyes and stuck my tongue out once again. My tongue ran across the thick, coarse hair, and tried to find his actual nut sac, but was having a hard time with the tangled mess my tongue was trying to penetrate.

  “Yes, yes, bonita. Lick my balls.”

  “I twying,” I said with a mouth full of spit. Saliva ran down my tongue and into his pubic hairs, making the texture that much worse for me to experience.

  Licking hairy balls was just as unappealing as it sounded; I learned that really quick. Noted.

  I pulled my tongue back in to try again—never being a quitter—and that’s when I felt a hair on my tongue. Knowing that one of Alejandro’s ball sac pubes was sitting on my tongue had me dry heaving in seconds, but Alejandro didn’t notice as he put his hand on my head and pushed me back down.

  “Lick my balls, bonita. Don’t tease me.”

  Coughing and trying to release the hair that was slowly traveling to the back of my throat, I pressed my tongue out again and tried to dive down into the squirrel tail that was covering his balls. The combination of the hair in the back of my throat and the wet texture of his ball hairs did it for me, I was gone.

  I tried to pull away, but he wouldn’t let up. Sweat coated my skin in a matter of seconds as I dry heaved over my date’s hairy covered cherries.

  “I ma troll up,” I muttered, as my tongue collided again with his briar patch.

  “Yes, hum on them,” Alejandro said, as he pushed my head back down again.

  My stomach revolted on me, the margarita roared with a vengeance, and in a matter of seconds, my belly convulsed and I found myself heaving all over my date’s genitalia as screams of horror left his mouth.

  I watched as the tacos I once thought were delicious, now sat on the once beautiful comforter and mixed into Alejandro’s lap broccoli.

  “What is wrong with you?” Alejandro yelled as he scampered across the loft, pants around his ankles, dong flying about and balls hanging low.

  I didn’t have to answer; I didn’t need to answer. What I needed was to get the hell out of his apartment…and fast. Without looking back, I grabbed my purse, slipped on my shoes, and took off for his front door.

  While in a hurry, I didn’t see the self portrait of his penis lying on the floor, so in the midst of my run, I added insult to injury and accidently slammed my foot through one of his small paintings, dragging it along with me, all the way down the stairs of the loft and out to the street.

  It wasn’t until I hailed a cab, told him my address and took a second to gather myself that I pulled the picture off of my foot and set it to the side. My head rested against the cab window as the lights of New York passed me by.

  I didn’t think about what happened, how I just threw up on my date’s private parts, how I had a pubic hair stuck in the back of my throat, or how I ru
ined yet another chance at being with a guy.

  The ride to my apartment was longer than normal, thanks to traffic, but once I arrived, I paid the cab driver, grabbed the dick picture, and walked up to my apartment with a heavy heart and lighter stomach.

  The apartment was dark, so I went straight to my room, realizing it was quite late. We must have spent a good amount of time at the restaurant for it to be so late already.

  Once tipsy, I was now sobered up, thank you puke session, and ready to just crawl into bed.

  I flipped my switch on and nearly screamed my life away when I saw Henry sitting on my bed with a sullen look on his face.

  “Henry, what the hell are you doing sitting here in the dark?”

  His eyes bore into me when he looked up, and for the first time since I’d known him, I saw that he was angry with me.

  “Why didn’t you tell me where you went?”

  Shit, I forgot my phone at work and didn’t text him because I was in such a hurry to get out of the office.

  “I’m sorry, Henry. I forgot my phone at work.”

  “Do you know how worried I was? That this guy might have done something to you? I had no way of getting ahold of you, Rosie. No way of checking up on you.”

  “Henry, I’m a grown woman; I can take care of myself.”

  “That’s not the point,” he spoke sternly and stood up while running his hands through his hair. “I want to make sure you’re okay, that no one is taking advantage of you.”

  “No need to worry about that,” I said, while I tossed my purse and picture on the floor and went to my dresser to pull out my pajamas.

  “Where are you going?” Henry asked, walking after me.

  “To the bathroom, to change and wash my face. Do you mind? Or do I need to get your permission first?”

  He stopped in his pursuit of me and asked, “What’s your problem?”

  “You, just leave me alone, Henry.”

  I walked into the bathroom and slammed the door shut, making sure to lock it, because knowing Henry, he would just let himself in.

  Taking my time, I washed my face, brushed my teeth, went to the bathroom, and changed into a pair of short shorts and an oversized T-shirt with an American flag on it, all the while, having my puke session on replay in my head. As I dried off my face, I thought how impossible my luck was. Did that really happen to me tonight?