Page 3 of The List
In my mind, the list looks something like this:
Things that seem like a good idea after three glasses of chardonnay, but most definitely are not:
1. Painting my fingernails neon purple
2. Eating an entire bag of Cheetos for dinner
3. Making a list of sexy fibs I’ve told my sisters
It’s the last one that has me blushing like a nun in a porn shop four hours after that ill-fated trip to Hot Swap, which is stupid. I’m hardly a virgin. I have a nightstand drawer full of battery-powered pals, and I’m no stranger to vanilla bondage or creative uses for whipped cream. Hell, if you ask my two sisters—Missy and Lisa—they’ll tell you I’m the most brazen sex vixen they know.
And that’s just it. I may have led them to believe that over the years because it was more fun than the alternative. Namely, that my single-minded focus on my career as a dirt-loving soil researcher with a PhD in crop and soil science would prompt my fretful sisters to fix me up with a steady stream of suit-clad attorneys with names like Blaine and Rochester.
Before I knew it, I would find myself wearing a cashmere sweater set and debating whether to spend the morning doing Pilates in designer workout gear or arranging pinecones for a festive Christmas centerpiece.
Basically, I would become my sisters.
Don’t get me wrong. I don’t begrudge Lisa’s expansive wine collection or Missy’s cupboard full of carefully pressed napkins for every holiday including Groundhog Day (don’t ask). It’s just that they’re a universe apart from the filthy work boots and dirt-crusted fingernails I’ve earned in a rather grubby, male-dominated profession.
After years of feeling like a tree trunk next to my delicate-flower sisters, I decided to take charge of my image. It started as a joke. Missy invited me to a six-course wine dinner at her yacht club, and I told her I’d be too busy attending a group sex party. I thought she’d laugh, or at best, tell me I was disgusting and not ask questions.
But she honest-to-dog believed me. Even worse (or better, depending on your perspective), she seemed . . . intrigued. Titillated. Maybe a little impressed.
It was the first time in my life I’d done anything to impress either of my sisters, so I kept the stories coming. Not only did it earn me some satisfying gasps of astonishment, it got me out of countless candle parties and in-home cooking demos featuring six ways to prepare coq au vin.
So, I kept it up. And it was all humming along just fine until Lisa got engaged and asked me to help plan the bachelorette party.
“All my college friends are dying to sit next to you,” Lisa gushed over celebratory drinks that night.
I did my best to look humble while I sipped a light, earthy pinot noir and tried to imagine what I’d done to earn such interest. “Really?”
“Mine, too,” piped our older sister, Missy. “They can’t wait to meet you and hear what you come up with for the bachelorette party.”
“That’s—wow.” I sipped my wine again, not sure whether to feel flattered or nervous. What kind of party were they expecting me to put together, exactly?
“For years, they’ve been hearing about our naughty little sister and all her sexy exploits,” Lisa continued as my stomach hit the floor and I realized the conversation had taken an unwelcome turn. “You’re practically famous.”
Missy giggled and lowered her voice. “I think they’re hoping you’ll teach them a few things.”
Right.
And that’s how I came up with the brilliant idea to write up “The List.” A collection of ten sexy experiences I’ve invented over the years. Some of the biggest whoppers I’ve told. Never mind that the kinkiest thing I’ve done lately was analyze root systems for an aspen grove in Central Washington. If I’m going to impress my sisters and their friends with my exploits, I’d damn well better get my stories straight. If there’s one thing I know I’m good at, it’s preparing for an exam. All I needed were some CliffsNotes to help me study for the performance of a lifetime.
It totally would have worked.
At least it would have if I hadn’t knocked the damn wineglass onto my laptop. Now my wine-fueled list is an X-rated screensaver frozen on my laptop, courtesy of my clumsiness and a glass of Domaine Serene’s finest.
Which brings me back to my apartment at eight o’clock on a Friday night, where I’m wondering what the odds are that someone in that computer shop has posted my list online and caused it to go viral. What does it even take for something to go viral? Oh God. What would the hashtag be?
A knock at the door jolts me from my panicked visions of discovering my business cards have been altered to say “dirty girl” where the words “soil scientist” normally appear.
The knock sounds again, and I glance down to realize I’m standing barefoot in my living room wearing yoga pants and my oldest, comfiest sweatshirt. The pants have a deeply-embedded soil smudge, earned months ago during field work, but at least I showered this morning. That should count for something. I pad to the front door and peer through the peephole.
My heart slams against my rib cage and bounces back to splat into a motionless heap inside my chest cavity. It’s him. The stupid-hot computer repair guy who likely thinks I’m a sex fiend.
For one panicky second, I consider the possibility that he’s some sort of pervert stalker. A cute pervert stalker, but a pervert stalker nonetheless. That’s when the pervert stalker speaks.
“Cassondra Michaels? It’s Simon Traxel from Hot Swap Computer Repairs. I’ve got your laptop here with me, and it’s as good as new.”
