Be My Babygirl

I shower, shave, and blow dry my hair into soft curls.

Shimmying the dress over my hips, I take a look in the mirror. My cheeks are flushed pink from my shower, my soft blonde curls just brush my shoulders. Not too bad for a twenty-three-year-old romance author who hasn’t been laid in twelve long months.

The irony of my profession and lack of love life is not lost on me.

Slipping into my clearance rack high heels to add a few inches to my height, I fluff up my curls, hoping to keep them for a few hours at least. Waving my hand in front of my face, I clear the air. Leaning into my mirror, I apply a little sparkly gold shadow, a few coats of mascara, and the very last swipe of my Big Apple Red lip gloss.

“Time to go to Vegas, Baby.” I wink at myself. I toss the bills and coins into my bag, throw it over my shoulder, and strut out to the parking lot to find my car.

Unlocking the tiny red sedan, I crawl behind the wheel, tossing my purse into the passenger’s seat beside me.

Sticking the key into the ignition, I murmur, “Come on, old girl. You can do it.”

Pushing my fears away, I shake my head. “Tonight, this madness ends.” Desperation fills me. I so want my words to be true, to unlock my heart, my mind, and make the romance flow from my fingers.

Maybe it’s going to take a little more than inspiration. Maybe, just maybe, it’s going to take a little firsthand experience to warm the cockles of my mind and wake up my cobwebbed vagina.

Maybe… I need to get laid.

How does one super shy, clumsy girl with a dorky sense of humor track down a one-night stand?

All the men I’ve been with were college boyfriends, our romance blooming out of late-night study dates. Or, up to a year ago when the men completely ran out, blind dates were set up for me by Sarah, my publisher, her intentions being to keep me lubed and ready to write.

As I drive down the street, the lights get brighter and more plentiful as I near the strip. My nerves double. I remind myself I’ve got this — red dress, killer heels, and my hair is behaving tonight.

I can do this. I can lure a man for sex, then write a kickass scene about it, thus throwing myself back in the writers’ ring.

Vegas, Baby, in bright neon lights, looms ahead of me.

Waving ‘no thank you’ to the valet parking attendant that approaches my car, I pull past the entrance, parking on the street.

Teetering on my heels, I make it to the grand front door. The doors swivel open and I step into another world. Red carpet, bright lights, elegant gowns, dark suits.

It’s perfect.

I make my way to the bar, ordering a Sex on the Beach, the perfect drink to begin my mission. Taking a sip of the fruity beverage, I let the rum slide down my throat, warming my insides.

I park myself in a seat where I’ve got a good view of the room, right near the slot machines. I slide some coins into the slot and begin to play.

I pull the handle down, watching the pictures as they roll by. Lemon, Cherry, Dollar Sign. In between pulls, I gaze around the room, taking in the couples, heavily made-up women hanging on the arms of wealthy men. I’m not here to play slots. I’m here for inspiration.

My eyes are riveted up front at a flash of red. A group of women as tall as Amazonians on their spiky, red-bottomed heels, breeze past the attendants, all edges and curves, dressed like models strutting the catwalk during fashion week.

All eyes in the room are on them and mine are no exception. They make their way past me, leaving me in a cloud of perfume and hope. There’s no way this large group of beautiful women, dressed to the nines, hair and makeup professionally done, rocking Louboutin’s won’t lead to something exciting.

Cherry, Cherry, Cherry.

There’s a dinging sound and coins flow from my machine. Oooh. I’ve won! It’s not much, but I open my purse, scooping every single coin inside. I can’t get distracted, though. I’ve got a purpose, and something tells me I’ll find my inspiration if I follow those red-bottomed shoes.

I straighten my purse strap on my shoulder, the bag now pleasantly heavy, and I follow the women.

They’ve all got insanely long legs and four-inch heels, and I struggle to keep up with them. They exit the floor, turning down a hallway and then disappear into a hotel ballroom, the door shutting behind them without a sound.

I have to know where they’re going.

Pushing my hand against the white, swinging door, I peek behind it. The women are forming a line, taking plates, helping themselves to what looks like a buffet of amazing food. My stomach growls. I’m starving.