At the Stroke of Midnight (Naughty Princess Club 1)

“The dude even put a winky face after that text. Winky face equals I want to bang the shit out of you.”

Ariel starts thrusting her hips off the carpet to send her point home.

“It does not. Stop reading my texts and give me my phone,” I complain, smacking at her arm when she presses the heel of her hand against my forehead to keep me away.

“The classic winky emoji is used to imply humor in written form, or may alternatively be used suggestively, as a form of flirtation,” Belle pipes up.

“See? He wants to sex you up. Let him sex you up, Cindy. Let me live vicariously through you. I am one solicited dick pic away from becoming a lesbian.”

I give up trying to get my phone from Ariel and flop back on my butt across from her.

“Don’t you mean unsolicited dick pic?”

“Uh, no. I solicit all of them. I need to see the merchandise before I take it out for a test drive. And let me just say, pickings are slim in these parts. It’s depressing. And you’re making my sexual depression worse when you have a ready and willing man right in front of you, and you don’t know what to do with him.”

Ariel lets out an exasperated huff as I pour myself another margarita, drink half of it and then top it off again.

“I know what to do with him, maybe I just don’t want to do it with him—ever think about that, huh? Did you? Noooooo, of course not. Sure, he’s got dimples I want to lick and facial hair I want to feel scratching all over my body and his voice makes my spine tingle and his hands are all big and soft and warm and he smells so good I just want to sniff him, and every time he talks all I can do is stare at his lips and remember what it felt like to have his tongue in my mouth but . . .”

I trail off, trying to come up with a but and draw a blank.

Stupid tequila.

“Jesus Christ . . . please tell me you didn’t tell him you want to sniff him. You suck at flirting. You’re never getting laid at this rate.”

“I do not suck at flirting. I’ll have you know I did an amazing job flirting with him at the mall all by myself, thank you very much,” I tell her, thinking about the way my voice got all breathy when he pulled me close in Forever 21 and told me I could pay him back in other ways.

I get lost in my memories of that moment until I feel cold liquid dribble down my chin and realize I was holding my glass by my mouth and started pouring it, thoughts of PJ’s smell and the heat from his body distracting me.

“If he didn’t drag you into the closest dressing room and make you see God, you sucked at flirting.” Ariel points her finger at me as I swipe at my chin with the back of my hand. “Men are dumb. You need to speak in slow, short sentences and be direct. Don’t beat around the bush or he’ll never beat inside your bush.”

She snorts at her own joke, and I roll my eyes at her, quickly realizing I shouldn’t do that when the room starts to spin and my body begins to sway.

“I don’t even know what PJ stands for. I can’t have sex with a guy when I don’t know what his name is.”

It’s the dumbest excuse in the world, but it’s all I’ve got right now.

“Who gives a shit if PJ stands for Pussy Jiggler? You’re not marrying the guy; you’re just using him to clear the cobwebs out of your vagina. Think of it as part of this boot camp he’s putting you through. First step is getting new clothes; second step is riding his dick all night long. After that, you’ll have the confidence to conquer the world,” she says with a smile.

“I think you skipped a few steps. I can’t just jump into bed with the guy. Do you realize I have only had sex with one man my entire life? One man. Forever. One man with a mediocre penis who gave me mediocre sex.”

I sniffle sadly as the alcohol starts to make me feel sorry for myself.

“Exactly. Which means there’s nowhere to go but up,” Ariel states, crawling over to my box of lingerie and pulling out a few pieces.

She lays out the red-and-black bustier and matching black garter belt, the purple lace thong with matching bra, and a completely see-through, pale-pink baby doll nightie on the carpet, holding my phone high above the items and snapping a picture.

I continue drinking more of my margarita as she taps a few buttons before handing the phone over to me. Looking down, I see she’s attached the photo to a message to PJ.