The Virgin Romance Novelist Chronicles

  Published by Hot-Lanta Publishing, LLC

  Copyright 2018

  Cover Design By: Uplifting Designs

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. To obtain permission to excerpt portions of the text, please contact the author at [email protected]

  All characters in this book are fiction and figments of the author’s imagination.

  www.authormeghanquinn.com

  Copyright © 2018 Meghan Quinn

  All rights reserved.

  Contents

  I. THE VIRGIN ROMANCE NOVELIST

  1. The Briar Patch

  2. The Virgin Bullet

  3. Porn is Science

  4. The Red Brick Road

  5. The Backdoor Ball Sac

  6. The Smoking Vaginator

  7. The Magnificent Pencil Holder

  8. The North Star

  9. Man-Milk Mutilator

  10. The Pussy Cat Posse

  11. The Squirrel Tail

  12. The Hyena Call

  13. The Gargling of Molasses

  14. The Best Friend

  15. The Melting Pot of New York City’s Finest Bodily Fluids

  16. The Man-Milk Shuffle

  17. The Worm with a Broken Neck

  18. The Blooms

  19. The Fleshy Popsicle

  20. The Sacrificed Lamb

  21. The Sexuals

  22. The Smell

  Epilogue

  II. THE RANDY ROMANCE NOVELIST

  Prologue

  23. The Titanic

  24. Fungal Cock

  25. Lucifer

  26. Abs and Schalongs

  27. Moist

  28. Wolf Fleece Wendy

  29. Penis Emporium

  30. Deli Meat

  31. Dick Dazzle Dance

  32. Fucking Condoms

  33. Man Balls Mahki

  34. Meerkats, Pads, and Yetis

  35. Pillow Beating Beelzebub

  36. Penis Allergies Please

  37. Triceratops Tits

  38. Beat That Meat

  39. Sniff, Sniff, Kiss, Kiss

  40. Fraggle Rock

  41. Bro-mander in Chief

  Epilogue

  III. THE PARENTING ROMANCE NOVELIST

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Epilogue

  Part One

  THE VIRGIN ROMANCE NOVELIST

  Chapter One

  The Briar Patch

  Her bosom heaved at an alarming rate as his rough hand found its way to her soft, yet wiry briar patch . . .

  “Briar patch? What the hell are you writing?”

  “Jesus,” I screamed as I slammed my computer screen of my laptop. “Henry, you can’t just walk up behind me and start reading my stories.”

  “Stories?” His brow creased. “Bosom . . . briar patch? Are you writing a sex scene?”

  “Why, yes. In fact I am,” I said, sticking my chin in the air.

  He crossed his arms over his chest, question in his stance. “What the hell are you referring to as a briar patch?”

  Feeling the heat of his question start to show on my face, I turned from him and stacked my notes so they were neatly put together - lined and perfect, just the way I like it. And as for Briar patch, it is a well-respected term to use to refer to a lady’s private area. At least, that’s what my mother taught me.

  “Rosie, what were you referring to?”

  Clearing my throat and with my chest puffed out, I looked him in the eyes and said, “Not that it’s any of your business, but I was referring to a lady’s peaceful pleasure garden.”

  I watched as Henry carefully studied me with his blue-green eyes that had spent the last six years studying me and my eccentricities. He was my first true friend, and he accepted me for who I was the first day we met—a homeschooled, sheltered, naïve girl thrown into her first day of college.

  Finally, he threw his head back and laughed, causing me to tense. Even though we were best friends, I still felt conscious about my lack of “modern verbiage.”

  “What’s so funny?” I asked, holding my notebook close to my chest.

  “Rosie, please tell me you don’t call a lady’s vagina her pleasure garden.”

  “Henry.” I can’t see why he’s giving me such a hard time.

  That garnered another laugh from him, as he wrapped his arm around my shoulders and walked me out of my room of the apartment we shared with our other roommate, Delaney.

  “Rosie, if you can’t say vagina out loud then there is no way you’ll be able to write about throbbing penises and aroused nipples.”

  A brandished heat washed through me from the mention of a throbbing penis, something I’d never experienced firsthand. The only penises I’d seen were courtesy of Tumblr and some careful googling. I would rather study one in person, because from what I’d seen on the Internet and read in other romance novels, they have a mind of their own—twitching and rising when aroused—I was fascinated and wanted to see an actual boner. What would happen if I touched it? That question was constantly on my mind.

  Homeschooled, my parents totally sheltered me from the world, and I spent many days on the beach or in my room reading. Anything written by Jane Austen was my go-to book, until I found one of my mother’s dirty novels in her nightstand. We never talked about sex, so it fascinated me to read a book about heaving breasts and thick bulges. I couldn’t help it. I was hooked.

  When I was young, I only ever read in the library so my mom never caught me. During college, I focused on my schoolwork, so it wasn’t until I graduated that I started reading again, feeding the passion for romance inside me. I’d been reading romance novels ever since.

  “Hey, are you even listening to what I’m saying?” Delaney, my best friend and roommate asked as she stood before me with her hand on her robe-covered hip and her hair tucked into a towel.

  “Umm, no,” I said with an innocent smile. When did Delaney show up? “What were you saying?”

  Rolling her eyes, Delaney asked, “Have you started writing your romance novel again?”

  The way Delaney said romance novel in her haughty voice was a little frustrating. I’d known Henry and Delaney since freshman orientation in college, where we found out we were all majoring in English. For those four years, we had the same classes, same schedules, and same housing. We moved off campus to a small three-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn after our freshman year, where we still live.

  Unlucky for me, the walls were thin, the space was tight, and I unfortunately got to know every person my roommates brought home on an intimate level. Given his tanned skin, mesmerizing eyes, and brown hair—that was styled just right—Henry was a ladies’ man. Delaney, on the other hand, had a couple relationships throughout college but was now serious with her latest boyfriend, Derk. Yes, Derk. Hideous name, especially when screamed from the top of Delaney’s lungs as her headboard slammed against my wall.

  Now graduated, we still lived together but had gone our separate ways job wise. Henry earned a job with one of the top mark
eting firms, Bentley Marketing, editing ads, and Delaney worked as a freelance writer for Cosmopolitan. She wrote articles about anything from haircuts for the summer to how to maximize your orgasm count in a night. I had that article saved in my notebook, as research.

  Me, well . . . I hadn’t been as lucky as my two friends and unfortunately landed a job at Friendly Felines, where I wrote about the new and upcoming clumping formulas in cat litter. Our offices were located in Manhattan but in the smallest of buildings, where my boss insisted on having a gaggle of unneutered and randy cats who seemed to be in heat every day.

  Have you ever listened to a cat whine from needing a little attention when in heat? Yeah, sounded like it was dying. Try writing in an environment like that. By the time I left work each day, I was a walking furball.

  To keep myself from ending up as a crazy cat lady who didn’t mind when she ate thirty percent cat hair with each meal, I decided to write a romance novel. I’m the girl who lived in fantasies where love always prevailed, and a hero waited around the corner to swoop in on his white horse to save you. Given my love for love and my ability to get lost in my writing, I didn’t think it would be so hard to write my first romance. It was my favorite genre . . . but I forgot about one tiny speed bump in that plan.

  I was a virgin.

  At twenty-three.

  Never “de-flowered”.

  Always wondered about the act of coitus.

  Answering Delaney’s question, I said, “Yes, I’ve started writing it again. I felt it was time to revisit Fabio and Mayberry.”

  “Please tell me you did not actually name your character Fabio,” Henry chastised with a snort as he pulled three beers from the fridge.

  “What’s wrong with Fabio?” I asked slightly offended. “I will have you know that Fabio was a well-to-do name in the eighties and nineties for the romance genre. He’s the king of all romance. You can’t go wrong with a name like that.”

  “Rosie, you know I love you, but I think you need to get your head out of your books for a few hours and realize we’re not living in the eighties and nineties anymore. We’re living in an age of Christian Grey and Jett Colby, dominant men with kinky sides. Stop reading that heaving-bosom shit and get your head in the here and now,” Delaney said.

  “There is nothing wrong with a heaving bosom,” I said, recalling what I had just been writing. What else would bosoms do in the heat of passion? Jiggle? Jiggling reminded me of my aunt Emily and her Jell-O salad, not two passionate humans rubbing bodies together.

  “There sure is,” Henry said as he handed Delaney and me a beer. “When I have a girl writhing under me, I’m not thinking, damn, look at her heaving bosom. I’m thinking, shit, her tits are jiggling so damn fast from my thrusts, and I’m going to blow it all in a second.” Of course he would say jiggling.

  “Ick, Henry. You’re so crude,” I responded.

  “Hey, I’m just telling you how a guy thinks, might do you some good.”

  “No, what will do her some good is actually losing her virginity,” Delaney said while taking a sip of her beer.

  Oh dear God, this is humiliating. Henry had no idea of no idea of my lack of sexual experience. I kept that to myself . . . and my loudmouth friend. Thank you, Delaney.

  “What?” Henry looked at me wide-eyed and almost a little hurt. “You’re a virgin? How did I not know this? How come you didn’t tell me?”

  “Delaney,” I gritted out. I was completely mortified. Being a virgin wasn’t something I made known given I was twenty-three and only had two kisses under my belt of sexual proactivity. “That was private.”

  “Sorry,” Delaney said with an innocent smile. “It just slipped.”

  I didn’t believe her one bit.

  “You’re seriously a virgin?” Henry asked again, still dumbfounded from the news.

  “Well, if you must know, I am. I haven’t found the right guy yet,” I said, staring at my beer bottle, starting to feel slightly sorry for myself.

  “I can’t believe that. I’m, I . . .” Henry was clearly struggling to find words to express his shock. I didn’t blame him, as we told each other everything. At least he’s not mad for holding back such vital information. Yet . . .

  “It’s not like I haven’t tried,” I said. “I just, I don’t know—”

  “You haven’t tried,” Delaney said with a pointed look. “Don’t lie. Marcus and Dwayne don’t count. You barely poked your head out of your books long enough to kiss them on the cheek. You’re living through your characters, when you need to be living in real life.”

  “I’m not living in my books. They’re just my friends,” I replied softly. Any serious reader would know what I’m talking about.

  “Don’t say that,” Delaney said, pointing at me. “We talked about this, Rosie. Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet are not your friends.”

  “Pride and Prejudice is a fine example of literature and romance,” I shot back.

  “You need to get fucked,” Delaney shouted, tossing her arms to the sky. “You need to drop the books, spread your legs, and get fucked, Rosie. If you have any chance in writing that book of yours, you need to experience the sensations firsthand.”

  “Ha, firsthand.” Henry chuckled to himself.

  “What does that mean?” I asked, confused.

  They both looked at me and shook their heads.

  “Masturbation,” Delaney answered.

  “Oh, gross. I would never do that.”

  “Wait, hold up.” Henry stood and pointed his beer bottle at me. “So not only are you a virgin, but you’ve never even masturbated?”

  Gulping, I said, “You mean, touching myself?”

  “Damn, Rosie,” Henry said in disbelief. “How come I’ve known you for six years and I’ve never known about your sexual life, or lack thereof?”

  “Maybe because you were too busy banging your way through the English department,” I said in a snide tone, starting to get irritated from both Delaney and Henry ganging up on me.

  “Hey, got good grades, didn’t I?” He smirked.

  “You’re irritating.” I trudge off to my room.

  “Hold it right there, missy.” Delaney pulled on my arms before I could make my way past her. “You know I love you, right?” Her voice softened.

  “I thought you did.”

  “Don’t get all salty on us, we’re only trying to understand you. You want to write a romance novel, because you want to have a life that doesn’t involve writing about the latest and greatest poop scooper, right?”

  “Yes,” I answered. This was exasperating. “I also love the idea of creating my own love story, having two people who’ve been living through such different circumstances fall in love. It’s all about the find when it comes to love, the moment you meet the one person you can’t possibly live without. That’s what intrigues me.”

  “Agreed, but you know sex sells, correct?”

  “Yes, I know that firsthand. I like books that have friskiness in them.” Although, the books I read were slightly outdated, but things still happened in them, things that made my entire body heat up.

  “It’s called sex, Rosie,” Delaney said. “Fucking, fornicating, poking the donut, making milk, smushing—”

  “Porking,” Henry added. “Slapping the ham, knocking boots, dick twerking.”

  “Riding the bologna pony, getting some stank on the hang down . . .”

  Henry cut a look at Delaney and asked, “Getting some stank on the hang down? You’re better than that, Delaney.”

  She shrugged her shoulders and was about to start up again when I said, “I get it. Sex, see I can say it.” Even though it felt like I had cotton in my mouth.

  “Try saying it without developing a light sheen on your upper lip.”

  Instantly, I wiped my upper lip, feeling mortified.

  “There was no sheen.”

  “Oh yes, there was.”

  I waved my hand in the air, trying to erase the conversation. I hate feeling like suc
h an idiot, and right now, that’s exactly how I feel. “Just get back to your point before I storm off.”

  “Fine,” Delaney said. “Sex sells, so if you want to write a book that’s going to turn on every woman in the damn country, then you’re going to have to put yourself out there and experience what it’s like to orgasm. To have a man squeeze that hard little nipple of yours, to know what a dick feels like in your hands, in your mouth, in your pussy—”

  “Okay”—I held up my hand—“I get it. I need to have sex. How do you suggest I go about doing that without paying someone on the corner?”

  “Tinder,” Henry suggested.

  Delaney seemed to consider his option for a second but then shook her head. “Tinder is too aggressive. I think she’d wilt under pressure. She needs to be taken out on a date first, not meet up at the closest motel. We need someone who’s going to take it easy on her.”

  “You’re right,” Henry agreed.

  “What’s Tinder?” I asked, feeling a little curious.

  Smiling brightly, Henry pulled out his phone from his pocket and nodded at me to come closer. I sat on the couch armrest with him and looked at his phone as he pulled up an app.

  “Tinder is a hookup app. It shows you girls . . . or men, in your case, who are in the area and are using Tinder. You can look through the different profiles and see if you’re interested in them or not with one swipe of your finger.”