And I’d like to say that it’s all working out for me. I may be alone at home most of the time, but I’d rather be battling my urge to drink wine and online shop than to sleep with another guy who wouldn’t know a woman’s clit if it slapped him in the face. Hell, I’m sure when I jerk my hips, it literally is slapping them in the face, and yet they pretend like it doesn’t exist.
Not to mention the dates that go nowhere, the men who seem to have potential but then see you only as this half-Asian princess that they want all sweet and subdued, and meanwhile I’m all slapping them with my vag and cursing my head off.
It’s much, much easier this way. Less stressful.
“You all right there, Kayla?” Steph asks.
“Yes, why?”
“Because you’re holding onto the edge of the table like you’re about to go all Hulk on us.”
I look down at my hands, my knuckles whiter than my already pale skin. I slowly let go. Maybe I’m stressed after all.
“Are you sure this whole no men thing is a good thing?” she asks, taking a sip of her beer.
Truthfully, having her question it is exactly what I want to hear. Any excuse to just throw it out the window. But still, I’m nothing if not determined.
“It’s the right thing,” I tell her, raising my head and forcing myself to relax. I reach for my glass of wine, even though it’s my second glass and I’m already lightheaded. “It’s the only way,” I add gravely.
“And why are you doing this again?” Nicola asks.
I look at her and her deep brown eyes, then over to Steph and her baby blue ones. My two best friends, dressed to casually impress in foreign labels and independent designers. The two of them are the reason I’m doing this, with their happy, shiny faces and commitment to those damn McGregor brothers. Nicola just settled down, happily, with Bram, after their massive falling out, and Stephanie is married to his brother, Linden. It doesn’t help that I’d had a fling with Linden a long time ago, way before he and Steph got together, back when they were just friends. It’s not that he broke my Grinch heart (it’s three sizes too small), but sometimes I’m reminded of what I could have had and what I don’t have.
I’m jealous, that’s really what it comes down to. And when I get jealous, even of my friends, I can turn into a mean little ninja. And I don’t want to be a mean little ninja, just a regular one (though I do miss being a sex ninja). So, swearing off men meant swearing off disappointment.
At least, it’s supposed to. It’s easier when I’m alone at home, at work, at my mother’s, at the gym, or even out for dinner. Anywhere where temptation is limited. Tonight though, Steph and Nicola practically dragged me out of the house and took me to our hangout, The Burgundy Lion pub in the Haight district, for a girls’ night. Being around booze and boys is never a good idea when you’re abstaining from dick. Luckily, I left the house wearing no makeup, yoga pants, and a baggy t-shirt that says “No Pants Party,” so it’s not like the guys will be clamoring to talk to me. Unless they think the “no pants” thing is an invitation.
“I’m doing this because my battery operated boyfriend always knows the right spots and I let my fingers do the talking,” I explain with a tired sigh. “And I’m sick and tired of dating in this stupid city. I’m just spinning my wheels, wasting my time, and I swear the men are just getting stupider. I can’t even get laid properly anymore. It’s like all the men in San Francisco are either taken, gay, or afraid of greedy vaginas.”
They exchange another glance, this secret kind of communication they seem to have now. My theory is that having a McGregor dick inside of you gives you a form of telekinesis. They are forever bonded by Scottish cock.
“What?” I say. “It’s true. And you both would agree, if you didn’t have your own vaginas snatched up by those kilt-lifters.”
“Would you stop saying vagina?” Nicola says. “The word is ceasing to have meaning.”
“Yeah, for me.”
“Hmmmm. If Kayla ceased to have a greedy vagina, would she even exist at all?” Steph muses with a twinkle in her eye.
“Whatever,” I tell them, taking a large gulp of a Napa zinfandel. “My life will be easier this way. You’ll see.”
Nicola’s phone rattles on the table and she peers at it. “Bram’s on his way.”
I groan, putting my chin in my hand and letting it slide over my face. “Ugh, why? I thought we said it was a girls’ night. The last thing I want to see is you two making eyes at each other and your stupid innuendo.”
“Linden’s coming too,” Steph says sheepishly.
I give her a hard look.
“Sorry,” she says, not really sorry at all. “But if it makes you feel better, Linden and I are boring and married, so that whole swoony, making eyes stuff is over.”
“Oh, please,” I say while Nicola makes a similar sound of disbelief. “You’re even worse than Bram and Nicola, because you’ve got a case of the smug marrieds. Remember Bridget Jones? I’m Bridget. And you’re…the rest of them.”
Nicola nods. “It’s true.” Then she looks to me brightly. “So you just need to meet your Hugh Grant.”
I glare at her. “She doesn’t end up with Hugh Grant!”
Nicola frowns in confusion.
“Oh, like you’d even want a Mark Darcy,” Steph supplies. “Besides, Linden and Bram aren’t coming alone.”