How Long You Should Wait to Have Sex: a Novel by Monique Sorgen Read Free Book Online

the fact that it’s San Francisco at night, and I’m naturally freezing my ass off.
    “Brrrr…” I mindlessly blurt.
    “Are you cold?” he asks, the sincerity of his concern warming my heart.
    I nod, ever so slightly embarrassed at being such a weather wimp that I’m going to ruin a perfectly romantic moment.
    “I have heating at my place,” he suggests. “It’s right around the corner.”
    Oh, the moment of truth. We both know that if I go to his place, I’m supposed to have sex with him. I usually like to wait to have sex, but this just feels so right. The moment is perfect. The guy is perfect. It would make this whole night, this whole birthday, perfect. I don’t know what to do. I want to have sex with him. I want to make love to him, even. Why should I wait, when I know this is right?
    I’m drunk. I’m cold. I’m smitten. I’m going.
     

Chapter 7
     
    He wasn’t lying. He literally lives around the corner from Alamo Square. His house is stylish and sparse, and demonstrates just the right amount of matchiness. The mood of the place maintains a consistent tone that signifies a man’s dominant presence, but hints that a woman has passed through. Furniture in rich shades of brown, walls painted in soothing earth tones, off white accents on the Victorian molding, giant, lush throw rugs you want to dig your toes into, which sit on top of mahogany wood floors. He has the kind of décor that most of us crave but can’t afford, demonstrating both taste and humility. Everything is placed as if in a showroom. I’ll take the lamp and the ottoman, please. Oh, is that really what those retail for? Never mind. I’ll just take a piece of this complimentary butterscotch candy, then.
    Like everything else about this man, this place is ideal. I tell him so, but he contradicts me.
    “Honestly, it’s too much space for just one person. It’s much cozier when two people live here.”
    I raise my hand in my mind, silently screaming, “Pick me! I’ll move in. I’ll fill this space up for you. I’ll be just the other person you need.”
    Instead I say, “You keep it so clean and orderly.” I sound more surprised than impressed.
    “Thanks. I think how a person keeps their place is a good reflection of how much they respect themselves.” Hmm, note to self, don’t invite him over to my apartment. What may seem perfectly livable and cozy to you, could appear as a complete lack of self-respect to the man of your dreams.
    He plugs his iPod into its dock and asks me, “Have you heard of Les Nubians?”
    “No. What’s that?”
    He turns on the music, and soft harmonious tones of two women singing beautifully in what must be some African language fills the house. I can see why he’d choose this as the soundtrack to the romantic moment we would likely soon be sharing. He sways gently to the music, clearly enjoying himself immensely as he lets the rhythms fill his soul. He closes his eyes, and goes deeper into his perpetually happy mind as he tells me their significance, with the excitement of a small child who’s just discovered that gravity doesn’t prevent airplanes from flying through the air with people inside.
    “They’re my favorite group. I saw them in France one hot summer night, outdoors. And I felt so alive, that the next day, I went out and bought all their albums! Their sound is so sensuous.”
    Yes. Sensuous. That is exactly the word I would choose to describe this sound. I want to be in that place with him, and I think he reads my mind, because he takes my hand, and leads me into his dance.
    “What were you doing in France?” I ask, as I fantasize that he’ll take me there with him one day.
    “Eating,” he replies, unromantically, “I love French food. Are you a good cook?”
    “I do alright for myself,” I brag, while making a mental note to go out and find some French recipes to practice making as soon as I leave this place.
    He pulls himself away from my embrace, just enough to shoot me