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

one of those adorable, vulnerable smiles, which he unknowingly uses to get anything he wants from me.
    “Maybe you could cook for me sometime?”
    My whole face lights up as my own smile bursts through my cheekbones to my temples, practically erupting my brain. Real future plans. Not just the bullshit kind about random things we might do sometime, but the actual groundwork for a second date. I know what I’m doing for my birthday now. I’m going to plan the menu for our next meal.
    He sees my delight, and kisses me again. This time it’s in harmony with the music. Our kiss becomes just one more part of our bodies dancing.
    We move through the house to the melody provided ubiquitously by the surround sound multi-room speakers, blasting the soundtrack to the next phase of my life. Les Nubians. My new favorite musical styling. I already know that the next time I hear this, it will instantly bring me right back to this experience. To this feeling. To this pure and utter bliss.
    When I open my eyes again, allowing myself to glance in passing at the reality of the present moment, I realize that I am in his bedroom. Clearly the master, it is large and spacious with more than enough empty floor space to accommodate Can-Can lines of about seven dancers on either side of the California King size bed. It is so large, in fact, that those dancers would be able to perform their act without the slightest fear of banging into the dark wood dressers lining the walls, or into the armchairs, which form a little conversation nook, in the corner. Like everything else I’ve seen of this man, the layout and color schemes exhibit a pretentious-less class.
    Still kissing and pressing up against each other, we fall together onto the bed. I’m facing the master bathroom, which is big and luxurious, with a spa tub directly behind the toilet, and across from the bidet. I can see all this because the bathroom has no door. I am instantly disturbed by this.
    How is that gonna work? There’s no doubt that I’m going to have to tinkle at some point—let’s hope that’s all I have to do—but in my blinded kissing, Nubians-enhanced passion, I didn’t make a point to locate any other bathrooms on my way to this bedroom. Not that I had any way of knowing that his master bathroom wouldn’t have a door. Why wouldn’t he have a door?!
    I’ve seen this design before in fancy hotel rooms, but never without thinking it was a bad idea, and never in a family home. Maybe this is why he and his wife broke up? I mean it’s hard enough to keep the attraction alive in a long-term relationship without having to watch the other person doing their business. In fact, there is nothing that a couple should watch each other do in the bathroom. Even when you’re not sitting on a toilet, cleaning out your private parts, or getting snot out of your nose, you’re doing stuff to make yourself look more attractive to your mate. Stuff that’s supposed to be secret. Stuff like putting on makeup and styling your hair. Stuff that’s supposed to maintain the illusion of perfection that they fell for in the first place. Yeah! I don’t want him seeing any of that.
    Men are very visual creatures, so showing them how we get from A to B is the same as pulling back the curtain on a magic show. Sure, we all think we’d like to know how the trick is done, but when we find out, all we’ve really learned is that magic doesn’t exist. And that’s depressing! Everyone knows that the key to a successful marriage is separate bathrooms, but it goes without saying that the key to separate bathrooms is closing the doors.
    “Are you ok?” he asks me, noticing that my mind has slipped off somewhere.
    I don’t want to bring up this thing about the bathroom door, but I’m me, so I do.
    “How did you deal with that missing bathroom door when your wife lived here?”
    He glances over his shoulder to see what I’m talking about, “Oh… We were married. We didn’t care.”
    Weird.