"A doctor. I know the female anatomy well." He winks. Takes a long sip of his apple martini. "Shit, this is good." He turns to the stage for a moment. Watches a lean blond dancer undo the buttons of her blouse one at a time.
Yes, this isn't just a dive bar. It's a strip club. That's the other reason why the owner hired me. He was sure I'd "get dollar signs in my eyes as soon as I saw what the dancers were pulling in."
I understand his point.
Between rent, tuition, and Addie's medical expenses, I need money.
On a good night, I go home with a few hundred dollars.
On a good night, the woman working the stage—she goes by Britney—goes home with a few thousand.
Only she has to touch all these strange men. She has to let them touch her.
I see the way men reach for dancers. They think twenty dollars buys them carte blanche.
"Is that why you don't dance?" Drunk McHandsy turns to me with wide eyes. "Because you've never been with a man?"
"I like making drinks." I strain the extra liquor into a martini glass.
"Are you saving yourself for a good man?"
"Why? Do you know one?"
His laugh echoes around the room. "So it is true?"
"That I need a good man?" Let's face it, I need a man like I need another bill to pay. Eighteen years full of disappointing men. My father, my bosses, even the senior year English teacher who refused to let me pick Margaret Atwood for my final project.
"That you're a virgin?"
There's no way I'm getting out of this question with a good tip. Either I lie and say no. Claim an interest in women (if only). Or I tell him the truth.
Well, some of it.
"I am." I finish the green drink. Let it warm my cheeks and throat. Let it sweeten the music and soften the air.
"Really?"
"Really."
"You just…" He glances at Britney as the song shifts to Hit Me Baby, One More Time. Dancers work a three-song set. Clothed, topless, nude. This is number three. Of course, she interprets nude in her way. The panties come off. The schoolgirl skirt stays on.
The frat bros celebrating a friend's wedding go wild.
It's an apt choice. Britney. Apparently, her virginity was the gossip of the day. Everyone was obsessed with the pop star maintaining her innocence.
This male obsession with virginity… I don't get it. Yes, I'm a virgin. Yes, I like men. Yes, I've had boyfriends. Two. In high school.
Yes, we did all the normal things.
We kissed, held hands, watched movies. Boyfriend number two even got to second base. His hands were too cold. His touch was too blunt. But I still enjoyed it. I still wanted more.
There was something stopping me. Fear. Nerves. An inability to trust him with my body. I'm not sure. I lost my chance.
Dad left and life got way too complicated for boyfriends.
"You don't look like a virgin." He studies my teal hair. My thick eyeliner. My black mini-dress. "You look like… a sex kitten."
Gross.
"Like you know how to please a strong man."
Even more gross. I reach for the drink, but it's empty. For the best. I need to stay focused. So I make rent. "It's the makeup."
Addie says I look like a punk rock princess.
I prefer to think of my attire as a shield. The eyeliner says I don't give a fuck what you think. The dark lipstick says leave me alone. The combat boots say I will kick you in the head if you fuck with me.
That's probably why this guy is asking. He can't see my combat boots. He doesn't know I'm at the end of my rope. He doesn't know I'm completely out of patience.
He leans back to finish his Appletini. Then he sets the glass on the bar. Motions for another.
It's hard to keep a poker face with him watching me, but I manage.
There. I tap the order into the machine. Pour. Slide the glass to him.
"Guys must ask all the time." He holds up the drink as if to toast. "If you're a virgin."
"Word gets around."
His eyes fix on my breasts. He watches my chest rise and fall with my exhale. He watches like he's picturing me in his bed. Like he's sure he has me where he wants me. "Do you want them to stop asking?"
Why? Does he have a button that will change the culture. Swap gender roles, so we obsess over male virginity and shrug at the thought of women who sleep around. Girls will be girls.
"I have a solution." He holds up his drink. "A proposition, actually."
"Shoot."
"You don't work here for your health."
What gave that away?
"You must need money. I have money. A lot of it. But I don't have you. What do you say, Eve? What do you say we make a trade? Something I want for something you want."
Get Dirty Desires Now
Author’s Note
I’ll be honest. I went into Dirty Wedding with low expectations. Dirty Desires was, by far, my favorite in the Dirty series. It hit so many of my buttons, on so many levels--virgin heroine, sexual lessons, intellectual eighteen year old heroine, online journals, offline journals, secrets, questions of trust. And it was personal in a way the other books in the series are not. When I was a teenager, I kept an online journal. I met a few friends that way. After a few years of dating, my husband (then boyfriend), confessed he’d read one of my online journals when we were dating.
It was a book I wanted to write. I wrote it for me. I wrote the kind of heroine who spoke to me. It was freeing. I adored it.
When I started Dirty Wedding, I had more mercenary aims. I liked Ty well enough. He seemed like an interesting enough guy--loyal, with a strict moral code, and incredibly high standards--but nothing about him, or the book, really spoke to me. My thought process was more “I love wedding imagery, so I’m going to write about a wedding.” (I really do love wedding imagery though).
I tried to write a little more on trend, some enemies to lovers action, but it didn’t work. And I didn’t care. I’ve never really understood the appeal of enemies to lovers as it’s often written. A Han and Leia strong personalities who tease each other, yes. Actual hate, not so much. When I hate someone, I hate them. I don’t care how hot they are. I don’t want to make them come. But I do understand… not hating someone, exactly, but being upset with them because they hurt you. Wanting to hate them for it. Because it’s easier to hate someone than accept hurt. That made sense to me. And once I started to dive in, to ask myself why Indigo was so hurt by Ty leaving and embracing a woman so unlike her (and, of course, with her short hair and tattoos, Indigo was quite at Eve’s level of “not the kind of girl who appears in billionaire romances, but she was certainly not the type of girl who I saw in these books), why Ty did that…
Of course, I landed on sex. What’s more compelling than sex? And what’s causes more strife than suppressed desires?
I didn’t plan on writing Ty as a guy who couldn’t accept his desires. I certainly didn’t plan on Indigo as being the bold, brave one--the one who pushes him, who asks him to hurt her, threaten her, play all sorts of dangerous games. I didn’t set out to write a book about more dangerous sexual desires, but I’m glad I did.