My thoughts: These small kindnesses weren’t much, but they were enough to make me fear falling prey to First Dick Fever like so many of the Raine women before me.
* * *
What is First Dick Fever you may ask?
* * *
First Dick Fever (aka FDF)—Noun—falling stupidly and irreversibly in love with the first man to put in more than “just the tip.” A malady that slowly kills your single hopes and dreams and for which there is currently no known cure.
* * *
My mother married her first dick and has remained locked in fractious matrimony with my father for nearly thirty years, despite the fact that they can’t go more than an hour without shouting at each other until they’re red in the face.
She says “verbal sparring” is their love language.
I say she’s got a bad case of FDF.
First Dick Fever also came for my cousin, Sheila, who followed her first cock to the Philippines, where she now lives in a tiny apartment with Joshua and his big sister, Jane, who hates Sheila like a lollipop covered in dog hair and keeps trying to scare her off by putting hissing roaches in her shoes.
Ditto for my big sister, Lauren, who was knocked up by her first dick at seventeen and subsequently gave up her scholarship to Cornell to stay in New Jersey and help her now husband, Chuck, run his family’s plumbing business.
And, sure, Lauren seems happy enough for a woman with three kids under the age of ten—albeit permanently exhausted—but I can’t help but wonder what her life would be like if she hadn’t let Chuck’s dick shape the course of her future.
This is why I have to be careful.
I have big dreams and none of them include settling for the first trouser snake that slithers along. I’m one of the only women in the most challenging forensic accounting master’s program in the country. I’m determined to graduate top of my class and land an incredible first position, one I’ll choose based on my own preferences, not the needs of a partner who wants to stay close to his family or his own (likely lower paying) job.
And when it comes to significant others, I want my future husband and I to have a top-notch sex life, and how the hell will I know if it’s The Stuff if I have nothing to compare it to?
Nope.
One and done isn’t the path for this Raine woman. I’m glad my mom and sister are happy with their lots in life, but I refuse to be derailed by a case of FDF.
* * *
Which brings us back to Steve, and why he had to go.
His flicker of human decency wasn’t much, but it was enough to be dangerous. On the off chance that a close encounter with his dick would be enough to convince me that “tiddies” was an acceptable term for breasts, I had to make a swift escape.
I thanked him for a nice night, pretended to have tragic diarrhea, and left.
Useful takeaway: Mention of diarrhea—especially a tragic case—on the first date is an excellent way to ensure a man never calls again.
V-Card Status: Un-punched.
* * *
Carl: Picked his nose in public. Twice.
V-Card Status: Grossed Out.
* * *
Kyle: Called me Snow White, presumably because of my pale skin and dark brown hair. Spanked my ass within five minutes of starting our walk around Central Park, told me I smelled like asparagus, but in “the good way,” and then picked his nose in public.
V-Card Status: Disturbed by the number of grown men who seem to think sticking a finger in a nostril is acceptable behavior at any time aside from when they are alone in the bathroom and intend to wash their hands promptly after.
* * *
James: Skunk Breath.
V-Card Status: Barfing.
* * *
Brad Two: Announced he had always dreamed of “settling down with a girl like me” ten seconds into coffee. Verdict—even more off-putting than the first Brad.
Note to Self: Don’t date Brads.
V-Card Status: Losing hope, probably also shrouded in cobwebs, infested with spiders, and suffering from a mild case of depression.
* * *
Matthew from the gym who said sweat is his religion and who is probably on multiple steroids: Called off due to freak snowstorm.
V-Card Status: Relieved for an excuse to stay home.
* * *
I am relieved, Diary.
Hunting obnoxious but sort of sexy men is exhausting.
But sadly, I’m also running out of time.
My ancient V-Card can wait—she’s clearly in no hurry to vacate the premises—but I need to find a boyfriend. Stat. Gram might not be with us much longer. This could be her last Raine family reunion and all she’s ever wanted was to see me settled down with a “good” man.
Though I suspect a “good enough” man would also do at this point.
Argh!
If only I hadn’t confessed all my romantic daydreams when I slept over at her house as a starry-eyed teen. If I hadn’t fantasized to Gram about finding a best friend who slept over every night, one who would make me laugh and think and feel all the glorious things girls felt in ’90s rom-coms and be my partner in love and mischief for life, maybe she would believe me when I say I don’t have any urge to settle down.
But Gram knows better. She’s the only one who does. I can’t send her off on her next big adventure without knowing I’m on track to that happily ever after she’s always wanted for me.
Which means I need a stand-in.
A temporary forever.
A fake date, if you will, a la those made-for-TV romances my mom loves so much. I need a guy who’s cool enough to make my gram happy, but not so cool my parents or sister will be upset when they eventually learn Mr. X and I aren’t going to make it for the long haul.
But I don’t know anyone like that, Diary.
I don’t!
Don’t you dare say his name.
He Who Shall Not Be Named isn’t fit to lick the bottom of my shoe, let alone charm the slippers off my gram. I hate He Who Shall Not Be Named. I hate him so much I’ve completely forgotten about how hot that kiss was last September, and I hardly tingle at all when he drops by the apartment to boss Evie around in his capacity as the most irritating big brother in history.
And even if I didn’t hate He Who Shall Not Be Named, I’m not going to date, not even fake date, my best friend’s older brother. Evie is one of the most important people in my life. I don’t know what I’d do without her, and I’m not about to put our relationship at risk over stupid old Derrick.
Okay, fine! I said his name.
You win this battle, Diary, but I’m going to win the war.
The next time Derrick shows his face at the apartment, I’ll lock myself in my room and stay there until he’s gone. I’ll pee in an empty water bottle and survive on the stale granola bar chunks at the bottom of my purse if I have to.
I’m done with that man. Done. He’s dead to me. Dead, I tell you!
At least while I’m awake. I can’t help it if I have the occasional steamy dream featuring Derrick’s lips kissing his way up my thighs…
Ugh. Yep. I’m definitely staying in my room next time he shows up.