One fateful night in August
Raquel
Mirror, mirror on the wall, why are you so judgy, girlfriend?
I certainly understand the appeal of mirrors as an aesthetic to a home’s interior, but this bathroom has taken it to another level. Not only does the large double-sink vanity have an equally huge mirror above it, but on the opposite wall sits floor-to-ceiling reflective glass that stops just before you reach the toilet and shower and Jacuzzi tub.
Oh, and let’s not forget about the actual ceilings. They have mirrors too, stretching the full length of the massive bathroom-appointed space.
It’s like a kaleidoscope, only, instead of glitter, it’s my bare ass and boobs flashing all over the freaking place. I’m certain I’ve never seen this much of myself, and considering I’ve been in showbiz for most of my life—seen myself splashed across billboards and buses and magazines—that’s saying a lot.
After a long freaking day in the Big Apple, escaping the watchful eye of my security and management team, and running into a blast from my childhood past, I have found myself inside a handsome-as-hell man’s bathroom, fresh out of the shower, still naked, and getting ready to spend the rest of the evening continuing to catch up with someone I haven’t seen in decades.
Catching up? Ha. Pretty sure your plans don’t simply revolve around having a gab sesh in his living room…
My cheeks flush red at the dirty, forbidden thoughts that have been rolling around inside my brain for the past few hours, and these damn mirrors have no problems displaying the evidence.
Goodness gracious. You’d think, at twenty-nine-years old, I’d be over the whole “blushing like a teenage girl” thing when the idea of sex pops into my mind, but no, not even close.
Pretty sure you actually have to do the sex in order to get over being all blush-y about the sex…
I glance down at the purity ring on my finger and sigh.
Almost thirty years old and I’m still as virginal as the day I was born.
Ugh. I roll my eyes at myself as I run a small comb through my wet locks.
Everyone—and their mother—knows about sex.
Rihanna does. She has a whole song dedicated to the fact that sex with her is ah-mazing.
Limp Bizkit sure as hell does. I mean, Fred Durst is the reason for Nookie.
And Marvin Gaye? Well, his voice is basically used as a soundtrack for getting down and dirty in the bedroom.
Hell, even pornos have made the lingo bow-chicka-bow-wow a part of pop culture.
But me? Besides celebrity, I have nothing in common with any of the above. My only experience with sex revolves around acting it out on screen. Fake, scripted sex is as far as my experience goes.
That’s right, folks. I’m a Hollywood-famous virgin whose real-life sexual encounters can be tallied on one hand and not a single one of them involves penetration.
What a claim to fucking fame, huh?
When I really think about the act of sex, I feel like a prepubescent girl freaking out over a French kiss. But instead of Where does my tongue go? I’m all, So a penis goes inside my vagina?
Slow your fornication roll, Raquel… Before you can get to the sex, you have to make him want the sex…
I’ve played the seductive bombshell in more than a few movies, but I have never been that woman in real life.
Holy moly. Do I even know how to seduce a man? Am I capable of seducing this gorgeous, sexy, charming man?
My gaze flits from my face to my boobs and doesn’t stop until it reaches the reflection of my ass in the floor-to-ceiling mirror behind me.
So…do I just shake my butt a little and then he’ll be seduced?
I try a shimmy, but when that doesn’t feel sexy or enticing enough, I attempt to mimic a move I saw Demi Moore do in the movie Striptease when I was way too young. Bending all the way over, I look at myself, upside down, from between my thighs.
Um, geez. Talk about being on display. Everything—my ass, my vagina—is right there, staring back at me.
Thank God I’m a religious Brazilian waxer.
Instantly, blood starts to rush to my head, and I try to stay strong, blinking past the discomfort. I’m certain Demi was able to hang out here for longer than two fucking seconds.
I move my hips a little from side to side and silently wonder if this is all it will take.
Just bend over and show him the goods, and bam, off to the sex races we go?
But how exactly do you find a legitimate reason to be in this position?
I can’t just walk out of this bathroom, butt-ass naked, and offer a sexy greeting via bending over and showing him my beaver. That’s pretty fucking forward, especially for a virgin like me.
Good God, all those years of homeschooling on set without any sort of sex ed have really handicapped me in the knowledge of seduction and fucking. You’d think teaching teenage child actors about sexual intercourse would’ve been the first damn thing on the agenda, but no. Not a single boom-boom lesson plan was given.
I can hear Tai from the movie Clueless in my head right now—You’re a virgin who can’t drive.
Obviously, I can drive. Well, I can drive an automatic. But a stick shift? Yeah, that might as well be a metaphor for my sex life. Inept and literally clueless.
It can’t be that hard, though…right?
People have been having sex since…forever.
And the sex equation isn’t fucking rocket science. Take one hard penis, add in a vagina that serves as a metaphorical shaft slip-n-slide, and bingo bango, sex is happening.
I stare at my virginal beaver in the mirror and wonder if there’re some details I’m missing here…
Does lube need to be involved?
Is my vagina one-size-fits-all like those jeans in The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants?
Or does size actually matter in this scenario?
Jesus. Am I really trying to understand the logistics of sex right now? While I’m fresh out of the shower, in a sexy, charming man’s bathroom? A man I just so happen to know from my childhood?
Yes. You really are that woman. I awkwardly push myself back up to standing, brush the wet locks out of my eyes, and hitch my bare hip against the bathroom counter.
A heavy sigh escapes my lungs when I glance down at the purity ring on my finger again.
This stupid ring might as well be an albatross around my neck. It has followed me all the way through my teenage years, and now, only a short while away from my thirties, I’m still wearing the damn thing.
What is it with this stupid ring?
What is it with me?
Personally, I actually love the idea of sex.
You also want to do the sex.
Hell yes, I do. I want to have sex.
I want to know what it feels like to have a man inside me.
I want to fucking feel a man inside me.
But with my insane schedule and my overbearing team that includes my agent and manager and her assistants and a whole plethora of other people who help me be the flawless, virginal sexpot that is Raquel Weaver to the rest of the world, I don’t even have time to date, much less have sex.
I stare at my reflection again in the bathroom mirror. My cheeks are rosy from my hot shower, and my hair is wet and hanging past my shoulders. But my eyes, well, they’re bright. Mischievous, even. It’s like they know more than I do.
Three soft raps tap against the door, and I jump at the unexpected sound, gripping the marble counter in surprise.