would be civic-minded. “I’ve had a glass of champagne, handed my business card to twenty-seven random strangers who gave me their cards thus promoting us to casual business acquaintances and met the people I came to meet. Why would I stay?”
Maple gazes at me patiently. “To have fun?”
I get the sense Maple is serious and not making a joke. I love to laugh as much as the next person, but challenged in the humor department? Yes, yes, I am. Clarification is required. “You want to stay here?”
“Let me sum up—free champagne, free food.” She tucks her arm in mine, ensuring I can’t escape without towing her like a boat anchor. Thirty seconds later, we’re tucked into prime real estate—a padded window seat with picture-perfect views of downtown San Francisco and the city night lights. When I first moved here, I visited the aquarium on the Wharf and strolled through a huge glass tunnel while a dozen species of sharks and rays swam up checking me out. This feels remarkably similar except the sharks in this room aren’t particularly interested in me. I’m the tiniest fish.
“This is a party, Lola.” Maple mimics scanning the room like a sailor checking out the horizon. Probably for pirates. “There are hot guys here.”
“Really?” Successful people possess many fine qualities, including drive, discipline and intelligence, but when God handed out looks, they’d been too busy standing in the drive, discipline and intelligence lines to score hotness.
“Yes.” Maple nods vigorously. I’m pathetically jealous that her sleek ballerina bun doesn’t so much as wiggle on top of her head. “How about that one? Does he spark joy in you? Would you keep him?”
The blurry blond guy on the other end of Maple’s pointing finger is perfectly fine. Emphasis on perfect—perfect blue suit, perfectly coordinated navy blue tie, perfectly groomed hair with just the right amount of styling products to keep everything perfectly in place. He’s a total sand shark. Dating needs to be less work. From the data points of my most recent Friday night experiences, choosing a random stranger ends in disappointment. Imagining the possibilities is more fun and less work.
Maple smacks my arm when I share this conclusion with her. “Pick better, then. How about that one? I’ll bet he has a huge penis.”
Her new choice is tall, dark and handsome. He’s absolutely yummy even if he seems like the MBA type. My ovaries vow on the spot that he’s smart, dependable and the best baby daddy ever. Mentally I check off cow shark in the game of mental shark bingo I’m playing with myself.
Maple sighs and nudges me in the side. “When’s the last time you went out on a date or had me time?”
“I don’t have time for a relationship.” She’s only trying to be helpful, but as much as I appreciate her concern, it also makes me want to run and hide in my very nice bed. I’m thirty-one, I’m the baby sister who’s failed to make good (so far) and I’ve just founded my first company. I have time for nothing but work.
“Sex,” Maple announces in her outside voice, cupping my face in her hands. “Hot sex. The only ring you have to put on it is one of those vibrating cock rings. When’s the last time you had fun?”
“Never with a cock ring. It’s like plugging up the bath and running the water full bore. The poor guy’s blood has nowhere to go, so he’s totally focused on what’s going on down there because it’s distracting as hell, and he has no choice but to keep it up. It’s like a corset for dicks.”
The waiter leaning in to offer us a new round of appetizers beats a hasty retreat.
Used to my verbal diarrhea, Maple just waits for me to finish. “If cock rings aren’t your thing, find some other toy that you do like.”
“Have I ever struck you as a playful person?”
“Practice,” Maple deadpans. “You just need practice.”
“I could practice until I was eighty. It wouldn’t make me fun. I’m an engineer. I’m a nerd. I’m a freaking entrepreneur. And I like all that. I might not be fun, but I’m happy.”
Am I 100 percent happy? Details. I’m at least 51 percent happy, and that rounds up to 100 percent. It’s basic math. In college I had Friday night study groups and lived in the computer lab. I wasn’t a troll, but working on my social skills hadn’t been a priority. After I dropped out due to a lack of funding and time management skills, I bounced from job to job. This was great for building my skill set, but not so good for peopling. I’d always moved on before I could build genuine friendships. Boyfriends had been the same song, different verse.
Maple, however, has no intention of giving up. “I bet you could be perfectly happy with someone in this room.”
“Sex is a lot of work.” I shrug, forcing Maple to make an emergency grab for my sleeve before I accidentally flash the entire networking event. Off-the-shoulder dresses are worse than corsets, requiring minimal movement and perfect posture. I should probably look for a new dress.
Slapping my sleeve back into place, she snorts. “Don’t be such a giver, then. Be a taker. Let the guy do all the work.”
“I’m not even sure I like sex all that much.” Before Maple can tell me I need a good therapist, or to embark on a journey of self-discovery to find the right penis, I barrel on. “I mean, I don’t hate it, but it’s kind of like going to a spa for a massage. Do I really want to give up an hour of my life to tell someone where and how to touch me? Or do I want to keep on living the happily single life where I DIY and wear old sweatpants to bed and no one points out I haven’t shaved my legs in days? Self-care is much more satisfying.”
Maple groans. “Just promise me you’ll get out there and sample a penis or two. DIY is for home repairs.”
I polish off my champagne and squint, but I can’t spot a waiter. “Maybe after Calla’s launch.”
“At least stay a little while longer.”
“How long?”
“Twelve minutes.” She beams beatifically at me.
Even though she’s pulled that number out of her ass, I nod. Twelve minutes and then I’m out. I can kill at least six minutes in the bathroom if I play my cards right.
“Potty break.” I stand up, twitching my dress back into place. Either it’s gotten shorter, I’ve gotten taller, or parts of me have gotten larger.
Four minutes later, I’m procrastinating in front of the bathroom mirror. My dress is definitely shorter and tighter. The black jersey stops barely south of my butt and far, far above my knees. The off-the-shoulder sleeves seem to be squeezing my boobs in a manner that’s far too friendly. When Maple came by my apartment earlier for a pre-party assessment, she redid my hair into a high ponytail. She also applied my makeup, which means I’m wearing a ton since Maple only does stage makeup. There’s also a whole lot of bare leg between the dress’s hem and my three-inch strappy heels.
Maple vetoed a wrap. She also ixnayed a bra. The no-panties thing, however, is entirely my fault. I prefer to go commando, although I’m usually wearing yoga pants and therefore not in danger of sharing my beaver with the world. Still, I look good. Maybe I do fit in after all.
My return trip through the throng of glittering people takes much longer. I manage to score
