Face it -- love is a crapshoot. Say no to one guy and you might miss out on your soul mate. Say yes to another and you might find yourself in the middle of the world's most awkward threesome. This book grants you the ultimate dating fantasy: a do-over! Choose Your Own Love Story puts YOU in the driver's seat and lets you make over 50 choices and pick from 20 possible endings. Will you make out with sexy, brooding Zack, the mayor of red-flag island? Or will you settle down with Anthony, a gentle plumber with restless leg syndrome? If you don't like where you end up, go back and start again! How will your story end? Are you ready to find out?
Release date:
December 22, 2015
Publisher:
Running Press Adult
Print pages:
240
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It’s a muggy Sunday in September and you have just been dumped.
Greg is leaving you for a little sylph named Oasis, and that is not a joke. Her name is Oasis. He met her at Burning Man. Oasis is a goddamn whimsical free spirit, or what Burners call a “sparkle pony.” She flutters and flits and giggles and gurgles because she is an infant, and apparently that is what Greg likes.
But why would Greg like that? Good question! The answer is that Oasis is hot. She has long tan legs, mermaid hair, and a wide mouth like Vivian in Pretty Woman—a character (you are fond of pointing out) whose evolution from “sassy sex object” to “classy sex object” is not exactly empowering. Until recently Greg liked this sort of cultural criticism, but Oasis has the legs and the hair and the mouth. You have legs and hair and a mouth, but your legs are pale, your hair is frizzy, and your mouth is just okay. Not assets. So that’s one thing.
Greg also likes Oasis because she’s fun. She likes clubbing, she likes smoking a bowl with the guys, and she likes night swimming at the beach because she has the body and is not afraid of sharks. She is also what your Grandma would have called a “courva.” That’s Yiddish for slutty. All those things are fun for boys.
You like staying in, ordering Thai food, and watching television. You love food so much, in fact, that you’re a food critic for a living. The money is terrible, but you get to eat a lot of weird and delicious ethnic noodles. In fact, you and Greg used to eat pad thai noodles together and make fun of girls like Oasis––girls who wear Playboy pendants and think that yoga pants make you spiritual.
Maybe he loves her because she’s simply happy and free instead of anxious and insecure—like you. You think too much. You worry. You care. You probably worry and care too much, but you were hoping that was part of your charm. It’s awful to consider that the very thing that makes you you might have sent your boyfriend running for the hills.
After all, just a few weeks ago you stayed up all night discussing whether happiness was a realistic goal or if it just sets people up for disappointment. You chose the latter, so Greg grabbed you and started kissing your neck. He whispered huskily, “Is this disappointing?”
Was that a great night, or did you just imagine it?
“Of course it was a great night!” Greg says now, begging you to understand. You’re standing by his kitchen counter, and you grip it to steady yourself. Maybe concentrating on small things can stop the room from spinning. Shiny hardwood floor. Bananas and avocado in a glass bowl. Greg’s corn-chip smell. “You’re amazing but . . .” he continues, “I just had an epiphany in the desert. . . . Oasis and I have a connection . . . ”
You feel like you’re in a bad dream. Here’s Greg—that big, stubbly, endearing bear, but he looks strange now. You know he always has stupid epiphanies when he takes stupid mushrooms in the stupid desert. You just thought this year his epiphany would be that he wants to marry you because you are the only woman he ever wants to see naked for the rest of his life. The chasm between your fantasy and this actual moment is unbearable.
“What can I say?” you ask bitterly. “How can I argue with a hallucination you, had in a hundred-degree heat on drugs? Obviously this is a great decision for an eighteen-year-old—oh wait! YOU’RE FUCKING THIRTY-FIVE.”
Greg shifts uncomfortably. You are doing the worst thing, and you know it. You’re being hostile and caustic and highlighting the ugly (albeit limited) ways you are inferior to Oasis. But you can’t help it! Doesn’t Greg know how much you love him?
“I can totally understand your perspective,” Greg says, and his new serenity is taking annoying to a new level you never dreamed possible. You hope together they choke and die from high-fructose corn syrup withdrawal. He puts his hand on your shoulder and you shrink back. Sure, you long to snuggle against his big reassuring chest, but then what?
If you can’t help yourself and have to touch him again, turn to page 29, section 9.
If you’d rather leave with a smidge of dignity, turn to page 15, section 4.
22
Impish architect Benjamin was a great choice! You love his mischievous smirk—he looks like he’s perpetually about to throw a surprise birthday party or rob a bank. Sure, he seems a little emotionally reserved, but what guy isn’t at first? The only trouble is . . . he’s a dirty talker.
“Oh fuck yeah,” he says on your fifth date, for you have decided it’s mature to wait until the fifth date to Give It Up.
Benjamin is rolling on the condom while staring at your naked body so intensely that you blush. “God, I want to fuck you so bad,” he says. “You hot wet nasty little . . . ”
You can’t hear the rest because your ears are ringing. You know what’s supposed to come next: You’re supposed to say stuff back. You’re supposed to act porny. But you are not porny; you’re just horny. And even that word makes you uncomfortable—it reminds you of eighth-grade boys with braces and purple clusters of chin acne who couldn’t stop looking at your breasts. So you just say, “yeah yeah yeah” in this really stupid whisper-moan. Then you forget about the dirty talking and just enjoy the ride.
The fact is, you don’t think in sentences when you are enjoying carnal pleasures. It may be the only time your mind isn’t crammed with words and questions but rather just waves of sensation.
When the deed is done, Benjamin spanks your bottom on his way to the shower. You don’t know if it’s a football spank (good job, buddy!), a proprietary lover’s spank (your ass belongs to me now!), or a punishment spank (next time, speak up!). You decide to seek counsel from Crystal, so you meet her at Monsieur Oiseau’s for a drink.
“So you’re not into it?” she asks.
Crystal is a sexy, voluptuous blonde from a small mining town in Pennsylvania. She can talk as dirty as a beer-swilling, porn-guzzling trucker.
“No, I’m into it,” you say, smoothing out the crease in your jeans. “I’m just afraid he’s going to expect me to say stuff back.”
“Well, yeah!” Crystal laughs and gulps back her drink. “God, I hope this works.”
“Are you drinking vodka cranberry juice because of your UTI?” you ask, sipping your too-sweet Appletini. “You should know alcohol neutralizes the effect.”
“You’re kidding!” Crystal says. “I hate va-drama! So what is he saying? That will help me figure out if you need to say anything back.”
“He’s just like. . . . Or he’s all. . . . Then he like . . .” You can’t say it.
“Okay,” Crystal understands. She hands you a pen and a wilted napkin. “Write it on this.”
You bite your lip and write the first thing Benjamin said as he slid his hand up your dress:
Your ass is amazing.
Crystal laughs, “That’s not dirty talk! You could say that!” She’s speaking a little louder now, hoping the fedora-wearing guy at the bar will take notice.
“Well, sure,” you say. “I’m not a prude. . . . Your ass is amazing.” You clear your throat. “Your ass is amazing!”
“Great!” Crystal says.
“Well, it’s easier to say to you. Plus, there’s more.” The next words you write down again.
Suck my rock hard c. I want to f your p. I want to own your p.
Crystal tosses her hair back and laughs. “Fantastic! You said you love it, right?”
“I like hearing it okay, but the idea of me saying stuff like that feels ridiculous. First of all, my genitals are clearly mine, not his. At least, legally. And I don’t think in sentences like that. It wouldn’t be authentic.”
“So what?” Crystal asks, signaling to the bartender for another drink. “Fake it till you make it. People take sex too seriously.”
You are sure she’s right. Crystal is fun and appealing, whereas you feel so grim. It’s like she’s roller skating and you’re homework. Time to lighten up, lady!
Turn to page 23, section 7.
66
You hold your head high as you walk out even though your body is trembling and your stomach is churning and your head drops as soon as you’re in the car and you’re in the fetal position as soon as you reach your bed. For several weeks . . .
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