Here we go. He’ll give some crazy answer about how hot I am, how he couldn’t resist picturing me naked, I’m sure. I click open the message.
Declan: Sometimes the best decisions are unexpected ones. As for my bid, well, I have a few reasons. But my favorite book is also Where the Red Fern Grows, so that seemed enough of a sign to me.
My eyes widen. How does he know that? My heart skips a beat. But then I remember the profile, and drunk Violet filling most of it out on my behalf. I tap open my page, scroll down to the question about favorite books, and sure enough, there it is on the top of the list. Vi really does know me well, I have to say.
Kitty: A man with good literary taste, hmm? I have to say, that’s as big a surprise as me being on here.
I hit send, then linger at the keys. Watch the little icon appear that says he’s typing a response.
Declan: A good surprise, I hope.
Kitty: I guess that remains to be seen. After all, this is an auction site. You might not win in the end.
I grimace a little after sending that last one. Was that too forward? But when I read his response, I can practically hear the confident smirk in his words.
Declan: Oh, I’m not worried about that. You’re the first virgin on here who’s caught my eye. When I set my sights on something I want–or someone–I always win in the end.
A blush spreads across my face, though at least here, safely hidden behind a computer screen, it’s easier to reply.
Kitty: You seem very sure of yourself.
Declan: I am.
Declan: Aren’t you?
Kitty: I’m sure I’m probably out of my depth here. Though, maybe that’s a good thing, if you like teaching girls how to enjoy themselves.
Declan: Oh, I’m sure you already know how to enjoy yourself. I just want to be the first to experience how you enjoy yourself when there’s an audience.
Kitty: So you just like to watch, hmm?
Declan: I’d do far more than just watch, believe me. But if you enjoy showing off, I can imagine what a show a woman like you would be able to put on.
My cheeks were already flushed–now they feel red-hot.
Kitty: Picturing me in a compromising position already, are you, Declan?
Declan: I must confess, I began picturing the compromising positions I’d like to put you in from the moment I first saw you.
Damn, he’s good. I catch my breath, but as I’m thinking out my next reply, a different sound interrupts me. There’s another notification on the site, not from Declan this time. I click it open, realizing belatedly that it’s a counter-bid. But before I even have a chance to look at that offer, the site pings again. Declan out-bid whomever that was.
My virginity is going for $75,000 now.
I swallow hard and open up Declan’s chat window again.
Kitty: That was fast.
Declan: I told you. I always get what I want.
Kitty: Even if it’s expensive?
Declan: Especially then. But this isn’t just about money. I intend to make you mine, and I am not accustomed to being disappointed.
Not about money? I wonder, eying his counterbid. But I guess anyone who can throw away that much money that quickly, after barely knowing the person whose virginity he’s trying to buy, doesn’t have to worry about money. Ever.
Kitty: What is it about?
Declan: I’ll tell you more in person.
I swallow hard against a sudden constriction in my throat.
The man knows how to negotiate, I’ll give him that. I stare at the screen for a solid minute, debating. He must sense my hesitation because he sends another message quickly thereafter.
Declan: Somewhere public. Don’t worry. Besides, don’t you want to get an idea of who I am before we agree to this arrangement?
That’s true. I don’t think I could have sex with a complete stranger, just going in blind for my first time. Not after I’ve waited all this time.
Hell, I doubt I could have sex with someone I met on a website to sell my virginity for my first time, either. But what’s the harm in one date? We meet, we get to know one another, and then I can let him down easily. Explain that this is all just too strange. A joke spiraled out of control.
Kitty: Somewhere public. You have a place in mind, I presume?
Declan: See, you know me already. I always have a plan. Meet me tomorrow. 4pm at the Café Rouge. Little art house downtown, great coffee.
Kitty: What if I’m busy at 4pm tomorrow?
I reply, surprised by the way he already had a date and time in mind.
Declan: Are you?
I bite my lip, sigh, glance at my empty social calendar. Violet is working all weekend.
Kitty: Looks like you know me already too. I’m free.
I can practically hear the victory in his tone when he responds.
Declan: Perfect. Then I’ll see you there.
We sign off, and I collapse back onto my couch with a groan. What on earth did I just agree to?
3
At 3pm the next day, I’m standing in front of my mirror half-dressed, torn between several mediocre options, none quite right. I own a grand total of three dresses–the work dress, the fancy dinner dress, and the club dress. The club dress is wrong, way too short and tight. I feel too much like I’m borderline playing hooker on this website already–I don’t want to add to the illusion.
But the fancy dinner dress is all loose chiffon and high-necked, and the work dress has a decent neckline but it’s a pencil-skirt and a bit formal.
“Ugh,” I tell my closet, and dig into my skirts and tops as well. This is too hard. I don’t know how to “girl” properly, not really. Being raised by a single dad will do that to a lady. Not that I don’t appreciate everything Dad did for me–he was the best parent anyone could ask for, more than enough of both parents for me. But he didn’t exactly have any handy makeup or fashion tips.
Finally, I settle on a tight ruched top that shows just the right amount of cleavage, and a short-but-not-too-short skirt, dark denim, casual and yet a little dressy. It seems right. I hope it is.
I’m in the middle of daubing on a pale pink lipstick, about the extent of my cosmetic abilities, when my phone buzzes. I grab it, expecting Declan, since I downloaded the First Time for Sale phone app to be able to message him easily.
But it’s not Declan messaging this time. It’s Violet, texting me. Violet, who should be at work. I tap the text open and blink at it.
Called off sick today. I can’t tell if it’s a 2-day hangover or just my stomach being pissed about how many nutrients I haven’t fed it lately. Netflix and chill tonight? I’m guessing you’re home alone as per usual Sunday, no? She adds a joking smiley face, but I still roll my eyes. Mostly because 51 other Sundays out of the year, she’d be right.
As a matter of fact, I do have plans tonight, I reply haughtily. I’m meeting a guy.
Mistake.