I consider myself a normal girl. I work, drink obscene amounts of coffee, and have my dog, Chanandler Bong, and a wonderful apartment. An apartment with a killer view, mind you. But there seems to be one thing about me that isn’t normal. I don’t have orgasms. Wait! Let me rephrase that… I do. With a beautiful invention that was originally created to be a back massager, or so they say, anyway. But with a guy? Never. According to my research, this isn’t uncommon. Seventy-five percent of women don’t reach orgasm with sex alone. Can you believe that? Seventy-five percent! But if you watch TV, read, or use any sort of social media, you would never guess because there… it’s always happening. If it’s not Samantha Jones having nightly orgasms, it’s the newest heroine in my smutty romance novel. Even the virgin on Seinfeld! Everyone but me. Not only that, but every guy promises to be the one to end the dry spell. My last… boyfriend—if you can call him that—swore I would be screaming his name like Christina Aguilera belting out Moulin Rouge. OK… maybe those were my words, but promises were still made. When it came down to it, I was counting the pops in his popcorn ceiling, wondering if this is what a cat feels like when it cleans itself. I won’t get into the rest of my ghastly experiences, you get the drift, but I want to know when I get my Young Frankenstein falsetto ending. Now I’m on the ultimate quest to find a man who not only stimulates my mind but my nethers. It can’t be that hard, right? I can’t be destined to spend the rest of my years with a wand and a prayer. I refuse to believe it’s my journey, just like I refuse to believe any more false orgasumessions. Mr. Hits-the-right-spot is out there, and I, Raelynn Erie, will find him!
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