Yeah, it's ridiculous.

I'm nineteen years old and still a virgin and still living with my mean step mom and two step sisters. It sounds pathetic, but I have my reasons.

When it comes to my living situation, it's complicated, and too painful to think about as I'm listening to sex noises coming from my bedroom. But when it comes to my virginity, well— I just want to make sure the timing is right.

Losing my virginity feels like the one area of my life I can control, and I’m determined to make it feel magical and perfect. I guess maybe I really do still believe in fairy tales, at least a little, even though I’ve always despised them for being unrealistic.

I have a boyfriend named Paul and we've made out but we haven't gone all the way. He's wanted to, of course, but I just want to wait a little longer before we do it. Something just feels a little “off,” and therefore, doesn’t fit into my definition of the “absolutely perfect” circumstances that I want to exist before I do the Big Deed for my very first time.

Paul’s told me he understands and that he’ll be patient. I have a feeling, though, that he's starting to become a tad bit impatient. Or maybe he’s just altogether tired of waiting. He sure hasn't been around as much lately as he used to be.

That's why I'm at home now— which is a place I usually avoid. I can't go hang out with Paul because I don't know where he is. He hasn’t exactly been anxious to see me, like he used to be, back when we first started dating.

That’s fine with me though. I could use a break from him anyway, because it's annoying that he's pressuring me for sex when he knows it doesn't feel right to me yet.

But anyway. Back to the very pressing— and loud— matter at hand.

I'm sure it's just Sheila and some random guy in my bedroom, and that she’s trying to rub certain facts in my face while she rubs her pussy around on said random guy’s cock and picks up an STD or two.

She’s probably looking forward to showing me with my very own eyes that although I've never had sex before, she has sex all the time and is actually having sex on my bed— or probably on my floor or my dresser or something, knowing her.

She’s undoubtedly doing it just to show me that she's better than me, or at least she thinks she is. And that everything here is really hers, rather than mine. She wants me to know that just like her mom took my dad, she can take my formerly relatively happy life, and even take my spot when it comes to where I would naturally be having sex, if I were in fact having it.

I shouldn't go in. Shouldn't give Sheila the satisfaction of knowing I see her doing the thing that she clearly wants me to see her doing.

But by not giving her her way, I'd also be losing, since all I want to do is grab my Kindle that has the Ash Harlow romance book I’m currently reading bookmarked at a really good spot (Crave is my kind of romance book, since it’s definitely not all rainbows and unicorns and fairy tales— more like an addictive nightmare you don’t even want to try to get out of, because it’s so damn fascinating), and head to the bathroom for a bubble bath and some me time.

Hey, I said I'd never had sex before— not that I'm some perfect angel. I certainly imagine all the perfect, outstanding, magical sex I'm going to have, when I have it. I just don't act on those urges or fulfill those fantasies in real life.

Yet. Not until everything’s perfect.

I put my hand on the doorknob and decide it's time to take control over my own life. Or at least my own bedroom, for a start. I'll give Sheila a piece of my mind and tell her she can't be giving a piece of her ass to every guy in the world right under my nose, or at least not right in my bedroom.

But as I open the door, prepared to roll my eyes and tell Sheila and Ken Manwhore Doll to get the hell out before I snap pictures of them and post them online— although Sheila would probably like that because she'd think it would make her the next Kim Kardashian or something— I see something I wasn't expecting. Or make that someone I wasn’t expecting.

Sheila's having sex on my bed of course, just as I'd expected. Typical evil Sheila. But I didn't think her evil ways would extend to the point where it would be this person underneath her, currently gritting his teeth during an apparent near orgasm before he turns his shocked face to look at me.

I’m sure you’ve guessed it by now. Because my life is more predictable train wreck than surprise happy ending. Unless you’re talking about the happy ending that my step sister just gave my boyfriend, which certainly came as a surprise to me.

Yep. It’s Paul that Sheila is having sex with.

He's underneath her, his hands around her ass, her tits still swinging, uninterrupted, in his face, as she continues riding him into the ecstasy that I have not yet let him experience with me. And which will never, ever happen now.

Just like that One Direction reunion tour I used to wait around for someone to announce. They’d been my favorites since early high school but since January 2016 they’ve claimed to be still together but on a “hiatus.” At some point, I realized I was waiting in vain for them to do another concert. Or maybe, I just grew up.

Life is full of disappointments, and on a bright note, at least I don’t have to wait around to see how this one turns out. I know right here and now what the future holds when it comes to Paul and me: a big fat nothing. And at least I didn’t let him pop my cherry before he let my step sister motorboat him.

Unfortunately, these small comforts barely make a dent in the huge range of emotions I’m feeling right now. Just what a girl has always wanted to do— walk in on her boyfriend and one of her three least favorite people in the world, getting it on like there’s no tomorrow.

I’m beginning to wish there really was no tomorrow, no today, no right this minute— so that I wouldn’t have to face this. But here I am, face to face it with none the less, all because I was drawn towards curiosity and my love of books and bubble baths to check out the noises coming from my bedroom.

They say curiosity killed the cat. But unlike some Disney Princess, I don’t have a friggin’ cat. I have me, myself, and I— and definitely not my boyfriend any more— and that’s exactly who is going to have to handle this, one way or another.