I shift in my seat and send a furtive glance around my office, making sure no one has snuck in before I direct my full attention to my laptop’s screen. If anyone does happen to peek through the window, they’ll assume I’m hard at work.

Not getting off when your partner does? Don’t feel bad. You’re in good company. Recent studies indicate that a whopping seventy-two percent of the female population has had one (and often more) experiences when their male partner climaxed without them. These women report that once he was happy, no additional attempt was made to help her reach the big O.

And the stats don’t end there.

Sixty-seven percent of women who recently participated in a research project reported that they faked their O just so their man feels like a stud.

I let out a low whistle. Granted, there’s nothing about how many women participated in the project, but sixty-seven is still a high percentage. I wonder how many of them fake having an orgasm every single time they have sex.

And the most heartbreaking stat of all is that while ninety-five percent of recently polled men told researchers that they always have an orgasm when they have sex, only fifty-seven percent of the women who participated in the same study said they always reach the Big O.

If you find yourself relating to the forty-three percent who seldom or never climax during sex, you can stop worrying.

Here at No O, we have the knowledge, tools, resources, and experience needed to teach you (and your partner) how to make sure the Big O becomes a routine part of your sex life.

Intrigued, I click my mouse on the link at the bottom of the webpage, causing the introductory stats on the landing page to disappear, replaced by a lengthy description, complete with detailed illustrations, discussing the differences between a clitoral and vaginal orgasm.

Thirty-five percent of women report that if their partner would devote more time to clitoral stimulation during sex, she’d climax, but since her partner doesn’t, she’s left unfulfilled at the end of their sexual encounters. This really isn’t surprising considering that 833 male undergrad students who participated in a 2005 study incorrectly identified the clitoris when they were shown an anatomical photo of a woman’s feminine parts.

“Hey, Hot Stuff. Ready to pitch your amazing idea to a bunch of burly mechanics?” Tracy Bellamy, my extraordinary business partner—and one of my best friends in the whole world—opens my office door without so much as knocking and walks in.

I yelp and jump in my chair, knocking my knee against the side of my desk and nearly sending my laptop crashing to the floor.

“Sorry,” Tracy says, not sounding at all contrite. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

The intoxicating scent of the pizza and cup of hot chocolate she’s carrying cause my stomach to rumble. She holds them up. “Want some?”

“Desperately.” I glare at her, putting all the frustration I’ve been dealing with the past few weeks into my expression. Tracy isn’t fazed. “But I’m dieting. Remember?”

“Yeah.” Tracy settles in the chair on the opposite side of my desk, kicks off her shoes, and props her feet on the edge of my desk. “But the whole point of dieting is cheating.”

I study her right big toe, which is poking through a hole in her stocking, and float a brow. “Comfortable?”

“Extremely,” Tracy says.

“Trace, what’s the point of paying fifty bucks for a pedicure only to wear holey stockings?”

Tracy wiggles her toe at me and grins. “I think of it as a warning.”

I blink. I’ve known Tracy for several years, we’re closer than most siblings, yet she still manages to say things that surprise me. “What kind of warning?”

“That I’m the walking, talking definition of unpredictability.” Tracy flips open the Styrofoam container holding her pizza. My stomach clenches, reminding me that it’s been several hours since breakfast when I’d practically inhaled an apple and appetite-controlling oatmeal, neither of which did much to take the edge off my hunger.

Tracy rattles the box, causing the slices of fully loaded pizza to slide from side to side. “What do you say? I had Tino throw in an extra slice just for you.”

God, Tracy has no idea how tempted I am. I almost reach out for the box, my fingers actually twitch, but at the last second, I catch myself. “No.” I shake my head. “I’m trying really hard to be good.”

“Suit yourself. Leaves more for me.” Tracy balances the box on her thighs. “Not that I understand why you think you need to diet. Your curves are gorgeous.”

I roll my eyes and turn my attention back to my computer. “Says the woman who weighs less than the average gnat and who hasn’t met a calorie her metabolism can’t burn in the blink in the eye. Sometimes, I really hate you. Just the smell of that pizza is putting five pounds on me.”

Tracy snorts and pops a piece of pepperoni into her mouth. “You’re delusional. You look great. You might not like your curves, but most women would give their right arm, and probably their left one too, to have them.”

I give her the side eye but don’t respond. We’ve had this conversation, or a variation of it, more times than I can count. It almost always ends in an argument.

But Tracy isn’t about to let it drop. “And if you don’t believe me, look at how many hits your Tinder profile gets. I do okay, but you’re the only woman I know who manages to have a date every single night of the week if they want. Confidence is an aphrodisiac, honey. Just a shame they don’t sell it in a jar like powdered tiger cock…”

Her words remind me of the last night’s scene and I grimace. Tracy’s eyebrows climb toward her hairline. “Uh oh. I saw that. How’d the date with Doctor Dan go? It was the all-important third date, right?”

I twist my fingers together. Heat floods my face. “Yeah. It was.”

Tracy’s eyes sparkle with interest. “And how was the delectable Doctor Dan? Please tell me he’s at least almost as good in bed as he looks.”

I bite my lip and stare down at my desktop. The last thing I want to do is talk about last night’s date. Truthfully, I’d rather tell her about my pre-date encounter with Garret Holden, but I’ve always been reluctant to mention my secret crush.

Tracy’s pizza falls back into the box with a dull thud. “Oh no. I know that look. What happened this time?”

“I dumped him.” I don’t know why I hate saying those words so much, but I do.

“Right.” Tracy eyes me. “So, this year alone, you’ve gone out with, what, seven? Eight guys? And you’ve ditched each one after a handful of dates. I’ve seen these guys, even met a few, and each one seems wonderful—not to mention drop-dead freakin’ gorgeous, so I’ve got to ask. Why?”

“The truth?”

She nods. “As long as it’s nice and juicy.”

“Sex.”

Tracy nearly doubles over laughing. She scrambles to catch the to-go box full of pizza before it tumbles from her lap.

“That’s definitely juicy,” she says when she finally composes herself. “What about the sex? I can’t believe they were all bad. I mean, both Doctor Dan and that guy you brought to the New Year’s party look like they could more than hold their own when it comes to burning up the mattress.”

“It’s not the guys, at least I don’t think so.” I drill my fingernails against the desk. I’ve come this far, I might as well tell Tracy everything. I suck in a deep breath, mustering up my courage while simultaneously preparing myself for humiliation. “It’s me.”

“You,” Tracy responds. “What do you mean?”

“I can’t,” I gesture to my body, “you know.…”

Tracy shakes her head. “Believe it or not, you’re going to have to be more specific.”

“I can’t get off during sex in bed.” The words come out in one short burst, each one sliding into the other.

Tracy’s jaw drops. “You’re kidding.”

“God, I wish I was.” I prop my elbows on the desk. “I’ve never had an orgasm when I’m with a guy.”

“What about when you’re …” Now it’s Tracy’s turn to blush. “You know. Alone.”

“Sometimes, a little one maybe, but not very often. What about you?”

“Always, when I’m doing it myself,” Tracy says. “And there’ve been one or two times when I was with a guy that I had to fake it.” Her nose wrinkles. “You really don’t? Not ever?”

“Never,” I confirm. “It’s gotten to the point that, more often than not, I end things before we even start taking off our clothes. Hell, half the time I don’t even invite them in. I just send them off with a kiss good-bye and an ‘it was fun’ speech. What’s the point of getting them all excited when I’m only going through the motions?”

I’ve been fighting this for so long that the whole idea of having sex following a date has become something I dread doing, which is why most of my relationships don’t make it past the get-to-know-you drink. The only reason Dan and I made it to date number three at all was because on paper he was everything I’d ever wanted. Intelligent, attentive, successful, great personality. The whole package. Thinking things might be different, I’d invited him into my house and up to my bedroom.

And nothing.

Dan had some good moves, but no matter how much I tried, I just couldn’t get into it. So, once he finished, I’d gotten dressed, requested that he do the same, and then ended the relationship.

I don’t even want to guess what he currently thinks of me.

“That is so strange,” Tracy says, interrupting my thoughts. “Most women orgasm during sex. They might not do it every time, but women at least come sometimes. If we didn’t, surely we wouldn’t bother having sex. I sure wouldn’t.…”

“I thought I was really screwed up,” I tell her. “But I’ve been doing some research and maybe I’m not as messed up as I thought.”

I spin my laptop around on the desk so Tracy can read the info displayed on the screen. She sets the to-go container of pizza on the floor and leans on the desk, engrossed in the information. She lets out a low whistle.

“Holy cow. I had no idea.” She flashes her quicksilver grin. “Looks like I have great taste in guys.”

I roll my eyes. “That’s one way of looking at it. The thing is, I’d be happy to say it’s the guys I’ve been with that are at fault, but that seems a little far-fetched, doesn’t it? On some level, the problem must be me, right?”

“Well…” Tracy draws the word out. “If that’s the case, it looks like this site has the solution.”

“What are you talking about?” I snatch at the laptop, changing its position so we can look at it at the same time.”

Tracy taps a long fingernail against a small block of text near the bottom of the screen that I hadn’t noticed before. “It says here that the creators of this No O page provide one-on-one counseling sessions.”

“One-on-one counseling sessions,” I repeat, finding the idea equally intriguing and off-putting. “Wonder how those work.” I look up, meeting Tracy’s eyes. “Do you think it’s even legal? I mean, it’s kind of like taking money for sex, isn’t it?”

Tracy shrugs. “So is porn, but that’s legal. I’m almost tempted to send them an email just to find out how it works.”

I refuse to say it out loud, but she’s not the only one. And what harm could sending one little email do? I have a friend who has all sorts of mad computer skills. Surely they could set things up for me so that my email couldn’t be traced, and …

“Hey, Erin.” Tracy says, jerking me from my thoughts.

“Yeah?”

She taps the computer again, this time choosing a spot that’s even lower than the block of text about the counseling sessions. It’s the little clock on my toolbar.

“In about two minutes, all the execs and partners involved with Many Miles Auto Parts are going to be logging onto their computers, ready to hear all about the great new marketing plan you’ve put together for them.”

“Shit!” I’ve been so wrapped up in the disappointing nature of my sex life, I completely forgot about the conference call.

I jerk the laptop toward me and start hurriedly hitting icons.  The No O website disappears, replaced with the marketing studies and other data I’ve put together for the auto chain that hired me and my advertising firm.

Taking a deep breath, I chase all thoughts of my depressing sex life out of my mind, replacing them with the information and ideas I hope will appeal to the pleasant, burly men that I need to impress.

Luckily, I perform far better in the boardroom than I do in the bedroom.