Harlan, my sweet Bernese Mountain dog, snores quietly beside me on the bed. I lean back against my stack of pillows and try to follow the antics of characters in Nora Robert’s latest release. It’s a good book. All day long I’ve been impatient to dive back into it, but now that I finally have time to read, I can’t concentrate.

My mind keeps drifting away from the printed words and to the text I received at the office.

Impatient with myself and the entire events of the day, I press the power button on the top of the Kindle and close the cover with just a touch more force than necessary.

Stupid romance novels. I started reading them when I was in middle school and having a difficult time fitting in. They’d helped me forget that I was lonely and awkward, while giving me hope for the future. No matter how bad the heroine’s life was at the start of the story, she always got a happily ever after when the book ended. Somewhere along the way, I started to believe that there wasn’t any reason my own life shouldn’t follow the same trajectory. Some girls dream about becoming a Disney princess, but not me. Nope, I always figured I’d end up like the heroines in the novels. Pretty, successful, and in love with a gorgeous, sexy guy who loves me almost more than I love him.

Up until a year or two ago, I’d always thought it was an obtainable goal. Despite what some women think, there are some really good guys out there, guys who are nearly as wonderful as the romantic heroes I love. I’ve even dated some of them, confident that I was on a fast track to my happily ever after.

But things always fall apart when it’s time to take things to the next level. Instead of lighting me up once we get into the bedroom, nothing happens. I’m not overcome by passion. I don’t become a slave to my carnal needs. The truth is, as soon as we hit the mattress, I lose all real interest in the guy.

It’s been the same story, over and over again, since I was a teenager and dating Robbie Martian, the point guard for my high school’s basketball team. He was cute, attentive, fun, all the things a high school boyfriend is supposed to be, but when it came to the physical stuff, he failed to light a fire within me. At the time, I assumed the problem was me, that I was too tense, too nervous, or that Robbie just wasn’t for me.

I thought things would change, but they didn’t. Every guy I’m with leaves me … well, wanting more.

It’s gotten to the point that I end things before the third date, not willing to get too attached to a guy only to end up disappointed when we try taking the relationship to the next level.  

I’ve tried telling myself that it doesn’t matter, that sex is just a small aspect of an overall relationship, but no matter how many times I repeat the words to myself, I just can’t make myself believe them. When it comes to a relationship, I want the whole thing, from long, lazy shared breakfasts in the morning to wild nights of uninhibited and spontaneous sexual marathons at night.

I’m not as young as I used to be. And as happy as I am with the success of the business I’ve built from scratch, I’m also painfully aware that as it continues to grow and thrive, I’m becoming increasingly busy. It’s starting to take over my life. I’m afraid that I’m getting really close to giving up on the whole idea of dating and finding my one true love and focusing all my attention on my professional life.

And if that happens, what’s going to happen in thirty or forty years when I retire and face spending the rest of my life all alone?

I bury my face in Harlan’s soft fur and fight the urge to cry.

Tracy’s right. The No O website is full of all sorts of information about sex and the female orgasm. I’ve read through all of it two times. While it’s helpful and certainly makes me feel like less of a freak, I can’t help thinking that it’s not enough. While I’m nowhere near as sexually experienced as most women my age, I find it hard to believe that at least a few of the guys I have taken to bed, including yesterday’s date, Dan, didn’t know their way around the female body and have a pretty good idea of how to make their partner climax.

I must be the problem. And what are the odds that a few pages of web content, content that was most likely written by some half-starved copywriter who was desperate for a few bucks, will actually change my sex life? Even money says they’re pretty slim. But isn’t even pretty slim better than going through the rest of my life wondering if I’m missing out on something that everyone else thinks is pretty great?

I inhale deeply, breathing in my dog’s earthy scent. “Oh, Harlan, what am I going to do?”

The massive dog keeps snoring away. His worries about his sex life came to a sudden halt during a vet appointment two and half years ago when he was nothing more than a half-grown puppy. Sometimes I think he was the lucky one.

I reach for my cell phone on the nightstand and tap the icon that brings up the mysterious text I received from the person who identified themselves as Mr. No O.

Damn Tracy for putting the germ of a forbidden idea into my mind.

My finger hovers over the on-screen keyboard for a moment as I try to decide what to do.

Without any conscious thought, my fingers strike a few letters and hit the send button before I can stop myself.

And just like that, my response to Mr. No O’s text message makes its way to his cell phone.