There's nothing quite like masturbating to the sound of your neighbour's dog vomiting through the wall.
Maxie Langford sighed, flopped back against her over-fluffed pillows, and stared at the ceiling like it had personally betrayed her. Her bedroom, once a haven of candlelight and questionable decisions, now smelled faintly of burnt lavender and tequila regret. A trail of rose petals led from the bathroom to her bed—romantic in theory, but in practice, it looked like someone had murdered a Valentine's Day display.
"Step One: Seduce thyself," she muttered, reading from the ancient, leather-bound book perched beside her on a satin pillow like it was the Holy Grail of orgasms.
The book, The 100 Steps to Sexual Enlightenment, had appeared out of nowhere. Literally. She'd found it wedged behind her microwave, which was especially confusing since she'd never owned a microwave. It was heavy, dusty, and filled with phrases like "awaken thy loins with intention" and "contemplate the divine curve of thy own buttocks."
Maxie had read it twice. Once sober, once with a face full of margaritas. Both times, it made roughly the same amount of sense: none.
Still, it was better than another night of doom-scrolling through exes on Instagram and pretending that texting "u up?" was ironic.
So here she was. Alone. Half-naked. With a smudge of lipstick on her teeth and a suspicious buzzing sound coming from the sock drawer.
"Alright," she said, standing up and attempting her best seductive stretch. "Let's get intimate."
The mirror, however, was less cooperative.
She had moved it to the foot of her bed for "aesthetic reflection" purposes—a phrase she had once read in a magazine and promptly misapplied to everything in her apartment, including a disco ball in the bathroom. Now, as she posed in front of it wearing nothing but a silk robe and socks that said "TREAT YO'SELF," she began to question her entire life.
"Okay, Maxie. Let's seduce thyself," she murmured.
She ran a hand through her tangled red curls and tried to pout seductively. The mirror reflected what could only be described as a dehydrated house cat trying to flirt with itself.
"Hot," she said flatly.
Step One's instructions were painfully clear:
> "Stare into thine own reflection and see not flaw, but fire. Learn to caress thine own curves with worshipful delight. Moan thy name, and let it echo as a hymn to thy sacred temple."
Maxie's sacred temple currently had a zit on its left cheek and was making a weird fart noise on the bed every time she shifted her weight.
"Sacred," she said, smacking the pillow. "Truly."
Still, she was determined. This was her Year of Yes. Yes to confidence. Yes to sexual empowerment. Yes to drinking alone and talking to her vibrator like it was a life coach.
Speaking of which.
She reached for the drawer, where her trusty companion—Harold—lived. Technically, his packaging had named him "The Vibrating Tempest: Midnight Fury Edition," but she'd renamed him after her first ex. Harold didn't text other women. Harold didn't say things like "I just think you're too intense." Harold buzzed on command and had four different speeds, none of which required emotional intimacy.
She switched him on.
Buzz.
Buzz buzz.
Buzz–
And then he coughed.
Or, at least, made a sound that could only be described as a tiny mechanical cough followed by a wheeze.
"Harold?!"
Harold buzzed one final time—dramatically, she thought—and died in her hand.
"Oh my god, you did not just die on me mid-seduction!" she hissed. "You coward! You absolute… battery-operated quitter!"
Silence. Harold was gone.
Maxie, unmoored and sexually abandoned, hurled a throw pillow across the room. It hit the book, which fell open to the next step: "Step Two: Bathe like a goddess denied mortal touch."
"Denied is right," she muttered.
She lay back in bed and sighed, staring up at the ceiling once more, a half-used candle flickering like it was judging her.
And then—because why not?—she began to moan her own name.
"Maxie," she said flatly. "Oh yeah, Maxie. Tell me more about your mild lower back pain and commitment issues."
And then she burst out laughing.
It started as a giggle and then became full-on, pillow-muffling laughter. Because what else was there to do? Her vibrator had died. Her rose petals were sticking to her thigh. And she had just attempted to seduce herself with a speech that sounded like a support group for emotionally unstable sirens.
But somehow… it felt kind of good.
Not the failed seduction. Not the dead Harold. But the fact that for once, she was alone in bed and still laughing.
Maxie sat up, grabbed the book again, and stared at the next page.
Maybe there was something in this madness. Maybe if she committed to all 100 steps—every weird, wild, inappropriate task—she might find more than just orgasms.
Maybe, just maybe, she'd find herself.
Preferably while wearing better underwear.