How To Get Lucky by Lauren Blakely


I don’t have to see something to believe it. Don’t have to experience something to know I’d like it.

I’ve never vacationed in Fiji, for instance, but I’m 100 percent confident I’d love every second in that tropical paradise.

I don’t need to have tossed out the ceremonial first pitch at Dodger Stadium to know that it would be an all-time highlight if I did.

And there’s one more thing.

I don’t need to have had great sex to know I’d love it.

I’m confident I’d absolutely completely fucking adore, worship, and revere it.

But much like zip-lining in Costa Rica or being front row at a Red Hot Chili Peppers concert, great sex is an incredible life event that I know exists. It’s just one I’ve never experienced.

Not that I haven’t had sex at all. Far from it. I just haven’t had that toe-curling, leg-shaking kind I’ve heard so much about. And I have heard about it because I listen. But all that listening hasn’t translated into great sex.


And that’s not due to a lack of enthusiasm on my part. I’d happily enter a booty boot camp, take a coitus crash course or a lovemaking master class, and study until I’ve got this thing dialed in.

But I haven’t had the chance.

Which is a head-scratching travesty, but it happens, okay?

Like, if you get involved in a long-term relationship with a woman who’s only into sex every other Saturday night, and who only wants missionary and only with the lights off.

That last rule of the bedroom with my ex was bumpy to navigate. Because light is awesome, what with the way it illuminates the female form and all its curves, dips, and delicious valleys.

Also, what the hell was up with the nighttime-only law? I’m sure I’d be super into afternoon delights.

Morning bangs too. My dick certainly seems interested in the a.m.

But, hey, I loved her, so I went along with the pencil-in-sex-on-the-calendar approach.

Twice a month was better than, God forbid, the Gobi Desert of once every four weeks.

Or worse, the vast arctic wasteland of once a year.

My thoughts and prayers go out to all the dudes suffering from birthday-only boinking.

But I know that sex shouldn’t be on a schedule. Not unless the schedule is part of the foreplay, like sending dirty daytime texts to your partner about what you’re going to do at ten o’clock sharp when you’re mad with desire after a full day spent apart.

That kind of planning is hella sexy.

And sex shouldn’t be in the same position every time. It should be imaginative.

It should be raw.

And I’m pretty damn sure sex should be fun.

You know what’s not fun?

Finding my girlfriend and the dog walker bringing new meaning to the phrase doggie style.

At least they weren’t using a leash. Poor guy needed his exercise, and all he was doing was chasing his tail while the ex was giving hers away.

They say good guys finish last, but I don’t believe that. When a good guy finds the right woman, they can both finish. Together. A lot.

So, here I am, twenty-eight, single AF, and ready to find that right woman. One who’ll practice with me until perfect and then practice some more—every position, kink, and dirty deed.

My luck is due for a change. And when a sexy, sweet, sarcastic brunette walks into my life, it feels like I’m holding the winning lottery ticket and all I can think is Yes, yes, yes, it’s about fucking time.

Then, I find out who she is.

And, yeah, she is sexy, sweet, and sarcastic. But she is also 100 percent forbidden.

Which means I’m back to square one.

Until the night she issues me a challenge I can’t refuse.


The bass pulses through the dressing room. The fluorescent lights flicker overhead as a water bottle next to the mirror vibrates in time with the sound of JT promising to bring sexy back. It’s a reminder that in about one hundred twenty seconds, my ass needs to be back in the booth.

If only Stanley could make up his mind.

Heaving a sigh, he scratches his chin. “I dunno. Am I feeling ‘Hot for Teacher’ tonight, or ‘School’s Out for Summer’?”

Indecision, thy name is Stanley the Entertainer. Not his stage name.

“Can’t go wrong with ‘Hot for Teacher,’” I say. He picks that tune 66 percent of the time. I’ve done the math.