I don't own cologne because I'm broke and apparently never thought I'd need to smell good for anyone. But I know my sisters have approximately forty-seven different body sprays because they treat fragrance like it's a competitive sport.
Time for another stealth mission that would make Navy SEALs proud.
I cracked open their bedroom door and immediately regretted every life choice that had led me to this moment.
Sarah's side of the room looked like a Victoria's Secret had exploded and had a baby with an Instagram influencer's wet dream, and Emma's side was covered in enough makeup to supply a small theater company or a Kardashian photoshoot. There was also… other stuff. Stuff I didn't want to think about.
Stuff that made me realize my sisters were way more grown up than I had given them credit for and probably had more game than I ever would.
I averted my eyes like I was looking directly at the fucking sun or accidentally clicking on a Logan Paul video, focusing on the mission: find something that would make me smell less like a basement‑dwelling goblin who bathed in energy drinks.
Their vanity was covered in sprays, perfumes, and things with names like "Vanilla Kiss," "Ocean Breeze," and "Midnight Seduction"—basically the fragrance equivalent of romance‑novel titles. I grabbed the Midnight Seduction because it sounded appropriate for my current life situation, though it was probably designed for teenage girls, not desperate virgin boys trying to lose their V‑card before they died of embarrassment.
I backed out of their room like I was retreating from a crime scene, which honestly felt accurate given the level of invasion I had just committed.
One spray became three became five, and suddenly I smelled like I had bathed in a Victoria's Secret while having an emotional breakdown. This might have been overkill, but I was operating on the principle that too much was better than too little, which was basically my life philosophy at that point.
With thirty minutes to spare, I retreated to my computer for final preparations that would have made even the most desperate Reddit users feel sorry for me.
"How to seduce a hot girl when you're a nerd" went into my search bar, and I immediately felt like I should be on some kind of FBI watchlist alongside people who think pineapple belongs on pizza.
The results were a mixture of pickup‑artist bullshit that would have made even Andrew Tate cringe, Reddit threads from other desperate virgins who probably thought touching a girl's hand counted as second base, and articles that probably violated several international laws and definitely violated basic human decency.
One article titled "Confidence Tips for Introverted Men" seems less likely to get me arrested or require therapy, so I clicked through like I was conducting important research for my thesis on "How Not to Die a Virgin."
"Make eye contact," it suggests with the groundbreaking wisdom of someone who probably thinks water is wet. "Show genuine interest in what she says. Don't try to be someone you're not."
Revolutionary advice right there. Really pioneering new frontiers in the field of basic human interaction. Next, they'll tell me to breathe regularly and not mention my extensive knowledge of anime fight scenes.
"Physical escalation should be gradual and consensual. Start with casual touches and gauge her response."
Right, because I totally know how to gradually escalate anything other than my anxiety levels and my ability to overthink every social interaction until it becomes a mathematical equation.
Another article: "What Women Really Want in Bed."
I clicked through despite knowing this was probably going to traumatize me more than help and possibly ruin my browser history for eternity.
Twenty minutes later, I'd learned more about female anatomy than four years of health class had taught me, and I was somehow both more confident and more terrified than when I started. It's like gaining superpowers but also discovering that with great power comes great responsibility not to completely embarrass yourself.
My phone buzzed: a text from Madison made my heart try to escape through my throat like it was auditioning for a medical emergency.
"Heyyyy! Almost ready to pick you up. Can't wait to study together 😘🔥"
The winky‑kiss‑plus‑fire‑emoji combo made my cardiovascular system perform gymnastics that would impress Olympic athletes. That's definitely not homework energy—that's I'm about to ruin your life in the best possible way energy.
I looked at myself in my bedroom mirror one final time, trying to channel the kind of confidence that doesn't immediately crumble under pressure like a house of cards in a hurricane.
Hair: acceptably messy in ways that might pass for intentional.
Face: mostly not bleeding anymore—an improvement from twenty minutes ago.
Clothes: clean and properly fitted, which is basically the peak of my fashion achievement.
Smell: like a teenage girl's fever dream, but in a way that might actually work in my favor.
"You've got this, Peter," I told my reflection, trying to sound like I believe it instead of like I'm convincing myself not to have a panic attack. "Just don't say anything about anyone's dick size, don't mention anime, and try not to trip over your own feet."
My reflection looks skeptical, like it knows I'm probably going to fuck this up in ways that haven't been invented yet, but it's too late to back out now.
Madison Torres is about to pick me up for what might be the most important evening of my pathetic virgin life, and I'm as ready as a lifetime of social awkwardness, YouTube tutorials, and desperate Google searches can make me.
Which is to say: probably not ready at all, but we're doing this anyway because apparently this is what character development looks like when you're sixteen and horny.
"Here goes nothing"