Tight jeans & bad decisions

Hey there, I’m Holly. I just turned 20 this summer. I’m from a small town in Texas, and up until recently I was working as a hairdresser. Not anymore—for reasons I’ll get to—but I figure I’ll probably go back to it someday. Cutting hair is something I’m actually pretty good at.

School and I never really got along. I thought most of it was a waste of time, and honestly I still do. While everyone else was stressing over exams and college applications, I just wanted to make my own money and start actually living. So that’s what I did.

People always comment on how tall I am. I’m 5'10" in bare feet, which already makes me stand out in my little hometown. Some folks (usually older ladies at the grocery store) like to say I’m “too skinny,” which—let’s be real—is a rude thing to say to any girl. I’m not skin and bones. I’ve got a nice, round butt that looks killer in tight jeans, and yeah, my boobs are on the smaller side, but they’re perky and they sit high. Good enough that wearing a low-cut top on a Saturday always meant a couple of extra walk-ins at the salon. Looking hot behind the chair was basically free marketing.

This summer I married my husband. He’s quite a bit older than me—enough that people sometimes do that quick side-eye thing when we’re out together—but I don’t care. He’s steady. Kind. Generous. He makes me feel safe in a way I never really had before. I can honestly say I love him. Not the fireworks-every-day kind of love you see in movies, but the real, quiet kind. He takes care of me. Bills are paid, fridge is full, and when we’re alone he still knows exactly how to touch me.

We don’t do it super often—maybe once a week, sometimes twice if the mood’s right. I’m not ready for kids yet, not even close, so he always wears a condom. No exceptions. Afterward he usually pulls me close, kisses my forehead, tells me I’m beautiful. It’s sweet. Predictable in the best way. Every now and then he brings home flowers—those big, fragrant roses from the expensive place in town—and lights a couple of candles. Then we take our time. I like those nights.

But lately I’ve been feeling… restless.

So one Friday evening I told him I wanted to drive into the city, do a little shopping, maybe treat myself. He just smiled, handed me his card and said, “Get something pretty, baby. Something I’ll like seeing you in later.”

I knew exactly what I was going to look for: new lingerie. Not the cute cotton stuff I usually wear. Something black, lacy, barely-there. Something that would make his jaw drop when I walked out of the bathroom wearing it.

I wanted to feel dangerous for a night. Just a little.