Pumpkin Pounder: Fairytale Remixes, #2

By Laura Lovely

I love redheaded men. Yes, redheads. Any shade from strawberry to bright sunset to hot-rod red. I love gingers and they love me.

I love the way their freckles stand out. I love the way their necks get red when they get hot, sunburned or turned on. I love the way I can spot one in a room and know they're going to be mine.

I love them so much, I've earned a nickname: Pumpkin Pounder.

(I'm not going to put that on my resume, but it suits me.)

The one thing I love as much as redheads is Halloween night in New York City, so when my friend invites me to a wild costume party aboard an old tug boat, I'm ready for anything...especially meeting the perfect guy.

The perfect, redheaded guy...with an Irish accent.

Problem is, what if I want him for more than one night?

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PUMPKIN POUNDER is a fairytale remix, a reverse Cinderella story inspired by The Nightmare Before Christmas, An Affair to Remember and SATC. Laura Lovely's Fairytale Remixes promise short hot-n-humorous romances inspired by fairytales, mythology and pop culture.

 

Please see author's website for content warnings.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Laura Lovely
• Release date: Oct 24, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393219576

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Halloween, one year ago…

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Awoooo! My roommate Rachel howls at the full moon as we tromp three long blocks from the subway to the West Side Highway. Normally, this stretch of warehouses and parking garages would be deserted at night, but on Halloween, it’s littered with groups of rambunctious, costumed people ready for a good time. This year, Halloween is on a Friday, the moon is full, and the whole city feels electric.

We pass two women making out against the rolled-down gate in front of an auto shop. Rachel and I high-five each other. Women have to support women, and we always support a woman getting hers. I love New York on Halloween! It’s a total fuckfest! Rachel says. We are hyped up on

Everyone gets laid on Halloween! I yell. On the opposite sidewalk, a trio of guys dressed like the dudes from The Hangover cheer at us in agreement. It’s in the city charter, I tell Rachel. That’s why people pay the high rents here. You get 99-cent pizza and a fuck buddy on Halloween.

Worth it! crows Rachel. She would know. Rachel was born in New York, unlike me. I’m a transplant from Virginia. Virginia may be for lovers, but it could not contain this femme fatale. I’m like the urban version of that song by The Chicks, I need wide open spaces, room to make her big mistakes.

I hold out my hand for Rachel to pass me the plastic bottle of orange juice and vodka we’d brought for the train ride. Our friend Seiko is bartending tonight, and she’ll hook us up with free drinks, but it never hurts to pre-game on the MTA, especially when we are trekking from Bushwick to the west side of Manhattan. Free drinks are not the only draw tonight; it’s the location as well. We’re headed to The Tug Boat, an old ship docked along an abandoned pier that’s been transformed into a somewhat secret bar. It’s dark, inconvenient, and a possible death trap—only in New York would that qualify it as an amazing place to party.

Rachel adjusts the top of her costume. How do my tits look? She’s dressed as a sexy alien, with a fake third breast stuck in the middle of her admirable cleavage. The bare fake nipple is painted with roll-on glitter from my show choir days.

I smack my lips. Gorgeous! The glitter nip really elevates your look from doxy in an extraterrestrial brothel to doxy in a luxury spaceship. That costume is going to get you laid three times by 10:30pm.

Rachel pumps her fist. I love Halloween! You can be anything you want to be…

…as long as it’s sexy! I chime in.

You look bangin’, too. Those stitches are giving me hot Frankenstein vibes!

I smooth the jagged patchwork dress that hugs my hips. I’m dressed as Sally from The Nightmare before Christmas, stitched seams for joints and all. It’s a great costume because it includes long sleeves and tights, so I can stay warm without bothering with a coat. Like Sally, my arms and legs are long and pasty. I don’t need to add any white makeup because I’m already pale, so I threw on some eyeliner and lipgloss and called it done. I may not be the sexiest rag doll in Halloween Town, but I have a nice figure and an uncanny knack for seducing men with the brute force of my personality. My costume is also an inside joke with myself. Sally loves Jack Skellington, The Pumpkin King.

If there’s one thing all my friends know about me, it’s that I love redheaded men. Yes, redheads. Carrot Top, Copper Kettle, Firemuff, Big Red, Ginger Ninja. Whatever you call it, I’m into it. Any shade from strawberry to bright sunset to hot rod red. I love them all.

I love the way their freckles stand out. I love the way their necks get red when they get hot, sunburnt, or turned on. I love the way I can spot one in a room and know they’re going to be mine. There’s a name for what I am, and I like it. I’m not going to add it to my LinkedIn profile, but I still wear it proudly.

Pumpkin Pounder. People who prefer to have sex with redheads. My other favorite definition, courtesy of Urban Dictionary, Women who seek out redheaded men in bars with the intention of having intercourse. I know in some places ginger is a derogatory term, but to me it’s the highest compliment I could give. I’m predatory about gingers—but in a caring way.

I wonder who the lucky gingerbread man will be tonight, says Rachel.

I shrug. What do I always say? There are no strangers on Halloween, only gingers I haven’t slept with yet!

We high-five again.

Pumpkin Pounder! crows Rachel. It’s important to have friends who love you exactly the way you are.

What’s your goal tonight? Rachel and I love having goals. We record them in a notebook on our coffee table. We write down everything from make dentist appointment by Tuesday to fly private at least once before age 30. Making goals is the one thing that keeps us from thoroughly failing at adulting.

Rachel fluffs her smooth brown hair. Ugh, she’s so good with a flat iron and I am not. Rachel likes to joke that it’s a mandatory skill for every Jewish girl who attends high school on the Upper East Side. These alien tits sell themselves. Tonight I’m either going to end up engaged or at the center of a political scandal.

Political scandal! That is big goals, I sigh. I have my eye on a few redheaded government officials. If I ever run for office, they are welcome to compromise me.

We pause at the crosswalk that marks the