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The next guy I dated insisted I always went down on him, but he never returned the favor.

“I just don’t love it,” was his explanation, which made me feel like the grossest, unsexiest person alive.

Was my bodyreallythat much of a turn-off?

The last boyfriend I had—this was during my residency about a year ago—didn’t seem interested in having sex with me at all. When we did hook up, it was always quick and to the point. I tried to be adventurous with him—tried to incorporate more playfulness, more foreplay—but he always said he was “too tired,” thanks to the round-the-clock rigors of our program. Which I didn’t entirely understand because I was in the same program and I was tired, too, but never too tired to have sex. His lukewarm reaction made me feel pretty shitty about myself.

Years of disappointing experiences have left me feeling anxious and excruciatingly self-conscious when I’m with men. I feel like I need to constantly watch what I say, what I wear, what I eat. If I could be a little less ofthis, a little of morethat, maybe the magic will finally happen.

It hasn’t, and now my confidence is hanging by a thread. It’s gotten to the point that I’m so self-conscious around guys I end up overthinking myself out of a great time. I try so hard to be what Ithinka guy wants that I can barely talk to someone, much less hit on them. I don’t enjoy sex because I’m always in my head about whether or nothe’senjoying it. At some point, I just gave up trying to date.

But now it’s been almost a full year since I’ve done anything with a member of the opposite sex, and I feel like I’m coming out of my skin. A vibrator can only get you so far. I’m legitimately worried I’ve forgotten how to kiss someone. I know I’ve forgotten how to pick someone up.

Most of all, I’ve forgotten how to havefun.

I put on a smile when Tallulah—The Rattler’s owner andbartender—hands me a spicy margarita on the rocks, the glass rimmed with just the right amount of Tajín.

“How’d you know I wanted?—”

“The Tajín?” Tallulah glances over her shoulder at Wyatt. “Lover boy over there ordered it for you.”

Rolling my eyes, I bite back a smile. “Of course he did. Here’s my card. You can keep it open?—”

“He took care of that too.” She waves away my card. “C’mon, Sally. You’ve been back for months now. You oughta know that man isn’t gonna let you pay for a damn thing while you’re here.”

Andthisis why I often wonder if my standards for men are just too high. Has Wyatt, with his forearms and his Stetsons and his generosity, ruined me for everyone else?

I’ve been living in New York for the past three years, where I did my residency in large animal surgery at Ithaca University. Before that, I’d attended veterinary school in Chicago, and before that, I’d completed my undergraduate degree in Waco. Guys bought me drinks in those places, but they did it with the implied expectation that we’d have sex, or I’d at least go down on them. But of course my orgasm was an afterthought, if they thought about it at all.

Cowboys are a different breed. Makes me wonder what the hell I’m gonna do when I move back to New York at the end of December. When I completed my residency at the Ithaca University Hospital for Animals back in May, I applied for my dream job to be a surgeon there. Dad and I always talked about how great it would be to work at a university, where I could practiceandteach, maybe even do the kind of research that would lead to breakthroughs in the field. In the meantime, I returned to Hartsville without the job offer to figure out my next steps.

I’d missed Texas like crazy over the years, so I didn’t mind moving home, even if it meant living with my parents. I lovemy hometown. I also love the veterinary work I’ve gotten to do alongside Dad in the area.

But when my adviser called me earlier this week and offered me the job at Ithaca University, I immediately accepted it, even though the conversation gave me a stomachache. The pay is great, the position is prestigious, and it will set me up as one of the top equine surgeons in the nation. The job security alone is worth it. Never mind the real impact I can make there—from performing life-saving surgeries to teaching others how to provide top-notch veterinary care. Dad said it was his dream to be that kind of groundbreaking surgeon, but his grades weren’t good enough to make it happen. It’s one of his biggest regrets.

I start January 1. Which means I only have so many ladies’ nights at The Rattler left. Only so many days to get my cowboy fix so I can go back to Ithaca University sated and steady, ready to live out my dreams.

In other words, getting this job offer has kicked my search for no-strings-attached fun with cowboys into high gear.

It’s also brought my anxiety to new heights, but I think once I get cute guys in Wranglers out of my system, I’ll be ready to move back to New York.

I’ll finally feel excited about the next chapter in my life. Love is something I’m definitely looking for in the long-term. When I think about my future, I always picture having a partner in life. Someone to help shoulder life’s burdens and celebrate its joys. Someone to start a family with and grow old with.

In the meantime, though, I just need to blow off some steam.

“Thank you for the drink,” I call over to Wyatt, even as I give him a pointed look.

He just shrugs, still smirking. “It’s ladies’ night. Cheers, Sally.”

“Cheers.”

It’s a Tuesday night at The Rattler, Hartsville’s one and only dive bar. It’s our only bar, period, which is why there’s already a crowd here at half past five.

The space, with its sticky floor and clapboard walls and ceiling, buzzes with conversation, country music pumping through the speakers. I know I’m biased, but the vibe in here is unlike anything I’ve experienced anywhere else. There’s this energy in the air, this sense of anticipation, that makes you feel like you’re about to have a damn good time.

Ladies’ night has been a time-honored Tuesday night tradition at The Rattler for as long as I can remember. Tallulah marks the occasion with half-priced tequila drinks.

I don’t always make it out. Our days begin early; Dad has coffee going by four, and we’re usually out the door not long after that, on our way to the first of many appointments and calls he’ll get.