Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs Chapter 14: Operation: Don’t Die a Virgin 1

The rest of the school day passed in a blur of academic white noise and existential panic that would have made Charlie Sheen’s ltdown look stable. I sat through AP Literature pretending to give a shit about symbolism in The Great Gatsby while my brain ran through every possible scenario of what might happen at Madison’s house. Most of these scenarios ended with embarrassing myself in ways that would have required therapy and possibly witness protection.

By the ti I got ho, my nervous system was operating at the frequency of a TikTok teen discovering their video got ratio’d into oblivion.

"Hey, sweetheart," Mom called from the kitchen as I walked through the door, giving that concerned nurse look like she was about to check my pulse. "How was school?"

"Educational," I managed, which was technically true if you counted learning that hot girls might actually want to touch as a groundbreaking scientific discovery.

"Good! Dinner’s at six if you want so—"

"Actually, I was going to study at a friend’s house tonight," I interrupted, the lie sliding out smoother than a Kardashian’s PR team handling another scandal. "Working on a project."

Mom gave one of those suspicious‑parent looks that suggested she had seen enough teenage bullshit to detect lies from space. "Which friend?"

"Madison Torres. She’s in my chemistry class." Also technically true, if you counted whatever chemical reactions might happen between us as legitimate science.

"That’s nice, honey. Just be ho by ten."

If only she knew her virgin son was about to attempt seducing the hottest girl in school. She’d probably have a stroke. Or start a GoFund for my therapy bills.

I escaped to my room and imdiately locked the door, because what I was about to do required privacy and the kind of focus usually reserved for defusing bombs or watching Jas Corden try to be funny.

Operation: Don’t Die a Virgin was officially in effect.

But first, reality‑check ti. I pulled up my banking app because maybe, just maybe, I could buy an actual decent outfit for this historic occasion that didn’t scream "clearance‑rack refugee."

Current balance: $47.23.

Yeah, that wasn’t happening, no cap. Forty‑seven dollars might cover one sock at the stores where people like Madison shopped. I had a better chance of Jake Paul winning an Oscar than affording anything that would impress her. Guess I was working with what I had, which was basically the wardrobe equivalent of trying to make fetch happen.

First priority: personal hygiene that didn’t make sll like a basent‑dwelling goblin who bathed in Mountain Dew.

I grabbed my phone and headed to the bathroom, pulling up YouTube because apparently I was about to crowd‑source my preparation for potential sex like so kind of WikiHow disaster.

"How to sll fire for a date," I typed, then imdiately deleted it because my search history was already sus enough to get put on several governnt watchlists.

"Personal hygiene for n" got a video by so guy who looked like he moisturized with liquid confidence and probably had a skincare routine more complex than NASA’s rocket science. Dude had that Ryan Gosling energy but with the personality of a motivational poster.

Forty‑five minutes later, I had scrubbed myself with enough soap to clean a small apartnt building. I’d used face wash, body wash, and sohow convinced myself that the fancy shampoo my sisters used was essential for this mission. My skin was now approximately three shades redder than normal, but at least I slled like a Bath & Body Works had a baby with heaven, fr fr.

Next challenge: facial‑hair managent—"Operation Remove the Patchy Disaster That Was My Face."

Here’s the thing about being sixteen—my facial‑hair situation was what you might charitably call "patchy as fuck" and what less‑charitable people would have called "abstract art created by soone having a seizure." I had this weird collection of whiskers that made look less "ruggedly handso" and more "forgot to finish puberty while also possibly being related to a scarecrow."

I needed to find a razor, which ant venturing into forbidden territory: the dicine‑cabinet archaeology expedition. Mom had one of those fancy won’s razors, but using that would have been like admitting I’d hit rock bottom harder than Britney in 2007.

I rembered seeing a razor in the hall bathroom dicine cabinet—probably bought by mom for whoever my mom was secretly dating back then while we were at school before she gave up on n entirely and decided her children were less disappointing.

I crept down the hallway like I was conducting a covert operation worthy of Mission Impossible, which I basically was. The dicine cabinet creaked open, and there it was: a classic n’s razor that looked like it would survive the Clinton administration and possibly witness so historical events id given enough ti.

"This is nasty," I muttered, but desperate tis called for desperate asures. At least it was better than borrowing my mom’s pink monstrosity that probably cost more than my bike.

YouTube tutorial number two: "How to shave like a man and not like a confused toddler with sharp objects."

The video was hosted by so bearded guy who probably started shaving in the womb and treated facial hair like it was a religious experience. He had that lumberjack aesthetic that scread "I chop wood for fun and intimidate bears with my masculinity."

"Start with short strokes," Beard Guy instructed with the authority of soone who’s never accidentally turned his face into a cri scene. "Always go with the grain first."