The pressure of getting your romantic partner the perfect birthday gift is real. Especially when you’ve already exhausted the predictable options; flowers, jewelry, even vacations in exotic locales.

We first moved in together last spring. Our downtown condo was chic and fashionable with a picturesque view of a city skyline. At 26, we were the envy of our friends. We had six-figure salaries, Equinox Gym memberships, and robust 401Ks. Every month, we hosted swanky dinner parties, with wines imported from France and hors d'oeuvres from The New York Times Cookbook. Our Instagram posts routinely got dozens of comments, more a few of them tagged with #CouplesGoals.

But, like everyone, we weren’t immune to boredom.

By the time your birthday rolled around, we were both working 10 hour days. Our sex life was still dirty and fun — but had become a strictly weekend affair. Most nights, we were too wiped to do anything but watch some bad reality TV and go to bed at 10.

As I racked my brain for the perfect gift, I suddenly remembered a drunken confession you once made about your “ultimate fantasy.”
On the big day, your girlfriends took you out for a birthday brunch. When you got home in the early afternoon, pink rose petals had been sprinkled across the living room floor, forming a path to our open bedroom door. You followed it with a touch of trepidation and an curiously pounding heart.

I was seated on the edge of our king sized bed wearing nothing but a crisp white pair of Calvin Klein briefs. Sitting next to me, donning the same exact underwear, was Jake, the guy you had more than once referred to as your “gym crush.”

“Happy birthday babe,” I crooned with a smirk. Jake bit his bottom lip.

[Thanks for reading! If you’re interested in playing the spoiled birthday girl, shoot me a message. Let me know your character’s name, age, appearance, and what she’s wearing when she comes home to this unexpected surprise.

Feel free to either continue the scene from where I left off or ask any questions you may have about its trajectory.

My character’s name is Thatcher. He’s 6’0 with a thin lean build, short but messy dark hair, and brown eyes. He wears fashionable glasses with clear, thick rims. Despite his thin physique, he’s fit from his running and rowing regimen.

Jake is the same age as us. He has a buzzed head of blonde hair and piercing blue eyes. He’s 6’2 also lean, but more toned than Thatcher. Lifting is his preferred form of exercise.

I’ll play the parts of both male characters.

I’m looking forward to writing with you. Feel free to respond whenever you read this.]