Up All Night:A True (Enough) Story

By: Cynthia Dane

A Word From Your Narrator



The story you’re about to read is true.

Mostly.

As with any supposedly true story, there are things that must be altered or outright changed in order to create a fulfilling reading experience. If I told you exactly how this story happened, you’d be disappointed with the ending, and we cannot have that. What we must have, however, is a fun, sexy, and even uplifting experience – the reading experience you came to me for.

So this is a true story. The setting, the setup, the thoughts and feelings permeating the scenes, many of the scenes themselves… shit, some of the background characters are 100% authentic, although names and some descriptions have been changed to protect the poor fools. I strove for as much authenticity as possible. The story could have only happened in Japan, for example. Plus, I’m not going to pretend I’m some eyelash-batting virgin who doesn’t know what a one-night-stand that turns into something more feels like. I’ve been writing naughty romance stories for yonks. Those stories have origins in my own life, don’t they?

But this is the first time I’ve decided to write a story that is lifted directly from my own personal experiences. Once the events unfolded, I couldn’t help but laugh at what a perfectly good romantic comedy they would make. So here we are, in the year of our Lord 2017, talking about an event that befell yours truly in November, 2016. Some of you were even there for it if you followed my erratic Facebook posts.

Yet there is a huge drawback to being so open with my personal experiences. The great thing about fiction is that it builds a natural wall between the characters and reader. That wall says, “You can peer into these people’s sex lives because they’re not actually real.” When that wall comes down, things get awkward, don’t they?

So here is what I propose: we treat the following story as another fictional account that sprang from my head like Athena from Zeus, and we keep it at that. Cyndi is me, but she’s not really me. Her hunky date says and does many things the date of infamy said, but in reality, he’s a composite of many men Cyndi has met in her life. And the ending? Pure tosh, but it’s happy tosh that creates the story we truly want to tell and read.

I’m open with you about the ending, but how could everything else be true?

It’s true because you trust me to tell you it’s true – and mean it.

Anything you read that makes you go, “Would a guy actually say that?” or, “Oh my God, I’ve totally had that happen to me!” means that, yes, it absolutely happened. My hand on my heart and swearing to that same God we were talking about.

Imagine us as best friends, Reader. Imagine us in a coffee shop, where the music is loud enough to keep eavesdroppers from overhearing our sordid tales of men past. Imagine me drinking tea and you drinking your favorite beverage that you’ve decided to treat yourself to, because this is Girl’s Day, and we are having a grand time talking about our current partners and the men and women who made up our pasts. Without those people, we wouldn’t be who we are today, and that’s my intention with telling you about what happened to me in November, 2016.

That and a lot of it was really fucking funny. I mean, really, a neighbor who times himself having sex and a date who spends half the night apologizing for his dick? That shit’s hilarious, and I need to gab about it.

Join me in my tale of frustration, sleep anxiety, the craziest ovulation cycle a woman has ever gone through, and the one night that made it all worthwhile. I’ve even Romanced the ending for you in case you love your happy endings as much as I do. (Besides, I said that Cyndi isn’t me me! That girl needs a happy ending!)

I’ll let you get up and retrieve your drink, though. You might also want to make sure you go to the bathroom first. We’re gonna be here a while, and you’ll be laughing most of the way through.

Let me start by saying I was only in Tokyo for a workcation…





Chapter 1



I hadn’t slept in three fucking days.

My neighbor. It was my stupid neighbor whose name I could not tell you now. All I knew was that he was French (because everyone in my share house was French,) and had recently quit his job to, I don’t know, lift weights at the gym all day and make food in the kitchen that I always had to clean up.

Top Books