Maxie Langford didn't know what "bathing like a goddess denied mortal touch" meant, but she was 90% sure it involved bubbles, candles, and some level of nudity that bordered on spiritual.
The book didn't exactly explain the logistics—it merely suggested, in its usual florid prose:
> "Submerge thy divine flesh in scented waters. Let not thine mortal form be hurried, for thou art Aphrodite reimagined. Cleanse thy soul, shave thy sins, and butter thy buns with oils of ancient seduction."
Butter. Thy. Buns.
Maxie had read that line three times before bursting into cackles and nearly choking on her cereal. But she was committed. Step Two was happening. She was going full goddess mode.
Which is how she found herself standing in her bathroom at 11:37 a.m. on a Tuesday, wrapped in a leopard-print robe, blasting The Phantom of the Opera while the tub filled like it was preparing for a Roman orgy.
"Bubble bath, check," she said, pouring in an alarming amount of lavender-vanilla soak she'd bought from a woman at the farmer's market who claimed to be an "aromatherapy witch."
"Candles, check," she added, lighting six of them around the tub with the flair of a witch summoning a bath demon.
"Spotify playlist titled 'Moist Mystique,' check."
Then she looked at the bath bomb.
It was glittery, pink, and heart-shaped. The label read: "Sensual Sorcery: WARNING—extreme tingle. Not for sensitive areas."
She dropped it in.
Fizzzzzzz.
Within seconds, the tub resembled a glitter explosion at a unicorn's bachelorette party.
Maxie disrobed dramatically, as instructed by no one but her own imagination, and slid into the tub like a sensual sea creature. The water was hot, floral, and vaguely threatening.
She closed her eyes. She exhaled. She was divine. She was sacred. She was—
"OH MY GOD MY VAGINA IS ON FIRE."
Maxie jolted upright, slapping at the water like it had personally betrayed her.
The bath bomb. The Sensual Sorcery.
She looked down in horror.
Her nether regions tingled with the fervor of a thousand peppermint Altoids doing the cha-cha.
She leapt from the tub, slipping on a bath mat that said "NAMASTE IN THE TUB" and nearly knocking over a candle. She crash-landed into the towel rack, which fell like a wounded soldier.
"Oils of seduction, my flaming ass," she whimpered, waddling toward the shower and blasting herself with cold water like she'd just survived a chemical peel at Satan's spa.
Five minutes later, wrapped in three towels and sipping iced tea from a wine glass (for dignity), Maxie glared at the book.
"You knew," she said to it. "You knew and you said nothing."
It, of course, said nothing. It was a book. Possibly a cursed one.
Still, she wasn't giving up. Because somewhere deep inside her (beneath the menthol tingle), she wanted this. She wanted to feel… powerful. Sexy. Like her body wasn't a source of anxiety or insecurity but something sacred. Even if the sacred came with surprise chemical warfare.
Re-approaching the now-deglittered bath, Maxie decided to try again. This time, no bombs. Just warm water, soothing oils, and some backup cucumbers she'd originally bought for sandwiches.
She placed two cucumber slices on her eyes like a spa ad from 2002, leaned back into the tub, and breathed.
And then her phone dinged.
GINNY: Did you know there's a man playing the saxophone outside your window?
Maxie peeked over the tub edge, moved one cucumber slice, and sure enough—there he was. A man in a red beret and no shirt, playing Careless Whisper like it was a declaration of war.
"Oh my god," she whispered. "He found me."
It was Marcus. The so-called "OnlyFans Jesus." Long hair. Tan skin. Tattoo of a lotus on his left hip. And apparently, a saxophone.
They'd had a one-night stand two months ago. He'd called her his "third eye-opening experience." She'd called him "an orgasm wrapped in a TED Talk."
He'd been weird. She liked weird. Until he started sending her voice notes of him moaning affirmations like "You are throbbing with potential."
And now, here he was. Seranading her through a second-floor window with George Michael while shirtless and making intense eye contact with her houseplants.
Maxie sunk lower into the bath.
Another ding.
GINNY: This is the best Tuesday I've had in months. I'm filming. Don't you dare stop him.
Maxie laughed. Because of course Ginny was filming.
She looked down at the water. At the now-relaxed skin. At the abandoned glitter swirling like the residue of past erotic mistakes.
And she smiled.
Maybe bathing like a goddess meant embracing the weirdness. The unexpected. The flaming bath bombs and the saxophone exes and the fact that her vagina was now minty-fresh.
She reached for the book.
"Step Three," she read aloud, "Dine upon thy desires."
She blinked.
"...is that sex… or a buffet?"
Either way, Maxie grinned.
She was in.