By: Isobel Irons


(Please Read First)

Some of you are likely reading this and going, “What an idiot, does this author really not know that it’s supposed to say ‘foreword’—as in, the thing that comes before the words—and not ‘forward’?”

But if I’m an idiot, it’s not for that reason. Actually, I’m pretty sure someone at some point will call me an idiot just for writing this book. Which is why I’m taking this opportunity to forewarn you in such an incredibly shocking and—wait for it—forward manner, that you’re about to embark on a dark, twisting journey which—like real life—doesn’t necessarily have a happy ending.

PROMISCUOUS is a modern day Cinderella story. But it is not a fairy tale.

In fact, in the interest of saving time, let’s just get something out of the way. In this story, the F-word is used approximately 144 times, alongside a whole slew of other “bad” words. Some people may find this crass or gratuitous, and assume it’s meant for shock value, or to make this book seem more “edgy.”

To all the people I will undoubtedly offend with this book, I would like to apologize in advance.

Honestly, I tried to tell Natasha (the hero of this story) to clean up her act. But she gave me the finger and said that there was only one way this story was going to be told: her way.

While I’m at it, I should also probably confess that I think this story deserves a better ending. Hell, I know it deserves a better author. But it gets me, and I (the author) decided to take a chance on making a few people a little bit angry.

Because, for better or for worse, this isn’t just the story of Natasha “Tash” Bohner, an 18-year-old girl from a nameless town in an undisclosed state who swears like a trucker and wears red sneakers covered in labels.

It’s also my story.

It’s also your story.

It’s your best friend’s story, your sister’s story, and your college roommate’s story.

This broke-ass, unintentionally offensive Cinderella story belongs to every one of the more than one in five women who walk around every day feeling broken, or dirty, or somehow worth less than other girls, because someone hurt them the way Tash was hurt. The way I was hurt. The way my mother was hurt. (In other words, this shit has been going on for far too many generations.)

Yes, Tash is fictional. Tash’s friends and family members are fictional, too. But there’s a piece of her in every person who will read this story and say to herself or himself, “this could be about me.”

To those of you who are brave enough to make it to the end of this story, I hope you can see through the anger to the hurt that lies beneath—not just in these words I’ve written, but in your friends and family as well.

Everyone deals with pain differently, and as Sigmund Freud once said, “We are never so defenseless against suffering as when we love.” I’m not going to lie to you. Telling the truth is scary, and it’s painful as hell. And sometimes, the people you love kind of fuck up the way they react to it. But as much as it can suck, telling the truth will never be half as painful, or half as damaging as keeping it hidden inside you.

So, please. If you don’t read another word past this point, if you throw this book down and never look at it again, please take from this story one message:

You have every right to be angry. You have every right to cry, or break things, or swear a whole lot. But once you’ve done that, please let go of your shame. Tell someone you trust, and let them help you work through the pain. And most importantly, don’t you ever shame yourself, or let anyone else shame you again, for the hellish experience you didn’t ask for, but bravely survived.

Be the hero of your story. Don’t let them make you feel like a cautionary tale. Live your life forward.

With love,


Part I: “Dirty”

My name is Natasha, and I'm a gigantic slut.

Don't believe me? Just ask anyone. They'll tell you I juggle dicks like a six armed circus freak with nymphomania. They'll tell you I've slept with the entire football team, twice. (Including the coach, who's like 85 years old, by the way.) They’ll tell you I have no shame.

So what if none of that shit is true?

That doesn't make me any less of a slut. They'll probably tell you that, too.

But there's one thing they won't tell you, and that's my side of the story.

(By the way, if you're one of those easily offended types, I'm telling you right now, you'd better strap yourself the fuck in. Maybe buy a crash helmet while you're at it. I'm just saying. Consider yourself warned.)


I was born in a trailer park called Bigland Estates. How's that for irony, right?