NSFWLover Unleashes Maria Dixon: Your Chaotic, Sexy Digital Fantasy

The Bathroom Breakdown

I had just come home from work when I heard the front door slam like someone was trying to wake the entire building. A thud of high heels clacked all the way to the bathroom—our bathroom—and a second later, I heard Maria’s voice.

“Oh my god. Oh my actual god. I can’t. I—ugh!”

I tossed my backpack on the couch and followed the chaos trail. “Maria?” I knocked once. “You okay?”

The door cracked open. Maria’s mascara was halfway down her cheek, her hair looked like she'd stuck her head out of a taxi going 90, and her blouse was buttoned wrong. Classic Maria Dixon: the ex-girlfriend who somehow became my stepsister last year, and who still treats life like it’s a season finale every damn day.

“I’m pregnant,” she blurted, voice high and panicky.

“What?”

“Not really. Maybe. Probably not. But maybe. It’s complicated.”

I blinked. “That doesn’t sound complicated. That sounds like a BuzzFeed quiz you don’t want to take.”

She groaned and pulled me inside, slamming the door shut behind us like we were under attack.

Maria Dixon, Human Hurricane

You never really get over Maria. You just... survive her.

She’s the kind of girl who’d bring a bottle of tequila to a funeral and then cry harder than the widow. The kind who texts you at 2 a.m. just to ask if penguins get lonely. The kind who can’t cook pasta without burning water—but somehow makes it look sexy.

I met her three years ago when she sat on my lap at a Halloween party, thinking I was someone else. We dated for six months—well, six months and ten fights—but it ended after a long night, too much wine, and her announcing, “I think I love your dad.”

Yeah. That happened.

Fast-forward six months, and my dad actually marries her mom, and boom—we’re family. Sort of. Maybe. Technically.

“So what happened?” I asked, leaning against the sink as she grabbed some toilet paper to dab her eyeliner.

She sighed. “There was this guy. Brad. Or maybe Chad. I forget. He had this motorcycle, and a tattoo that said ‘Forgiven.’ Which was hot, right? But also like—who hurt you?”

I just nodded. This was peak Maria.

“And now I feel weird. Like sore? But not sore sore. Just… like I’ve done too many squats, except I didn’t. And Google says that’s a symptom.”

“Google says everything’s a symptom. I once Googled a headache and it told me I had six hours to live.”

She laughed, snorted, then burst into actual tears.

The Morning After Plan B

I offered to make her tea. She asked for wine. I told her it was 4 p.m., and she said, “So what? It’s wine o’clock in Europe.” Which is... not wrong, I guess.

We ended up sitting on the bathroom floor, our backs against the cool tile, with Maria swinging her legs like a bored kid.

“You ever think about the fact that maybe some people aren’t meant to grow up?” she asked.

“Like who?”

“Like me. I’m like... an NPC in a chaotic Sims game. Everything’s on fire but I’m still dancing in the kitchen.”

“You always said you wanted to be a mom.”

“Yeah. But not a single mom with a part-time job at a candle store and no idea who the dad is. That’s not cute. That’s a Lifetime movie.”

I couldn’t help it. I laughed. “You are a Lifetime movie.”

She threw a wad of toilet paper at me. “You’re not helping.”

“Okay, okay. Look. You’ve got options. You know that, right?”

She nodded. “I took a test this morning. Negative. I just... freaked out.”

“Understandable. But maybe next time don’t sleep with someone whose name you’re not 100% sure about?”

“Fair,” she said. Then paused. “Still hot, though.”

Not Girlfriend Material

That night, she crashed on the couch even though she had her own room down the hall. “Too many thoughts,” she said. “Need background noise.” By which she meant me.

At some point during Friends reruns, she curled up next to me and whispered, “You ever think we broke up too soon?”

I didn’t answer. I wasn’t sure what to say.

We weren’t compatible. We never were. She was glitter and chaos. I was spreadsheets and quiet nights. But still, there was something magnetic about her, even now.

“I’m not trying to mess things up,” she said. “I just wonder, sometimes. What if?”

“You’re family now,” I said softly.

She smiled, bitter. “Guess that makes things pretty complicated, huh?”

I looked down at her. Her eyeliner smudged again. Hair tangled. But still, unmistakably Maria. The hurricane.

“Life’s messy,” I said. “But you’re not alone in it. You’ve got me. Even if I don’t always understand your penguin questions.”

She chuckled and buried her face into my hoodie. “You always smelled like laundry detergent. It’s weirdly comforting.”

“Thanks? I think?”

The night went on. She fell asleep on my shoulder. I didn’t move. Just listened to the low hum of the TV and the distant sound of sirens in the city.

Epilogue: Still Maria

The next morning, she was already in the kitchen, singing along to some 2000s pop song and burning toast again.

“You want coffee?” she asked, dancing with the French press.

“Sure,” I said, still rubbing sleep out of my eyes.

She winked. “No babies, no regrets. Just vibes.”

And just like that, Maria Dixon was back to being Maria Dixon.

God help us all.