Every Woman's Dream

by Mary Monroe

  “You’ve got a point there, I guess.”

  “I advise you to take a long, hard look at yourself, Lola. If you don’t get the spirit, you’re going to get left behind.”

  “I’ve been left behind before!” I cracked. “And I turned out all right. Another thing I want to know is, what would your family say if they knew what you were up to?”

  “I’m glad you brought that up. I have the most broad-minded relatives in the world, but I think they’d draw the line about me being in a sex club. Some of them are probably doing shit way worse, and I don’t want to know if they are. What I don’t know about them can’t hurt me, and what they don’t know about me can’t hurt them. The bottom line is, everybody is into something.”

  “Not me.”

  “Well, you should be. Maybe you wouldn’t be so uptight. Let’s get back on the subject. The deal is, Jeremy, that’s the guy I’m meeting tomorrow, he said that as soon as he saw the picture I posted of myself, he got an instant hard-on. I had on that red bikini I bought for the vacation in Mexico that Reed canceled on me at the last minute last year. And, like I said before, and I’ll say it again, this is all about sex. Nothing more. Besides, this dude is white. He said he’s always fantasized about sleeping with a black woman.”

  “Hmmm. Well, what if you hook up with some dude that can’t screw worth a damn? Then what? What if this Jeremy’s got . . . a . . . teeny . . . weenie.”

  “Honey, I think that’s one problem I won’t have to worry about. This white boy has had eight hookups so far this year. Each one gave him a five-out-of-five-stars review and comments that would make a porn star horny.”

  “Is he good-looking?”

  “Try to imagine a cross between George Clooney and Brad Pitt. He’s also on Facebook, so I’ll send you his full name and you can check out his picture there. Maybe you can party with him on his next trip to California. One thing about the men in this club is they have the kind of money that if they want to send you a ticket to meet them somewhere, they can do it. I read one woman’s review about a guy—a CEO for a software company—and she said that’s what he did for their hookup. She lives in Baltimore. He lives in L.A. and had to go to Tokyo, Japan, for a bunch of meetings. He paid for her to meet him there.”

  “Can’t those horny people find other horny people closer to home?”

  “Didn’t we have a similar discussion about those old men we used to write to?”

  “Yeah, we did.”

  “When you have money, you can do whatever you want and it doesn’t have to be logical, or make sense. I’m sure that the average billionaire is not concerned about finding a woman in his own backyard when he gets horny. A woman who would travel a few thousand miles to be with him would be so grateful to get a free trip, she’d go out of her way to show him a good time.”

  “The more you tell me, the more this deal still sounds like prostitution. This new site you’ve joined is selling sex, point-blank.”

  “Lola, the new site I joined is networking sex, so I wish you would stay off the subject of prostitution. I know there’s a thin line between somebody handing me a few bucks just for sex and somebody inviting me for a rendezvous just for sex. Both may sound like prostitution to you because somebody is paying for a room, and dinner, and whatnot. But they are not handing me money for having sex. They are spending money so we can have a nice place to fuck.” Joan moaned for a few seconds. “This conversation is giving me a headache!”

  “You’re the one who brought it up,” I reminded.

  “All right,” she said with a heavy sigh. “The thing is, if you want to get technical, every woman who goes on a date with a man—even her husband—and accepts dinner, gifts, or anything else, is a prostitute.”

  “Joan, I know what you’re saying. I’m just . . . Well, I just don’t want you to get into something you can’t get out of.”

  “Honey, don’t worry about me. Worry about yourself and all the money you spend on batteries for that vibrator you hide under your mattress. . . .”

  I ignored Joan’s last comment. I didn’t want to know when she had snooped around in my bedroom and found my sex toy. That would have been more uncomfortable to discuss than the sex site. I cleared my throat and said in a mocking tone of voice, “For your information, I just might call up Vincent Lopshire this weekend. You remember the bartender I met last summer?”

  “Please!” Joan croaked. “How could I forget him? While you’re in his flabby arms, I’ll be humping—”

  “Woman, shut up!” I laughed. “If you’re trying to make me jealous, you’ve done that. Call me at work tomorrow and tell me what I’m supposed to say in case Reed calls me while you going at it with your George Clooney/Brad Pitt honey.”

  Chapter 37

  Joan

  “EEEEEEEEEOWWW!” MY HUSBAND SQUEALED, LIKE A STUCK PIG, AS he climaxed. He remained on top of me another ten seconds before he abruptly rolled off and back to his side of the bed, breathing through his mouth. “Was it good for you, baby?” he asked in a raspy voice.

  “Uh-huh. You’re still the best,” I lied. I reached for my see-through black negligee, which I had flung to the floor.

  “Hey!” Reed stiffened. “Don’t put that damn thing back on yet. I’m going to be up for seconds as soon as I recharge my, uh, D battery,” he added with a chuckle as he slapped his limp dick on the side of my thigh. That was the last thing I wanted to hear out of my husband’s mouth. “I may need a drink first, though!”

  I needed a drink myself to get through another round with him. I stood up and got into my gown, anyway. “You know how chilly it is in the kitchen this time of night. What do you want to drink?”

  “Fix me a rum and Coke.” Reed gave me a hard look and shook his finger at me. “And, Joan, make sure you put it in a clean glass.”

  As soon as I made it to the kitchen, I sat down hard at the kitchen table and moaned. Intimacy with my husband had become so boring and unfulfilling, his touch made my skin crawl. Two minutes after Reed squeezed my right tittie, blew his foul breath on my face, scrambled on top of me, and slid his limp penis between my thighs, he was climaxing all over the place.

  Ten minutes later, when I returned to our bedroom with two large glasses of rum and Coke, he was snoring. “So much for a second round,” I said with a sigh and a silent “thank God.”

  I went into the living room with the drinks, clicked on a lamp, and eased down on the couch. I sat for several minutes, thinking and drinking. After I had emptied both glasses, I glanced around the room, admiring the blue velvet couch and matching love seat I had purchased last month. Then I glanced at the wall clock above the love seat. Even though it was after midnight and I had a buzz, I reached for my cell phone on the coffee table and punched in Lola’s number.

  “I hope I didn’t wake you,” I said when she answered on the fourth ring.

  Lola and I had engaged in a lot of late-night telephone conversations lately. She didn’t sound the least bit surprised or annoyed to hear my voice at such an ungodly hour. “I’m still awake. I was just lying here watching TV. What’s up?”

  “I . . . I just wanted to talk to somebody.”

  “Well, somebody’s listening.”

  I heaved out a loud, sour breath before I spoke again. “Reed just gave me his midnight express special.”

  “Huh?”

  “The last time I rode on his train, it took three minutes. Tonight it took two.” Lola was the only person I’d share something so disgustingly pitiful and intimate with.

  “Two minutes tonight? I guess that was an express. I rode on an express train once. His name was Earl.”

  Lola’s attempt at humor didn’t amuse me. She laughed; I didn’t.

  “So, are you still going to meet your online friend later today?”

  “I sure am. Especially after the ordeal Reed just put me through. Did you check out that site? Did you see my profile? Did you take a look at the dude’s picture on his page?”

  “Yes, I c
hecked out the site. I couldn’t believe your profile and that sexy picture you posted! Girl, I am scared of you! If I didn’t know you, and I were a dude, I’d be checking you out too.”

  This time I did laugh with Lola.

  “And you’re right. That guy you’re going on your first date with is really handsome.”

  The silence that followed Lola’s statement was frightening.

  “Lola, are you still with me?”

  “Yeah, I’m still with you. I was just thinking about all the sex crimes we read about in the newspaper almost every day. Are you worried about that?”

  “To me, a ‘sex crime’ is not getting any. Let me tell you again. This site is for ‘discreet encounters,’ which means straight-up sex.”

  “But is it really safe? Do you believe it’s just a networking site for horny, consenting adults and not a playground for sex offenders and other predators?”

  I let out an impatient sigh and mumbled a few cusswords under my breath. “If I didn’t think it was safe, I wouldn’t be involved with it. Did you read the reviews?”

  “I did. I couldn’t believe how giddy some of those folks sounded.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “It was funny to see Wall Street men, who had all probably attended Harvard or Yale, using words like ‘poontang’ and ‘nookie’ in their reviews. The women were just as bad. One female lawyer described a man’s penis as a ‘tallywacker.’ Now, how corny is that? I have never heard anybody use such hokey-sounding words, period. Not even those geezers we used to write to. Well, I have to admit, it sure sounds like the members of that club are having a ball.”

  “Tell me about that too.” I chuckled.

  “What if I wanted to join? What would I have to do, and how much does the membership cost?”

  “The membership is free. I thought I told you that. This site, like a lot of other sites, makes its money from advertisers. All you have to do is create a profile and post a picture of yourself. You don’t even have to use your real name or give out personal information, like your telephone number or address, on your introductory profile, which I’d advise you not to do, anyway. You only have to give that information to the site people so they can do the background check. Once you agree to a date with a man, then you tell him your real name and any other information you feel comfortable sharing.”

  Lola was so quiet during the next few moments; I knew she had all kinds of outlandish thoughts swirling around in her head.

  “I could use a fake name, give a fake address, and tell those site people all kinds of lies. How would they know? Background check or not, I could still be a maniac,” she said in a mocking tone of voice.

  I was sorry now that I had shared my secret with her so soon. “Look, if you’re not going to take this seriously, let’s forget about it. And in the first place, what I’m into is probably out of your league. Maybe you’re not the type of woman who should get involved in something this sophisticated. . . .”

  “Why not? I’m just as attractive and ‘sophisticated’ as you are, and I love sex as much as you do,” she complained—just like I knew she would.

  “You’re also a scared little chicken. You probably wouldn’t make it through the first date without having a meltdown.” I didn’t care how much Lola protested; I read her like a book, so I knew she’d eventually come around.

  She proved me right when she replied in a tone of voice that had perked up within a matter of seconds. “You said that people always meet up in nice hotels, right? Not any of those off-the-freeway motels with a vibrating bed and a broken toilet? That was the kind of place the last man I dated took me to. If that wasn’t bad enough, his credit card got declined, so I had to pay for the room!”

  “Men with class and money don’t go near places like that, and I can assure you that their credit cards don’t get declined. I’m meeting Jeremy at the Hilton. I logged in again a couple of hours ago and saw I had more messages. A professional football player from Denver wants to get together with me in the Ritz-Carlton next week. I’ll e-mail him back in a couple of days, so I won’t look so anxious.” Joan practically squealed.

  “You’re not wasting any time, are you?”

  “Nope. I want to get while the getting is still good. Life is too short.”

  “You’re just in your thirties, Joan. You’ve got plenty of time left.”

  “Yeah, right. I could get run over by a bus tomorrow. The bottom line is, I’m not getting any younger. Twenty years from now, it’ll be a lot harder for me to attract men like the ones I attract now.” I snorted. “Well, I’d better get some sleep. I’m going to need all of my strength for tomorrow.” I chuckled again.

  Lola took her time responding, and when she did, she said something that shocked me. “Joan, get some for me.”

  “Oh, I will do that and more. Since you are too scared to get some for yourself.”

  “I’m not scared. I’m just cautious.”

  I covered my mouth with my hand to keep from laughing again. From the way the harshness had gradually eased out of Lola’s voice in the last few seconds, I could tell she was getting weak. “Uh-huh. You’re beginning to get weak, aren’t you? Well, when you get weak enough, you’ll change your tune. In the meantime, you can sit around and wait for one of your exes to give you a booty call. I don’t mind having enough fun for both of us. I’m used to it.”

  Chapter 38

  Lola

  I WENT TO BED RIGHT AFTER I ENDED MY CONVERSATION WITH JOAN, but I couldn’t go to sleep. I couldn’t stop thinking about everything we had discussed. For one thing, I had begun to weaken. Even with all of the negative media attention online dating had received in the last few years, now I was real curious about the new site Joan had discovered. I didn’t want to find a husband online, the way Shirelle and Mariel had, but it was not something I wouldn’t consider—if I ever decided to take the plunge and create a profile on a dating site.

  Joan called me at work on my lunch hour the next day. She told me she had rented a car to drive the two and a half hours to San Francisco to meet her date. The minivan that Reed had purchased for her three years ago was being serviced, and he never let her or anybody else drive the second new Lexus he had purchased in four years.

  Joan’s instructions were that if Reed called me, I was to tell him that she and I had had lunch, and as a favor to me, she’d driven to San Mateo to pick up some beauty products for a mutual friend. The “mutual friend” was Liza Mae Ford, the same wheelchair-bound woman I had created to fool Bertha. We were getting a lot of mileage out of this fictitious woman. I still used her as a cover to dodge Bertha, who was impressed with me for being so devoted to Liza Mae. One night Bertha told me that I should let her know if I ever needed her to help out with the “poor little thing.”

  Being devoted to other people was one thing I had gotten used to. I had had a lot of practice with Bertha, and Joan, too, for that matter. Because I was still trying to make up for scamming my elderly pen pals, I felt obligated to be nice to my elderly employers, Maisie and Samuel Cottright. I was determined not to ever let them down. But they were so good to me that I would have been just as devoted to them, anyway. Not only did they encourage me to take home complimentary bags of groceries almost every day, they told me regularly how much they depended on me. Their only son, Marvin, was in San Quentin doing life without parole for killing his ex-wife on the day she was to marry another man. Their grandson and nephews and nieces, who often took turns working one of the other cash registers, rarely showed up on time; and when they did, they spent most of their shift goofing off or hiding out in the storeroom to use their cell phones. Cynthia, their niece who had graduated with me, rang up customers’ groceries and texted at the same time. After so many customers complained to the Cottrights about how she had overcharged them for something, or didn’t give them the attention they expected because she was too busy texting, they suspended her for two weeks. I didn’t care for Cynthia; she was as flaky as they came. But the
rest of the Cottright family members were not much better. Whenever I was alone in the store with one of them, they took advantage of the situation excessively with extended lunches, personal telephone calls, and so on, since they all knew they could depend on me. Because I spent so much time manning the store by myself, a few customers thought I was the new owner.

  I rarely complained to the Cottrights because I had a good thing going. I had a dream job that I could walk to and from and take off when I needed to (as long as I had somebody to cover for me). It didn’t pay that much, but I was still making out like a bandit. In addition to the complimentary groceries, free lunches, and other perks, I had been voted employee of the month twice in the last six months and each time it had included a two-hundred-dollar bonus.

  “I hope you don’t let that job go to your head,” Bertha told me the last time I was employee of the month. “And don’t let the Cottright family take advantage of you too often. You spend enough time and energy helping out that Liza Mae. And you have other obligations to attend to. . . .”

  Bertha was probably never going to let me forget about my “obligation” to her. In a twisted way, I was glad Daddy was no longer around. Had he not died, he would have been the one under her thumb.

  I still resented the fact that because of her, I had not seriously pursued another relationship with a man that might have led to marriage. After the mess with Maurice, I promised myself that when the next potential husband came along, nothing was going to stop me from accepting his proposal—if I felt he was the right one. I regretted the way I had given up so easily on him, until I heard that he had been dishonorably discharged from the service for using drugs. I’d also heard that he’d recently married a woman from the Silicon Valley, whom he controlled and beat. If that wasn’t bad enough, he was also a serial cheater. According to the rumors, he had a mistress, who was pregnant with his baby! Ironically, Bertha’s interference may have saved me from being in Maurice’s wife’s shoes.