MAGPIE

  “See ya, buddy. Be home in a bit,” I said to Cody as I walked out the side door. I’d gotten in the habit of using the side door; it felt safer, don’t know why. I tucked my phone in the pocket of my shorts just as it buzzed with a text. I hadn’t talked to Daniel in a couple of days and hoped it was him,

  Today, 9:13 AM

  BRETT: Hey

  MAGS: Hey

  Mr. Cocky Jock. It had been a few weeks since I’d run into Brett at Home Depot. I’d texted him a few days after. Polishing off a second glass of wine, I said it was nice running into him. Didn’t even occur to me that I’d just given him my number.

  Duh…

  BRETT: Been awhile

  MAGS: A while since what?

  BRETT: Home depot!

  MAGS: Oh, ya

  BRETT: Is this a good time to call

  MAGS: On my way to breakfast

  BRETT: Just want to see if u r up for a few brewskies tonite

  Brewskies? A last-minute date? Don’t think so, Brett,

  MAGS: Tonight? prob not

  BRETT: I know it’s a same-day thing

  MAGS: Ya

  BRETT: Do u have plans?

  MAGS: Kinda

  BRETT: Doesn’t sound fun, meet me

  I reflected on the few dates I’d had over the last few months. I’d approached them so reluctantly but then ended up having a good time. Maybe a few beers with Brett could turn into a fun night. Oh hell…

  MAGS: Where and when?

  BRETT: Varsity grille

  MAGS: Near DU?

  BRETT: Yes, know it?

  MAGS: Drive by it every day, seems young

  BRETT: We are!

  MAGS: Ha

  BRETT: 8?

  MAGS: Ok

  BRETT: Ok

  Holy shit, I just got asked out by Cocky Jock via text not even twelve hours before game time! I reached the breakfast joint just as I put my phone back in my pocket. I was seated at the community table and served a glass of water by my favorite waiter who quickly brought me a cup of coffee.

  “Thanks, Carlos,” I said inattentively as I contemplated what to wear on my beer date.

  Just then, my phone buzzed,

  Today, 9:34 AM

  DANIEL: Morning, sexy

  MAGS: Hardly morning for you LOL

  DANIEL: Hoping you’d still be in bed, naked

  MAGS: Sitting in a public place, drinking coffee

  DANIEL: Public huh

  MAGS: Yeah

  DANIEL: Pussy getting wet?

  I’d concluded several weeks into our fling that my vagina was linked by way of radio frequency to Daniel’s phone number—whenever he called or texted, my panties instantly became dripping wet. Enjoying the steamy banter, I continued,

  MAGS: Yeah

  DANIEL: My cocks hard for you, baby

  MAGS: Danny, I can’t

  DANIEL: Sure you can, be creative, I can wait

  Strangely, Daniel’s text made me think of Jack. Sex with him was glorious. Early on, our lovemaking was exhilarating; every-day worries rarely entered our passionate realm. On occasion, it was frenzied, chased by ever-increasing life stresses. Mostly, though, our sex life was relaxed and fun. After decades of marriage, our bedroom had become a sanctuary, balanced between emotional intimacy and physical pleasure.

  Sex with Daniel was different. Putting aside our obvious differences, our sexual expression was raw and untethered. My body reacted almost angrily to Daniel’s urgings. Over time, I became ravenous for him.

  One night, not too long ago, he called. It was late for me, which meant really late for him. I answered groggily, “Hi, baby.”

  “Wanna play?” Daniel’s voice, like velvet, always managed to make me take a deep breath.

  “Always.”

  Our words had become few, but extremely to the point. I stripped off my pajamas and, two hours later, I’d cum three times and Daniel twice. Our pillow talk between orgasms was light and sexy, nothing too deep. I appreciated the levity of our relationship.

  I texted back, sneaking sideways glances hoping no one could see the color intensifying in my face,

  MAGS: Thinking bout your cock, getting so wet

  DANIEL: Sit on me, baby, ride me, your tits in my face

  MAGS: My clit rubbing against your shaft your balls

  DANIEL: Your pussy juice drenching my cock

  MAGS: Fuck I’m gunna cum, hang on

  I was startled by how fast I’d become aroused and close to orgasm. Again, I glanced from side to side, hoping the patrons at the community table were too engrossed in conversation or their newspapers to notice my shallow breathing. I’d never climaxed without some form of manipulation. Still, here I was, fantasizing about this mysterious man, ready to explode.

  I put my phone down, closed my eyes, and took in several sharp breaths. I quick burst of sensation between my legs came and went in mere seconds. I opened my eyes and sucked in a deep breath this time. No one, it appeared, had a clue. Picking up my phone, I texted,

  MAGS: You are so fucking bad, but so fucking good

  DANIEL: Was it good?

  MAGS: Intense, short, amazing

  DANIEL: Perfect

  MAGS: What bout u?

  DANIEL: I’m fine, got some work to do, just wanted to say good morning

  MAGS: OMG, forget good, you are pure bad!

  DANIEL: I get badder…

  MAGS: Gotta eat now

  DANIEL: Mmmm

  MAGS: Bye

  DANIEL: Ta-ta

  I ordered two eggs, over medium, crisp bacon, sliced tomatoes, and whole grain toast. Normally, I enjoy a steaming bowl of steel-cut oats. That morning though, I splurged. As I waited for my food, I couldn’t stop thinking about what just happened. Was it normal? Do other people do this? Was Tina right?

  “Here you go, Maggie,” Carlos said as he dropped off my breakfast feast, and then swiftly moved to take an order from the older couple sitting across from me. I prayed their senses were severely impaired.

  Halfway into my breakfast, a thought occurred to me: What about my bikini line? I wasn’t one for a Brazilian wax. I’d survived one once, though it nearly sent me to the ER. I was terrified three layers of tender flesh had been torn in one quick “shrrrpp!” of the cotton strip that had so fully adhered to my pubic hair. The idea that a “landing strip” (or worse, a completely bald pubic triangle) was somehow sexy puzzled me beyond belief. My French heritage left me with tresses best suited for… beavers.

  What if Cocky Jock wanted more than a few beers and my marvelous company? What if I did?

  Fumbling with my phone, I Googled, “nearest salon,” and was amazed by the number of salons nearby. Unlike Katie, I didn’t have a regular spot. Every so often, she’d invite me to an afternoon of pampering, never forgetting to smuggle cheap wine in Dad’s old Stanley thermos. There was no time for reminiscing; I clicked on the one with the most generic sounding name, which happened to be the closest.

  I scarfed the rest of my food, paid the bill, and headed out the door.

  I dialed It’s Your Time Day Spa and Salon, and a chipper receptionist answered the phone, “Good morning, this is Andrew. How may I help you?” I had to face the fact that Andrew was ready and willing to make an appointment for the shearing of my bush.

  Hesitation in my voice, I said, “Hi, Andrew, I’ve never been to your spa before, but I desperately need to make an appointment for today.”

  “What can we do for you exactly, honey?” His dulcet tones, albeit higher in pitch, made me think of Tony, and I drew an unsupported conclusion about Andrew.

  Feeling a bit more at ease, I answered, “A few things, actually. I need a mani-pedi and, if at all possible, I mean, if you have the time and a person available to conduct…Wait, not conduct. That’s dumb! I mean I need, well, um…a wax. A bikini wax.” There, I spit it out.

  “What’s your name, honey?” He said with a hint of compassion.

  “Maggie, do you need my last name?” I had no clue why tha
t would have mattered; I was feeling nervous, and it must have come through loud and clear.

  “Okay, Maggie, we have the best esthetician in the beautiful state of Colorado, Rebecca, who happens to have an opening at 1:30 this afternoon. It was a cancelation actually, so this is your lucky day!” Andrew was so pleased with himself; it made me smile and I lighten up, more than a smidgeon.

  Chuckling, I said, “Book it, Andrew! Did you include the mani-pedi?”

  “Oh, honey, I didn’t forget that part. I want to find the right time slot to make your day with us fantastic. Hmm, let’s see. I can put you with Melissa after your wax. How does that sound? A 2:00 P.M. manicure with a spa pedicure immediately following.” Andrew clearly loved his job.

  “You got a deal, Andrew. And thank you for being so accommodating to this ol’ gal,” I said, much more relaxed than when I first dialed.

  “I can tell old is not your problem, Maggie—staying out of trouble is!” I smiled as I disconnected.

  ***

  My mind drifted as I drove home, settling on my last date. It was with Bill, sometime in mid-May. I struggled to recall details, but I managed to remember that, like Cocky Jock, Bill had called the same day he wanted to take me out. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d been asked out well in advance of the date.

  How would I ever get used to the world of online dating?

  It was almost six o’clock when I got home; goose bumps on my legs and arms reminded me it was early summer. After I fed Cody, I flipped through the mail and sat on the deck with a brimming glass of mint water. I didn’t drink soda—hated it actually. I’d become fascinated with infused water and had begun experimenting with different flavors, my palate wanting nothing more except a caffeine fix in the morning and dizzying nectar at night. My mind wandered for a good stretch and, realizing the time, I jumped from my favorite cedar Adirondack chair and headed to the closet.

  A dress was out. Cocky Jock didn’t deserve it, and I didn’t feel like wearing one. I scoured the row of slacks and found a simple pair of black capris. I’d dress them up with a bright sweater and flirty sandals. Having decided on an ensemble, I stripped off my clothes and hopped in the shower. No time for feeling myself up, I had to get moving.

  My phone buzzed just as I slid the mascara wand in the tube,

  Today, 6:12 PM

  DANIEL: Good day?

  MAGS: Yes, actually

  DANIEL: Whadya do?

  MAGS: Aside from cumming in public? LOL!

  DANIEL: :)

  MAGS: Went to the spa, mani-pedi and a wax

  DANIEL: Brazi?

  MAGS: No, reg one – why do guys think thats sexy anyway?

  DANIEL: Makes eating pussy delish

  MAGS: Guess u wont be eating me

  DANIEL: Oh yes I will

  MAGS: Can’t fool around tonight

  DANIEL: :(

  MAGS: Hot date

  DANIEL: :( :(

  MAGS: Old hs flame

  DANIEL: :( :( :(

  MAGS: Don’t worry, u r my 1 and only virtual lovr!

  DANIEL: Gunna fuck the guy?

  MAGS: Maybe, if I feel like it

  DANIEL: Text me the details later, we can have a virt 3 wy

  MAGS: Might just do that

  DANIEL: Send me a pic of your tits bf you go

  MAGS: No time

  DANIEL: :(

  MAGS: Cry baby

  DANIEL: Will await all the nasty details, lovr

  MAGS: Mmm, will gladly give if there r any

  DANIEL: Ta-ta

  If Tina knew I’d sent compromising photos to Daniel, she’d institutionalize me. I wouldn’t even be able to get a word out about the precautions I’d taken before she’d have 911 on the line.

  Daniel had started it, sending pictures a few weeks into our sexting spree. I’d been at work and was getting ready to leave for the day, tying up a few things before I left when the phone buzzed with a text from Daniel. I opened it and stared at an image of an incredibly erect cock. Quickly scanning my surroundings, I was relieved to see that most of the office had cleared out. I glanced back at the photo and became intrigued by its shape, color and slight bend to the right. I’d never been concerned with penis size—ability and skill mattered more. However, the blatant shot of Daniel’s impressive cock made me rethink my opinion.

  I later reciprocated with a shot of my breasts, dripping wet from having just stepped out of the shower; no face, no recognizable background, and nothing that would lead back to me. I made sure to disable GPS tracking on my phone before taking the picture and sending it. Daniel was thrilled, and we began enhancing our late night escapades with photos and a few videos, agreeing to delete images after every rendezvous. I never knew if he did, but I complied each time; less out of respect for our agreement and more for fear of Katie (or the twins, God forbid) getting a glimpse of my forbidden world.

  With not much time left, I dabbed a little makeup; my skin had bronzed over the last few weeks and I didn’t need much. I’d cropped my hair for summer, so all I needed was a little product to tame my curls and…Voila! Primping was complete.

  I found one of my favorite lightweight sweaters near the back of my sweater drawer, an open-weave, boatneck number in the most brilliant shade of pink—not quite magenta but almost. I wore a lace camisole underneath, finishing the outfit with a pair of fine leather flip-flops with sparkly rhinestones. I was pleased that the color of nail polish I’d selected earlier at the salon matched my sweater perfectly. A quick look at my reflection and a swipe of lip gloss completed my routine. From shower to car door, I never spent more than 45 minutes getting ready to go out; date night with Brett was no exception.

  The Varsity Grille was an upscale dive near the University of Denver, the oldest private university in the Rocky Mountain region. DU attracts domestic and international students with wealth and privilege, the common thread uniting an otherwise diverse campus. Housed in a renovated 1920s bungalow much like mine, “The Grille” was noted for its vintage furnishings from the antique and second-hand stores that lined Broadway for twenty solid blocks. Unlike most other college hangouts, The Grille had an eclectic clientele; a mixture of students, professors, neighbors and professionals gravitated to this cozy and upbeat place.

  I parked several blocks away knowing that on a Saturday night, no street parking would be available nearby. It was five after eight, almost fashionably late. Thankful for lingering daylight, I took a look in the rearview mirror and dabbed on a little more lip gloss, running my fingers through my curls one last time.

  Brett was standing on the front porch. Several tables were occupied on that coveted piece of real estate, but a two top remained vacant. As I approached, I noticed he was standing in front of it, staking his claim with masculine pride.

  Waving, Brett said, “Hey there. I found a table outside. Does that work for you?” It was feeling more like high school every minute.

  “Sure,” I said with a cautious smile.

  We embraced like first cousins at a wedding. I did manage to feel very muscular arms through his thin Led Zeppelin “United States of America 1977” t-shirt.

  After a few awkward moments, Brett got up and asked, “What would you like to drink, Mags?”

  It was definitely a beer night, so I replied, “Stella, please.”

  Brett asked if I wanted a glass, which totally threw me; hadn’t expected that level of service from Cocky Jock. Politely, I accepted the offer of a glass, and he moved through the door with a confident stride.

  People-watching was one of my favorite pastimes. Airports offer the best subjects, but bars come in a close second. With only a few tables outside to observe, I locked onto a young couple engrossed in a debate about Obamacare. Interestingly, they were playing “footsy” and were able to separate discussion from passion, or so it seemed. Sitting at another table were three professional women, older, about my age. Unlike the young couple, they weren’t talking about anything of political or social importance. Men—
black men to be specific—were the topic for the animated bunch. Before I could get any juicy tidbits, Brett walked over with my beer and his: a pint of Guinness.

  “Guinness, huh?” I said as if it were an illegal import.

  “The best. Can’t handle piss water like we drank in high school.” He took a sip, which left a foamy mustache on his upper lip that he wiped with the back of his hand.

  I asked with a challenging tone, “Do you think Stella is piss water?’”

  “For me, yeah. But if you like it, that’s all that matters.”

  Surprised and a bit bothered he wasn’t annoyed, I said, “Yes, as a matter of fact I do,” and took a long swig.

  “Want to talk beer or catch up a little?” Brett didn’t falter when he asked the question; instead of a beer debate, he seemed genuinely interested in getting to know one another…again.

  Already feeling a buzz, I acquiesced, relaxing into what seemed to be the beginning of a fun date.

  We ordered a couple of sandwiches and more beers. Conversation came easily, and I found myself really enjoying Brett’s company. As the night wore on, I began to see Brett differently. Sure, his edges were frayed, but he was so comfortable in his own skin. He knew where he stood and what mattered to him. He didn’t stay in shape to impress others, particularly women. Or so I gleaned from his lack of interest in any of the young, minimally dressed women that walked by our table.

  I shivered as the evening cooled. Brett reached around to grab his jacket that hung on the back of his chair. “Here you go. This ought to keep you warm.” He handed me an extremely heavy black leather jacket.

  “You ride a motorcycle?” I asked in an unfamiliar octave.

  “Yeah, have since ASU. Nothing like riding through the desert with no one in sight. I know it sounds cliché, but I love the freedom and the sense nothing else exists but you and the road.” A whole new side to Brett opened up with those few words.

  I smiled and said, “It’s not cliché. I know exactly what you mean. After my husband died, I spent a year taking road trips; sometimes I’d go for a few days. A few times, for several weeks. Folks at work were so good to me. When my leave dried up, they gave me unpaid leave.”