The Sex Bucket List

by Lane, Prescott

  “I think you know what you walked in on.”

  She laughs. “Is it serious or are you just playing?”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  NAUGHTY PICS

  Poppy’s question haunts me. I’ve never been the casual sex type. Can I just work through my list with him and not get attached? And what are his thoughts about all this? Is this typical for him? Has he even given me another thought?

  Like a lot of women, I can drive myself crazy thinking too much, so to regulate myself, I spend the rest of the day doing what most moms do—cleaning and cooking. I’m not a great cook, but I do like to bake. I always have batches and batches of cookie dough in my freezer, so I put some cookies in the oven and turn to cleaning.

  I wish cleaning was as enjoyable as eating raw cookie dough, but it’s not. I even bought these cute rubber gloves that look like something Audrey Hepburn would wear in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, but cleaning still sucks. The only thing that gets me through is blasting my music and dancing as I go. Thank goodness, my toe is feeling better.

  I hit the kids’ bathroom, and even Pitbull can’t save me. My sons have the worst aim. When they were little, I’d put Cheerios in the toilet and tell them to sink them. That was the only way I could get them to aim, so I know they know where the toilet bowl is. But now it seems they’re intentionally trying not to pee in the toilet. I mean, there’s pee on the side of the toilet, around the toilet, near the tub, on the wall. It’s disgusting. What in holy hell is wrong with my boys?

  I brave the bathroom then turn to the laundry. Usually, each kid does their own, but since they’ve been gone a bunch lately, they don’t have much to clean, so I put it away for them. Conner’s still little enough that he wants cartoon underwear. Ava has started insisting her undergarments match. In my mind, that means only one thing: someone is seeing them, but she denies it. I’m inclined to believe her because no boys, including Justin, have been calling lately.

  Jacob is a whole different story. That boy is giving me a run for my money these days. At only fourteen, I’ve already caught him looking at porn. Ryan and Gage both tried to tell me how “normal” that is, but no—my son looking at skin flicks is not normal. Never will be. And it seems no matter how many times I lecture him that those women are someone’s wife, mom, or daughter, he doesn’t seem to care. I’m scared to go in his room these days. I’m not sure what I might find, and I absolutely refuse to touch his sheets, not even with my cute rubber gloves.

  I put his clothes away and straighten a few things, although he’ll insist I messed it up. He’s got all kinds of video game magazines strewn across his floor, and I start putting them in a pile when I find a book. Jacob has dyslexia. He hates reading, so the fact that he has a book is surprising. Even more surprising is that it’s from the public library. I didn’t think he knew where that even was, much less that he’d have an interest in photography. I flip it over and realize why—boudoir photography. Good God, please give me the strength not to pop this boy over the head as soon as he walks in the house later.

  Plopping down on his floor, I start flipping through it. Well, at least it’s not trashy. Maybe there’s hope for him yet, or maybe this was all he could get his hands on after I blocked the internet access from his phone and changed the passcode on the computer.

  As I move through the pages, I see women of every shape and size, every age, every ethnicity, some dressed in men’s shirts, others totally bare. It’s the most beautiful thing. Every single one of these women are owning and working their sexuality. They aren’t worried about their wrinkles, stretch marks, or pimples. I bet everything on their sex bucket lists is scratched off already. I carefully place the book back where I found it. If my son is going to look at naked women, at least he’s looking at real women with real bodies. So, I’ll overlook this.

  Before I know it, the kids are home, and I hug and kiss them before they run upstairs. Strangely, Ryan follows them inside. “How’s your toe?” he asks.

  “Fine.”

  “Do you really have a sex bucket list?”

  My eyes dart to his. How dare he! It’s none of his damn business. He steps close to me, his hands finding my waist. “What’s on it? I mean, we were pretty adventurous, if I remember correctly.”

  I step away, his hands no longer feeling natural. “Obviously, sleeping together was a big mistake. We don’t work anymore.”

  “Chemistry was never our problem, Emerson,” he says, taking hold of me again.

  “The kids are here,” I snap.

  “They were last time, too.”

  “A mistake,” I say, and he releases me. “And if we had so much chemistry, why was there so little sex the last few years of our marriage?”

  He shrugs. “We got too comfortable, too busy. I regret that.”

  “Fuck!” I say, pulling at my hair. “You’re seeing someone else. Did it occur to you that you cheated on her with me?”

  “I told you it’s not serious with her.”

  “Where is this coming from all of a sudden? You left me!”

  “I fucking hate the idea of you with someone else,” he says. “When I walked in here that morning and thought you weren’t alone, I don’t know. I just lost it. And now I find out you’ve got some list that you plan on fucking your way through.”

  “So?”

  “So I was your only. I’m supposed to be your only.” He releases a deep breath. “Guess I took that for granted.”

  “Did you think I’d spend the rest of my life mourning you? Because I’ve done that for two years, and I just can’t anymore.”

  “I know,” he says. “I just didn’t expect it to hurt.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Nothing,” he says. “But I’m going to keep my distance for a little bit. I just wanted you to know why.” He opens up the front door, glancing back but not exactly at me, more at the house, the life he left behind, and his eyes catch mine. “Please don’t run through some dick just to prove something to yourself. You’re better than that.” Then he’s gone.

  What the hell? Typical man—he doesn’t want me; he just doesn’t want anyone else to have me. That keeps me pretty ticked off the rest of the night. I try to fake it for the kids. I’m the queen of faking it. I was so good at it, I convinced Ryan for years. I drove that happy train until it derailed in the most gloriously awful way possible.

  I start dinner in an effort to busy my mind. In a lame attempt to cut out some carbs, I decide to make spaghetti squash, which has only about seven carbs compared to the whopping forty in pasta noodles. Supposedly, spaghetti squash looks very similar to angel hair pasta when grated. Well, that turns out to be a crock of shit. They look nothing like it, and drenching it in red sauce won’t fool my snotty little detectives.

  Ava calls out from upstairs, “Mom, the doorbell’s ringing.”

  The groan from me rivals that of a wild bear. “Well, answer it, honey.”

  “I’m doing . . .”

  My ears tune out whatever the hell she’s saying. I’ve heard it all before from her and the other kids. I’m in the bathroom, Jacob’s closer, I’m not dressed, I’m eating, I’m on the phone, I’m tired. Blah, blah, blah. The list of excuses is a mile long. I’ve managed to answer the door partially nude with a donut in my mouth while on the phone and doing the laundry. But apparently, my children did not inherit my supernatural ability to answer the damn door.

  Yanking the door open, a clipboard and pen are shoved in my face. “Sign.” Without looking, I scribble my name, take the small package addressed to me, and toss it aside. I call up the stairs for the kids to come to dinner.

  “What is this?” Connor asks, his little nose wrinkled up so high it’s almost on his forehead.

  “Spaghetti squash,” I say on a wish and a prayer.

  Without a word, Jacob gets up and goes to the pantry. “What are you doing?”

  “Making myself chili,” he says.

  “Sit down,” I bark. “It took me a long time to m
ake this, and we are going to sit as a family and enjoy it.”

  “You didn’t work today, did you?” Ava says.

  I want to strangle her. “Yes, in fact, I did, Ava. It’s called being your mother. Believe me, that is a lot of work.”

  “I’ll eat it, Mommy,” Connor says.

  “Kiss ass,” Jacob mutters.

  “Everyone, be quiet,” I say. “We are all going to sit at the table and eat as a family. I don’t care how long it takes!”

  I swore I’d never do this to my kids—make them eat nasty-looking food, make them sit at the table all night—but I’m fed up. Somewhat surprisingly, they each sit down, one more leery than the next, and begin to move their dinner around with their forks.

  Connor is the first to take a bite, and he takes a big one. His lips purse together as he swallows it all down, his little eyes watering. His tears only increase my level of aggravation. Ava goes next, cutting the smallest little piece. Her bird bite makes me want to pull my hair out. And Jacob just crosses his arms and stares at me, hard. That boy, I swear—his essence makes me mad.

  Rather than explode, I decide to lead by example. “How bad can it be?” I ask, taking my first bite. Not a second later, I begin to gag and spit that shit into my napkin as all three kids heartily laugh at me. I swallow my pride. “Okay, Jacob, order a pizza.”

  “And garlic knots,” Connor begs.

  We spend the rest of the night binge eating and binge watching shows on Netflix. It was a perfect night. I watch my three babies all heading up to bed. It’s quiet. They’re safe, healthy, and happy. And that’s all any mom wants.

  Jacob goes to bed with his one word: “Night.” Connor goes to bed with me reading to him for fifteen minutes. Ava, however, is suddenly more quiet than she’s been since birth. My mom radar goes up, but after several attempts to get her to talk, I tuck myself into bed, reach for my glasses, and open up my laptop, checking my social media pages.

  I find the vibrator inventor lady accepted my friend request. I check out what she’s posting and take a look through her bio. She’s a Southern girl like me, born and raised in a small town in south Alabama. Wonder what made her decide on that career path? I mean, what’s your major in college to end up in the sex toy industry? It looks like she lives in New York now. There aren’t any personal photos, and I understand why when I see a few hateful comments on her page condemning masturbation as a sin. Damn, guess I’m burning in hell.

  Then I click on Ava’s page to spy on her a little bit—any new friends, anybody deleted, perhaps a change in status. Nothing. A soft knock comes on my door, like she knows I’m stalking her.

  “Mommy.” Oh Lord, she called me Mommy in a sweet voice—not a good sign. Something’s wrong. I pat the bed, and she cuddles beside me. Stroking her hair, I wait and wait. Ava is a lot like me; she doesn’t volunteer much about herself. It takes her a good while to process. Maybe I should ask Layla if she knows anything. She and Ava have always been close.

  Finally, she speaks. “Justin and I broke up a few weeks ago.”

  “I figured,” I say. Justin has been her boyfriend for close to two years, even when she wasn’t allowed to have one. I wonder if this is the reason for her attitude lately. “Want to tell me why?”

  “Sex,” she whispers.

  Don’t freak. Don’t cry. Don’t kill him. Don’t threaten her. Don’t judge. But so help me God, if she slept with him and then he dumped her, I’ll hunt him down. “What it is, honey? Ava, you can talk to me.”

  “He was at a party, playing some drinking game, and ended up having sex with some random.”

  “Oh, sweetheart. I’m so sorry.”

  “I loved him.”

  I don’t tell her it’s puppy love. I don’t tell her there will be others. She’s hurt, and none of that will help.

  “I think he slept with her because I wouldn’t.”

  Hurray! Thank you, Jesus!

  “If I would’ve . . .”

  “No, baby,” I say. “If he cared for you the way you cared for him, he wouldn’t have done that, so you made the right decision.” I don’t feel the least bit hypocritical saying that to my daughter. I know what I did after boot camp class was bad, but I never slept with anyone else. I add, “Your first time should be special.”

  “Like you and Daddy?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s humiliating,” she says.

  “This reflects poorly on him, not you.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Justin seems more popular now. No other boy is going to want to go out with me. They think I’m a prude.”

  “Assholes,” I say, and she laughs. “There’s still a double standard when it comes to men and women and sex. It’s not right, but it exists. Do you know the girl?”

  She shakes her head. “She goes to a different school. But rumor is, she didn’t know about me. Justin didn’t tell her he had a girlfriend.” Then she flashes me a big grin. “Asshole.”

  “Exactly.”

  She cuddles down into my bed. “Can I sleep in here with you tonight?”

  “Sure, baby.” I flick off the light and hug her tightly, hearing my phone starting to buzz. It rang around this time last night, but I’m not answering now. Mateo and my list have to take a backseat tonight.

  Ava suddenly leans up on her elbow, looking so serious, so much like Ryan. “I think since Daddy’s dating again, you should, too. You’re so pretty and smart and . . .”

  She continues to talk, and I absorb every word. I’m sure the first sentence was pretty hard for her. My little girl is trying to be so grown up. And I realize she feels about me exactly how I feel about my mom. It’s one of those breathtaking, full circle moments. And I also realize that I don’t see myself the way others see me.

  As Ava gets quiet and drifts off to sleep, my mind flashes back to Jacob’s library book. It’s high time to see the real me. First thing in the morning, I’m finding a boudoir photographer.

  CHAPTER NINE

  SELFISH SEX

  Dragging myself to the kitchen to start breakfast before the kids wake up, I see the package from yesterday. I had totally forgotten about it. I don’t recognize the return address or the name of the place it’s from. I open it up, and my jaw drops. There’s no note, but I immediately know who it’s from.

  Dangling from a long silver chain is a sleek silver pendant—a vibrating one. I’m not sure how he pulled this off within a day, but the vibrator necklace must have intrigued Mateo enough to make it happen. Does it make me crazy to think about flying to Atlanta just to try it out with him? Everyone needs a little crazy, right?

  So I drop the kids off at school, make sure my new necklace is all charged up, and head off to the airport. I can see Mateo and be home for carpool. As much as I fly, I really ought to get one of those TSA pre-checks. You’d think as an airline employee I’d automatically be given one, but nope. I add that to my list of things to do that will probably never get done, like cleaning out the attic or going to confession.

  Glancing down at the silver bullet dangling perfectly between my boobs, I thank God for the miracle that is the push up bra. They actually look pretty good in my white button down blouse, several of the top buttons undone. Perhaps I should’ve waited to unbutton until I got to Atlanta?

  This has got to be the longest booty call in the history of booty calls—right under two hundred and seventy miles. The line moves up. With no carry-on luggage, I’m next in line for the full body scanner, and my mind goes back to something Mateo said. Will the necklace make it through security?

  Starting to sweat, I step into the booth, lining my feet with the outline on the floor and raise my arms in the air. Every time I do this, I’m reminded of my mom, who always gives a double middle finger during the scan. That lady is something else. She likes security but hates government intrusion. I hope I can be as kick ass as her one day.

  “Ma’am, please step aside,” a bearded, muscular TSA hunk tells me. Shit, the necklace! What am I going to do?
Still, I drool a little—if I wasn’t on my way to see one sexy man, I’d admire this guy and let him search me wherever. He’s got the whole rough sex look about him. “Did you empty your pockets?”

  Trying to look innocent, I shake my head and smile, “Don’t have any.”

  “Any piercings, pacemaker?” he asks. Looking guilty as sin, I shake my head. “I’ll need to use the wand.”

  I close my eyes in horror, as he bends down with the metal detector thing, starting at my feet.

  Silence.

  Up my legs, across my belly—nothing.

  Over my arms—quiet.

  Here it comes, towards my neck—the thing starts beeping like a defective house alarm. Sure enough, his eyes land on my necklace, and he lowers the wand. Our eyes meet, a realization between us. He knows. He can completely humiliate me if he wants. There must be some code among pervs because he grins.

  “Pleasure trip?” he asks.

  “Boyfriend,” I say, trying to normalize this behavior.

  “Lucky guy,” he says, holding his arm open for me to pass.

  It’s not until I board the plane that I start breathing again. I spend the forty-five minute flight planning my attack. Mateo doesn’t know what he’s in for. I beam with pride. This is the new me, the independent me, the MILF, the woman who proudly wears her vibrator around her neck. I remember something on my list about being completely selfish in bed. Taking what I want and heading out the door. Guys do that shit all the time. Well, it’s my turn. I’m ready to play.

  I get to Mateo’s office and head inside. He’s not there, which is good. I prop my freshly lotioned legs up on his desk and unbutton my shirt some more, until it’s almost completely undone, the vibrator nestled in my cleavage. After a few minutes, he opens the door, surprised to see me there, but immediately knowing what I want.

  I hear him lock the door behind him, his dark eyes piercing, probably replaying the other night, in pleasure and in the peace of sleep. I get to my feet as he approaches. Somehow he seems even bigger than before, more dominating. He gives a wry smile at the sight of the necklace then begins to toy with it, his fingers grazing the smooth flesh of the top of my breasts.