by Logan Belle
“Yeah, I stopped going.”
“Well, we are officially like-minded individuals,” he says, raising his glass. “To no relationships.”
“To no relationships,” I say,
“So…just one night stands?”
“Nooo,” I say, as if I’m speaking to a learning-challenged person. “No dating means no sex.”
He slaps the table with his palm. “Get the fuck out of here, Claire! No sex in twelve years? No wonder you have to listen to dirty stories.”
The table of college girls look at him, and one giggles. The prettiest one.
“Ssshhhh. Quiet down. You don’t see me broadcasting your pathetic sexual habits to the entire restaurant.”
“We’re moving to the bar,” he says.
Chapter 5
We find two seats in the corner of the bar, away from the die-hard Flyers fans yelling at the TV screen.
“I know a guy isn’t supposed to ask a woman her age. But you look kind of young to have been married, divorced, and gone a dozen years without dating.”
I smile. I feel like beaming, actually. But I keep it to a mere smile. He thinks I look young. How young, I wonder?
Not as young as those girls he’s been eyeing — even still, from the bar.
“I got pregnant in college.”
“Ouch. That sucks,” he says.
“Well, I have my son,” I say, slightly indignant.
“Yeah, but…” He lets the but linger, heavy in the air. Weighty. Painful. As it has been for the past dozen years.
Yes, I have my son. But I am alone. And now, thanks to the intimate details of my fellow salon-goers sexual exploits, I realize despite what I’ve been telling myself all these years, I have missed out.
This hits me as hard as the cancer diagnosis, maybe harder. Because while getting sick was out of my control, putting my life on hold was my decision.
One of the college girls passes us on the way to the bathroom. She throws a look at Justin. An invitation.
I feel old. Extraneous.
“I should get going,” I say, pulling my bag over my shoulder.
“Aw, don’t be like that. I didn’t mean to make you feel bad.”
Bad? I’m suddenly on the verge of tears.
“It’s okay. It’s not you.” And then it happens — the full-on waterworks. Sobbing, tears, the whole bit. It’s not pretty. I’m mortified.
Justin, to his credit, seems unfazed. As if it’s every night a woman breaks down over her coffee and Bailey’s during a simple conversation. He hands me a cocktail napkin. I blow my nose. “You wanna tell me what’s going on?”
Why pretend? Justin will find new fertile ground for his sexual exploits, stop showing up at the Y, and I’ll never see him again.
“I don’t go to the Y for the Erotic Reading Salon. At least, I didn’t at first.”
“You’re in AA?” he says, eyeing my drink.
I shake my head. “No. I was going for the breast cancer support group.”
He swivels his bar stool to face me straight on. “Shit, Claire. I’m sorry.”
“No, no, it’s fine. It’s early, it’s treatable. It’s just…I have to have surgery and I feel like the surgery will diminish my…um, sexuality I guess you can say.”
He nods. “When’s your surgery?”
“In two months.”
“Okay, so you have some time. Better have some fun, right?”
“I guess.”
“What do you mean, you guess?”
“I think I’ve missed the boat on fun,” I say, draining my drink. “Hearing those stories at the reading salon. Good lord. I’ve missed out on so much. And now it’s too late.”
“Are you…dying?”
“No. I’m not dying!”
“Then it’s not too late.”
“It is. I just took for granted that my body would be there for me if I ever decided I wanted that part of my life again, and now I’ve waited too long.”
“Too long for what?”
“Everything?”
Justin grabs a cocktail napkin and asks the bartender for a pen. “Let’s get specific.” He writes the number “1” on the napkin. “What haven’t you done? Start with the first thing that comes to mind.”
“Those girls over there keep looking at you,” I say, desperately trying to change the subject.
“This conversation is much more interesting than those girls.”
“I don’t want to talk about this.”
“Come on, we’re in a bar, having drinks. Why the hell not, Claire? It’s that kind of thinking that got you into this mess in the first place.”
He has a point there. I take a deep breath.
*** ***
Justin looks at me expectantly. My heart beats fast just at the thought of confiding one of the many sexual and romantic things I have never done. So I pick the most innocuous of the bunch to start.
“I’ve never kissed a stranger,” I say. “You know, like someone I just met. A glance across a crowded room, that sort of thing.”
I try to imagine an alternate scenario of last Thursday night when I first met Justin. What if, instead of getting distracted by the man harassing Karina, he’d just leaned over and kissed me. It’s unthinkable.
He writes on the napkin kiss a stranger. His handwriting is impressively neat.
“Nice penmanship.”
“Catholic school,” he says with a smile. “Sister Illuminata. Loved the ruler on the knuckles.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah. They nicknamed her Horse Killer.”
“Why?”
“She was so ugly she killed the horses. That was back in the horse-drawn carriage days, of course. But the nickname stuck.”
“She was a hundred years old?”
“At least. Now don’t try to change the subject. Okay, next thing on the list.”
“I don’t have a list.”
“You do now. Go on. What else?”
He looks at me, all business. I’m not getting out of this easily. And I’m not sure I want to.
“I’ve never had a man buy me sexy underwear. I’ve never worn any of that stuff, the garters and stockings.”
“Hot lingerie,” he says as writes, then looks up. “Great. Keep going.”
“I’ve never had a one-night stand.” He adds to the list. Again, my mind drifts into fantasy. What if we just left this bar, right now, and went back to his place. What would he do with me?
“I’ve never done anything kinky,” I say.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know,” I say, blushing.
“Well, give me something. What do you like? What do you wonder if you’d like?”
I think of Karina’s story, about the guy meeting her at the hotel room. And I think of April’s story that first night where the man goes down on his ex-wife on the kitchen counter. It’s sad I have to fall back on other people’s stories to create a list of my own desires, but it’s been so long since I’ve let myself even fantasize, I don’t even know what I want or need anymore.
“One of the readers told a story about a woman sitting on her kitchen counter and a guy — her ex-husband actually, but believe me I have no interest in going there — was giving her, um, oral sex.”
“What else?”
“There was this crazy story where a woman met this guy online, and went to a hotel room, and he blindfolded her and they did stuff and she never even knew his name.”
“Got it,” he says, writing some more.
Then he waits for me. And waits. “Come on, don’t hold out on me now.”
“That’s it.”
“That’s it?” He looks at the napkin. “We only have five things. I am not walking out of this bar without a solid ten.”
I laugh. “I’m sorry my sexual fantasies can’t fill a cocktail napkin. Sad, but true.”
“Ever been to a strip club?” I shake my head. He adds it, above a few of the others. I think of Dylan’s story tonight, the p
ower she felt controlling the man’s desire.
“How about voyeurism? Ever watch people have sex?” he says. Again, I shake my head. He jots it down. “How about sex in public?”
“Never did it.” Added to the list. “What else haven’t you done? Anal?”
“Justin!” I am bright red. There is not enough Bailey’s in this entire bar to get me through this conversation.
“You have to try it. At least once.” He jots it down, thinks for a minute, then writes something in slot number nine, three-way.
“Is this my list, or yours?” I say.
“Hey, I’ve done all this stuff. I’m trying to help you out so you don’t need a whole new list when you’re fifty. This should get you through the next decade without feeling like you’ve missed anything.”
“This is just conversation, Justin. An entertaining one, for sure. But it doesn’t exactly make me feel any better about where I am in my life.”
“Of course a conversation won’t make you feel better. But once you get started on the list, I guarantee things will start looking up.”
I laugh. “I haven’t had a date in over a decade. I can’t just start doing this stuff.”
“I know you can’t do the list — not with that attitude. But I’ll be your wingman. You’ll see. It will be fun.”
“You’re not serious.” But I’m smiling. I hope he is serious. Of course, the list isn’t literal. But the idea of hanging out with him — even as friends, having fun conversations like this — thrills me.
“I am totally serious. And it will be good for me too — a challenge. I’m sure I’ll find some adventures of my own along the way.”
He slides the napkin over to me.
“Number ten is still blank,” I say.
He winks. “I’m sure we’ll think of something.”
My heart leaps.
“I should get you home,” he says. I look at him, surprised. Then I realize he probably wants to move on to greener pastures — the college girls sitting at the table nearby.
I envy them so much in that moment, my stomach hurts. They’re beautiful, they’re young, and they have all the time in the world.
“It is getting late,” I say, putting money on the bar. Justin picks it up and hands it back to me. I’m not going to argue with him over paying for my drink.
“Do you want me to call you a cab?”
“I barely finished my drink. I’m fine. I’m a big girl, Justin. Really.”
“Okay. Well, at least let me walk you to your car.”
Outside, the night is much cooler. I keep forgetting that summer is over.
“I’ll probably end up taking a cab home myself,” he says. “I’m not used to drinking in the ‘burbs.’”
“Where do you live?”
“Rittenhouse Square,” he says. Of course. One of the most beautiful parts of Center City.
“I can’t believe you drive out here just for the meeting,” I say. “That’s a little crazy, you know?”
“I really should stop,” he says with a devilish smile.
I hope he doesn’t.
“That’s me,” I say, pointing to my white Honda.
He walks me to the car, and waits until I have the door open before shaking my hand in mock formality.
“Claire, this was interesting.”
“Definitely,” I say, feeling like a blushing school girl.
He hands me a cocktail napkin. I glance at it and realize it’s the list. Then he pulls out his cell phone. “To be continued. What’s your number?” he asks.
“My number?”
“It will be tough for me to get in touch with you without it.”
I hesitate. This has been fun, but I don’t need to be the source of amusement for some hot guy who has the strange habit of picking up women at support groups. My life might be lame, but at least it has some integrity.
“I’ll just see you next week at coffee hour,” I say, climbing behind the wheel of my car. Ready to drive home, to my empty house.
“I’d say every week counts for you, Claire,” he says, looking at me with a seriousness I have not yet seen on his handsome face.
He might be a womanizer. Or just a flirt. Or just a good-looking guy with too much time on his hands. I don’t know yet. And I don’t care. Because the thing is, he’s right.
I give him my number.
Chapter 6
My breasts are C cups.
When I get home, I take off my blouse and my bra and I look at them. They have lost their perk. I think my nipples have become slightly darker. And they have certainly never looked the same since I had Max. And for twelve years they have been tucked away inside my bra, unseen by any man except my physician.
And soon they will no longer be part of my body.
It’s like that song or poem or whoever it was who said, You don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone.
Suddenly, I adore my breasts. I don’t want them to go out this way — unloved. Untouched. I feel like I should apologize to them.
“What the fuck,” I say, tears filling my eyes. I sit on my bed and reach into my handbag for a tissue. Instead, I find the cocktail napkin.
With a sniff, I unfold it and see the words written in Justin’s neat handwriting:
The Now or Never List:
1. Kiss a stranger
2. Wear sexy lingerie
3. Go to a strip club
4. Have hot, anonymous oral sex
5. Watch people have sex
6. Have a one-night stand
7. Have sex in public/risk of getting caught
8. Anal
9. A three-way
10. ?
The “now or never” list.
The words trigger full on sobs. I hadn’t seen him write that, but it’s true.
Kiss a stranger.
Hot, anonymous sex.
I take off the rest of my clothes except for my underwear, and lay back on my bed. Closing my eyes, I run my hands over my body.
Justin might as well be in the room with me — that’s how much I feel him. I see his face, I imagine his strong wrists and long, artistic fingers. Moving my hand lower, over my belly, into my underwear, I’m already breathing faster. When I touch the folds between my legs, it makes me squirm with the promise of pleasure that will follow.
My clit is already swollen. I think of Justin — the way he said the words “hot oral sex.” The way his face looked, bent over the bar in concentration, writing things down. The way he looked at me, waiting to hear me speak. I imagine him saying,
Why waste time with a list? Let’s get out of here. Right now.
I imagine us leaving, going somewhere — his place? A hotel? And I imagine those large, graceful hands on my body. Let me touch you, Claire. The way you haven’t been touched in so long…
My pelvis feels heavy with the swell of sexual excitement. I slip my finger lower, inside myself, with steady strokes.
His sensual mouth is on mine, then my neck, lower, until between my legs.
I move my hand faster, squeezing my thighs together to increase the pressure. And then it happens, that sharp burst of pleasure, shooting through me hard and fast, like a dart. Then ebbing, widening, like a wave.
I pulse against my own hand, riding the orgasm, until all thoughts of reality versus fantasy are obliterated by sweet sensation.
*** ***
First thing in the morning, Aimee stands in the center of the cosmetics floor, beckoning for us to gather around like she is Glinda the Good Witch, and we are her little munchkins.
Her brown hair, highlighted with chunky streaks of blond, is pulled into a neat ponytail. Her dress is chocolate brown, falling just below the knee, cinched at the waist. She is always dressed with extreme professionalism, but somehow it always comes off like she’s wearing a costume. I bet if I ran into her outside the store she’d be wearing a tight shirt, black skinny jeans, and fuck-me pumps.
It’s our morning “rally,” as in pep rally or
“rally the troops.” It used to be a great start to the day — back when Beth Capezio was the department manager. She used to share sales figures from the previous day, field ideas for product promotions, and sometimes just let us gossip like a hen club. We could tell she loved the group, and the meeting often lasted until the second the security guards unlocked the doors for the customers at ten.
But with Aimee, it’s clearly perfunctory — a routine dictated by Macy’s corporate. Instead of sharing numbers to be encouraging, she holds the sales goals over our heads, never failing to remind us that we don’t want to become the department that is the “anchor” around the neck of store #448. When we bring up ideas for sales promotions, she tells us to talk to our brand field reps, and they can present the promo to her for approval. These may seem like small things, but it sets the tone for the department. And since Aimee arrived, fresh from Rosemont Community College, it has not been a positive one.
“You’re just not good with change,” Patti tells me.
“I’ll be in closed-door meetings all day. So if you need anything, it’s going to have to wait until tomorrow. And,” Aimee squints at her phone, where she must have some sort of app that tracks the department’s sales because she consults it every morning. “Let’s pick up the pace, shall we? Patti, I don’t like to point fingers. But I’m talking to you. God knows Clinique isn’t much to work with, but you’ve got to move some stock. And speaking of stock, there are still half a dozen boxes in the back. Whoever they belong to, that inventory better be on the shelves or behind the bay by lunchtime. Or whoever is responsible will unpack everyone else’s inventory next week.”
Patti and I look at each other. I’m pretty sure they’re my boxes. I was a big sluggish this morning and didn’t get to check the stock room before the rally. I’m not used to being out late, or drinking. Or laying awake all hours of the morning, thinking about how it would feel to have a man’s hands on my body.
I hate to think about it now, in the rational light of day, but what happened in my bedroom last night was pretty intense. Once I started, it was so easy to fall into the familiar rhythm. It was startling almost, to find the pleasure right there for the taking. I should be happy about it, but I’m a little bothered by Justin being so central to the whole thing. That it was his fingers stroking and penetrating me — the thought of him sent me over the edge, making me so wet I felt like a teenager.