by Lisa Wells
Actually, it’s partially my color. There’s a few highlights. Do you like the boobs? Here touch; they’re mine, mostly. That kind of answer would make her more like Maddison. A free-spirit type of gal. A woman that men didn’t cheat on. One, they cheated with.
Lacey took another breath. “Yes, I do,” she finally answered. Her voice was a little too high pitched to be understood; so, she cleared her throat and continued in a deeper, throatier voice. “It’s a small, intimate business. You can find it on the web at www.sexyes.com.” She turned toward the audience to watch their reaction. What am I thinking, I don’t want to be an adulteress.
A hum of excitement was snaking through the crowd. Lacey’s fingers drum distractedly on her crossed knees as she pondered her morals and waited for the next inevitable question Toad would ask. It was another predictable question. It always followed the description of her business. She didn’t have to wait long. Only, it wasn’t the Horny Toad who asked it.
It was a man from the audience. “What services does Fantasy Weekends sell?” he hollered.
Lacey’s fingers rested on her crossed knees. She searched for the owner of the voice. The bright lights shining down on her made it a difficult task. When she found him, she saturated him with an easy smile of humor. “I’m glad you asked, darling. It’s a business dedicated to making sexual fantasies come true.” She never minded answering this question.
A snowflake-hush descended. Lacey watched the audience member swallow hard. A glaring female, more than likely his date, was sitting next to him. She grabbed his hand possessively and cast a bitch eye at Lacey.
Lacey was use to being viewed as a threat to other females. And, it wasn’t because she was gorgeous or sexy. I wish. It was because she was the owner of a sex business.
Men, Lacey discovered, loved the idea of being friends with a woman involved in the business of sex.
Men gravitated towards her at parties and other social functions like mosquitoes to young blood. Usually, they were hoping to learn her sexual secrets so they could put them to use. Their girlfriends, on the other hand, didn’t want them talking sex with another woman. Who could blame them?
She gave the audience member a demure wink before turning back to the Horny Toad.
He leaned toward her. Lacey put out her hand to keep him from falling in her lap. His bushy-black-eyebrows lavished her with a double hitch. She recognized the move as his signature, “I want you, baby.” It was one that, no doubt, got him babes twenty years ago when he started hosting the show and she was a toddler. Now, it was just his signature look.
No way, could there be any results attached to it with her age group.
She settled with ignoring the Toad’s signals just as he was ignoring hers. Someday, he’d probably find a young thing looking for a sugar daddy, and he’d be set to travel through his golden years in slime-ball style.
“Is that a great business or what?” the Toad asked.
The audience yelled agreement.
“Is it too late for me to be a contestant?” shouted the vocal man from the audience. Several male voices piped in saying they were interested, too.
Lacey smiled out at the audience, but refrained from offering a verbal response.
“You are such an ass!” a female screamed.
Lacey’s gaze searched for the screecher.
She sympathized with the woman, who ever she was.
The screecher was the angry woman sitting beside the vocal man. The guy was being slapped upside the back of his head by her.
The Horny Toad held up his hand to silence the audience. The audience ignored him. They were laughing and talking. So, the Toad shouted over their noise. “I’m thinking it’s too late for you, Son. You appear to be on a very short leash.”
The audience laughed louder, and so did the man - despite the fact he was being pummeled with angry fists by his date.
Lacey looked around for the bouncer. A big, ugly bouncer in the wings is beginning to make perfect sense.
She watched the woman pull her date out of the room.
He was not a person to go easily. He twisted his head to look at Lacey and held up his free hand with the universal sign of call me.
Lacey shook her head. Men are pigs.
Sure, there are a few cute ones out there like Wilbur, in Charlotte’s Web, and they are worthy of a special spider in their life to save them. But most, were better off as bacon. Burnt bacon.
She turned back to the Horny Toad, ready to get down to business. Her gaze drifted to the curtain hiding the three bachelors from her sight. I hope there’s a Wilbur among you three little pigs.
The Horny Toad smiled at her.
Lacey bit her lip. It was time to stop thinking of him as a toad. Not because he wasn’t. He definitely was a toad. She just didn’t want to slip up and call him that aloud when she was answering one of his questions. She forced a smile to her lips.
His smile grew wider.
He thinks I’m like all the other bachelorettes who come on this show.
“Lacey, tell the audience how you became a sexual fantasy coordinator.” The words rolled around on his tongue like a hard candy ball in the mouth of a drunken hooker.
Oh God, I am like all the others. I’m here for sex. How many people have therapists who assign orgasm hunts?
“Let me start by saying, Matchmaker—” she paused, pleased with herself for not calling him a toad. “—my business could be thought of as a cover for legalized prostitution.” She really, really, loved her business. She opened the doors three years ago on her twenty-third birthday. Since then, she had designed over one hundred unique fantasies for her customers. Since the incident with Marty, however, she had designed zero new fantasies.
How could a fantasy coordinator coordinate fantasies if she wasn’t capable of enjoying sex herself? Not, that sex was everything—but, then again, it’s a lot of things.
Okay, it’s damn close to being everything.
What she wasn’t expecting was for her words to catch Matchmaker off guard. He was so surprised by what she said, he jerked his head back. Instead of breaking his neck with such a movement, the action caused his jet-black hairpiece to noticeably shift.
Lacey gaped, bit her lip, and then laughed.
Why wasn’t that thing glued down? Didn’t it come with stickum spray or something? She looked over at one of the camera men who was making frantic motions with his hands to another cameraman.
Oops.
Would they spin them into a sudden commercial if the silly thing fell off?
Did he really think people didn’t know he was old? Why did men try to hide the obvious?
Was this show really live or was there a tape delay? Could they edit this out before millions of viewers saw him?
Matchmaker raised his hand to his hair and began touching it frantically. The alcohol, he’d consumed before the show, had clouded his ability to deal with the crisis with any sort of finesse.
Then again, how would one handle this situation with finesse?
Lacey willed the laughter-induced tears to stay put. The last thing she wanted was for a stream of mascara to run down her face. I should have worn waterproof.
Matchmaker closed his eyes and let out a long, audible breath of distress. “Lacey, did you just say legalized prostitution?” With a move that was anything but subtle, he moved his wig back into place.
Lacey blinked in surprise. He hadn’t even tried to pretend it wasn’t a wig. Would tomorrow be the day he’d give up drinking and the wig?
Lacey dug her nails into her palms to keep herself from laughing again. “Yes.” It had been a long time since she’d felt such a need to laugh.
“You’re going to have to explain that one. The last time I checked, prostitution was still illegal in New York and in your Midwestern, Missouri.”
“You see, I set up extraordinary sexual experiences for married couples. They pay me for the experience. Isn’t that what happens in brothels?”
“Well. Yes,” he said. A frown burrowed his forehead. “I can see the…the resemblance.”
“I happened into this business because I’ve always been fascinated with sex, sex toys, and—” she paused to make sure everyone was listening and would hear the next part of her sentence, “—the key to a happy marriage.”
Marriage was important to her. Or, it had been. When she got married, maybe in thirty-years, she wanted it to last. That was why she had chosen to work exclusively with married couples. Great sex led to longevity in marriage. Her parents were her proof. After twenty-five years of marriage, they were still head-over-heels in love with one another. And, they had sex like rabbits.
“I must say, you have this old man flustered, and there are very few who have managed to fluster the infamous Matchmaker on his own show.”
Lacey leaned forward and picked up the miniature statue of a kissing couple sitting on the coffee table. She needed a distraction, and she was tired of taking deep breaths. Every time she breathed in, Matchmaker looked at her boobs.
Without looking at him, she continued talking. “Matchmaker, since I have an over-active imagination, I combine those two things and design weekends for couples that put the va-va-voom back into their marriages.”
“Marriage? Really?” He choked on the surprise her words caused him, and his laughter came spewing out sounding like something that had just gone through a dull blender.
Lacey frowned and put the figurine down. She reached behind him and thumped him on the back. Yes, marriage. I’ve mentioned that word several times, now.
You are such a male dope.
He took a quick sip of water. Then he managed to say, in a mostly normal voice, “Gentlemen, your bachelorette is fascinated with sex and sex toys. She’s also a feisty one; I think one of you is in for an entertaining weekend.”
Lacey’s eyebrows flew up into her hairline. That sounded cheap. Oh, yeah, that’s what I’m after.
“Lacey dear, you can call me Mason. Or,” he paused and did the double-hitch twitch again, “better yet, just call me.” He pursed his lips together suggestively. “You’ve got my number, babe.” The lines were spoken in a bad Groucho Marx impersonation.
Lacey softened a little and decided he was slightly charming and odd-ball funny in his own way. No wonder he’d been popular with the women for so long.
“I’ll keep that invitation in mind.” She bit her tongue to keep from saying something that would send him into another tailspin.
“Someone call the paramedics; she’s giving this old man heart failure.”
Now what did I say? I did not say anything suggestive.
Before she could recall her words, a thought she didn’t want to have, popped into her brain. You probably haven’t gotten it up in a decade.
She tried to shake loose the image of a penis at half-staff and Matchmaker working furiously to get a full hard on.
Her visual imagination was the key to her success in the fantasy business, but it was a blasted curse at moments like these. Of course, she’d had no imagination since Marty’s betrayal, other than revenge plots; it was kind of nice to have a different visual pop into mind.
“Matchmaker, I didn’t say I personally act on my fascinations.” She willed her visual to shut off. She was displacing her own inability to reach orgasm onto this helpless old man.
If I have any more thoughts like that, I’m going to sue Dr. Sullivan for turning me into a dime store self-therapist.
“No, but you are on the famous Dibs Dating Show.” He looked at the audience. “And, what’s our motto?”
“What happens on your weekend stays between you and your Dibs Man,” the audience shouted the motto in unison with him. He stood up and gyrated his hips as he pumped his bent arms back and forth.
When are we going to get around to the reason I’m here?
She pictured the man who would be capable of getting her back on track.
He would be young, but not too young.
He would be old enough to have the experience to accomplish her goal, but young enough to have the stamina for her to reach her goal. He would not sound like a surfer or a pot head.
He would be blonde. She liked blondes. Marty was dark headed.
Matchmaker was still working his hips. She was definitely not here to have X-rated visions about someone old enough to be her grandfather. Yet, how could she focus on her date-to-be when he was moving his hips like a teenager?
What would happen if a bottle of Viagra popped out of his shirt pocket?
Breathe. She clutched her list of questions in her palm and willed her pulse to slow down.
Matchmaker finished his dance before any pills appeared. He sat down on the Love Divan. His breathing was heavy from the physical exertion. “Lacey,” he panted, “are you ready to get started?”
“Yes.” Her voice came out sounding like a deep throat porn star. Was that me? Nice.
“Gentlemen, you’re going to have to help me out here. She’s just too hot for one man to handle.” The contestants on the other side of the screen made noises of approval.
The audience cheered loudly.
Matchmaker took a sip of something from a dark glass. “Lacey, it’s time to get down to business.”
Finally. Lacey sat up straighter.
“It’s time to give each of our Dibs Bachelors a chance to introduce himself by telling us what he does for a living.”
“LIVING. LIVING,” was chanted by the audience.
Lacey laughed. She felt giddy with excitement. Okay, actually it was fear, but she was doing a decent job pretending it was excitement.
She turned her imagination to the three men hidden from sight on the other side of the heart-shaped curtain.
Which man would she choose? A thrill of nervous anticipation held her in its grip.
Normally, when choosing a man, her thoughts were all about was he marriage material. When talking in public places, the code word for marriage material was m2. A guy was either m2 or not m2. That is how she and Maddison referred to them.
Never, had she gone on a hunt for an orgasm man. Marriage material? Orgasm material? Hopefully orgasm material was easier to discover than marriage material. There were very few good m2s around.
Chapter 5
“Bachelor Number One, tell Lacey about yourself.”
“Hi, Lacey. I’m a college professor. I teach physical education classes. If you pick me, we can educate each other.”
His voice was silvery gentle with just a hint of strength. Lacey nodded her head in approval. She once designed a fantasy weekend for a couple around the theme of college instructor and struggling student.
The couple reported back with glowing comments. They had especially liked the fantasy wrapped around the bad girl referral process.
“Bachelor Number Two, tell Lacey about yourself.”
“Lacey, I’m a renovator. I buy up old buildings and renovate them into livable space. If you choose me, we could renovate one of your sexual fantasies into one of our own.”
There was a rich timbre to his voice. Lacey crossed her legs at the ankles and gave the audience a thumbs up sign. It was interesting that Bachelor Number Two had used the word renovation. She was, after all, on a mission to renovate her orgasm.
If she chose him, which one of her fantasies would he want to renovate? Perhaps the alibi-gone-awry fantasy would wet his appetite.
“And now, let’s hear from Bachelor Number Three.”
“Lacey, I’m a struggling country music singer. If you choose me, we can grab a beer and hang out on my back porch.”
His voice was unbelievably sexy. It slid through her body like a shot of Jack Daniels on a cold winter day.
But his words tripped the redneck warning wire. They shouted out good ol’ country boy. Which would be okay if she had one ounce of country girl in her blood. She didn’t. She was a city girl right down to her three-inch, five hundred dollar-heels. With regret, Lacey shook her head and grimaced at the audienc
e.
She had no problem giving Number Three a ten for presentation. Unfortunately, she could only give him five for content.
Beer? Back porch? Redneck?
Sorry.
Of course, how important is content in the scheme of things?
Lacey forced herself to think logically. What are the chances of getting my orgasm back with a beer drinking redneck?
I can sink to lows. But, there was low, and then there was low. Good ol’ boy sounded like the bottom of low. A fantasy with him would probably entail a karaoke strip tease around a bonfire.
That would be sinking to, “you just won the limbo contest,” low.
“Lacey, you’ve been introduced to each man. When we come back from station break, you will have a chance to ask each of them four questions.”
Lacey nodded and waited until they were off the air. A feeling of satisfaction washed through her. At least, two of her Dibs choices had real potential. And, considering his voice, she was willing to give the third one the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps, he was just suffering from stage fright.
“Could I have a drink of water, please?” She fluttered her eyelashes in open flirtation when a college intern brought the water to her.
She was informed, by the young intern, she had two minutes. She zipped through each bachelor’s voice in her head. She was about to choose a man who would soon be whispering sexual demands in her ears. She needed to make sure she liked the way he sounded.
Kiss me.
Bite me.
Do me.
Those were her favorite demands in the heat of the moment. What would his be?
Who would he be?
She had sent many a married couple off in pursuit of big O weekends. Now, it was her turn. She was going to be a free spirit and put “Urinal Scum” behind her forever. She was going to pursue sex without down-the-road commitment promises.
Will I ever trust commitment promises again?
No.
She wiped her sweaty palms on the fabric of her wide, flowing skirt. The skirt was a sex prop. She had worn it today with one purpose in mind. Its easy access design.
Access was an essential detail for her first fantasy. This fantasy was a favorite with her clients. Sex with a stranger—the fantasy for adventurous couples.