Tugging at his collar as though it’s strangling him, he takes a few deep breaths. Probably picking up on the suit’s spiking stress, the bartender brings over another tray of shots. Before the tray hits the table, he grabs one and then shoots it back.
“You don’t have time to have sex with your wife, but you have time to meet up with Twats-Always-Open Tina at the most expensive joint in town. Something about that math just doesn’t add up, but then again, math was never my best subject.” I grab another shot. “At least you aren’t a complete cliché and started banging the nanny. Unless she’s your secretary, if that’s the case, then I rescind my anti-cliché complement.”
“Our nanny is a gay man named Hector.”
I snicker. “That would have been an entirely different sex crisis.”
Exasperated now, he opens his laptop. “I really should get back to work. I think I’ve had enough tequila and heart-to-heart conversation for one day. If I guzzle a dozen glasses of water, I might sober up in time for my meeting.”
I close the lid and then slide his laptop toward me. “Not just yet. You still haven’t explained it to me.”
“You don’t let me get a word in edgewise.”
I mime zipping my lips.
He doesn’t say anything, so I continue to stare at him expectantly. He rolls his eyes before beginning. “I love my wife. I adore my children, and my family means everything to me. When you have kids, everything changes. I think my wife is the most beautiful, talented, brilliant, and funny woman who’s ever taken a breath on this earth. Before we had kids, I never even glanced at another woman. The thought never even crossed my mind.”
He pauses again. Jesus, getting this guy to fess up is like pulling teeth. It’s like he doesn’t want to talk about this or something. I clear my throat. “It never crossed your mind until …”
“The day my first kid was born, everything changed. As I held my daughter in my arms and looked at her perfect face and those tiny fingers and toes, I realized Rory created this perfect being. I may have donated some genetic material, but she did it all. She’s not just my wife, she’s a goddess. A fact she re-affirms every day. She’s the world’s most amazing mother. She’s calm, patient, and is always teaching the kids. Our kids never watch television, and not because we’re one of those crazy families, either. It’s because she’s always playing with them or keeping them busy with art projects and putting on little plays. She’s Mary Poppins, Martha Stewart, and Elle McPherson all wrapped up into one.”
“Wow, she sounds just like the type of woman you need to step out on. Why would you want to be faithful to someone like that?”
“It’s more complicated than that. I don’t want to be with anyone but my wife. But … she’s understandably tired all the time. I know that, at the end of the day, she’d much rather take a long bath with a book and a glass of wine and then go to bed rather than have sex. I just want her to be happy. I don’t want to pressure her with my needs.”
“Oooooooh,” I say sardonically as I slap my hand on the table. “So, you started up with Suzie Screw-A-lot to make it easier on your wife? That’s so thoughtful of you.”
“It’s more than that. Once you hit thirty-five, you realize you’re closer to fifty than you are to twenty. All those things that you didn’t do because you were studying or working or whatever, well, time’s running out to do them. Especially sex.”
I cluck my tongue as I point to his crotch. “You never know when the equipment’s going to fail.”
“Whatever.” He scoffs in disgust, but then his face falls. “But yeah, maybe something like that. Anyway, I have all these needs and curiosities and … I can’t ask Rory, she’s too … too … perfect. She’s the mother of my children”—he leans forward—“I can’t ask her for a rim job. She kisses my children with that mouth!”
Getting him to talk might have been as difficult as getting cold honey out of a jar, but now that the floodgates are open, he won’t shut up. Maybe the tequila finally kicked in. Jose really knows how to loosen lips of all kinds. He carries on for a while, talking about how his wife sits upon this pedestal of perfection and how he can’t sully her with his impure thoughts. Apparently, his mid-life crisis has his hormones raging like pimply faced pubescent teen, which has him using his dick as a compass or a pussy detector. The image of him walking down Market Street being led by his crotch, bumping into women, shouting, “Schwing!” pops in my head, and suddenly, I can’t stop laughing. Derek looks like he wants to strangle me. I’ve never seen a face turn quite that red. Thankfully, my friend Sookie arrives.
Trying to compose myself, I push his laptop across the table. “Well, Derek, this has been enlightening. Thanks for the chat. Good luck with … everything.” I turn on my heel and walk toward the table Sookie is now sitting at. About halfway there, a thought crosses my mind, and I stop and turn around. Far be it for me to deprive Derek of my unsolicited thoughts. “A good rule of thumb is: only stick your dick in the vagina you married. The infidelity rationalization you’ve concocted to delude yourself is really top notch, but it’s all bullshit. You’re a lying, cheating whore, and it sounds like your wife deserves better.”
Over a number of greasy appetizers and copious amounts of water, Sookie and I plot out a new photography exhibit we’re putting together for the Young Gallery. Every few minutes I glance at Derek, but he is still sitting slumped in his seat with his head in his hands. Clearly I’ve burst his bubble, and now he’s left to wallow in his own misery which makes me smile. My good deed for the day is done.
As interesting as our collection of sexy back photographs for our exhibit is, I struggle to keep my attention on Sookie. My mind is swirling. Perhaps it’s just the tequila, but I think it’s more than that. While Derek is clearly a warped and twisted soul, he raised a few interesting points I can’t ignore. By the time we finish a few hours later, my brain is ready to explode. As I walk out of the Ritz, I fish my phone out of my bag and call my best friend.
“Hey,” Arianna says when she answers.
“Did you know there’s an expiration date on anal sex?”
“I’m sorry,” she replies. “Henrik and I are climbing Mount Cook, and my reception is horrible. You could not have possibly said what I think you said.”
“No, you heard me right. Apparently, there’s a point in your relationship when it’s too late to have anal sex. Did you know that? How did I not know this?”
She lets out the sigh she always gives me when I say something that leaves her completely flabbergasted. “Yup. That’s what I thought you said. I should have known better. Where is this coming from?”
“I met this guy who also married his high school sweetheart, and the second his wife popped out a kid, she became the Virgin Mary in his eyes. He can’t tie her up and spank her because she’s too virtuous, so he got himself a girlfriend to spank.”
“This guy you just met just shared all this with you? Who does tha— Wait, never mind. You’re Charlie. People tell you everything. Continue.”
I hand my ticket to the valet. “So, the way I figure it, the clock’s ticking. Spencer will undoubtedly be just like this guy.”
“Spencer will never cheat on you! Ever! That’s not even in the realm of possibility.”
“No, of course not. But the second I have a baby he will start looking at me like I have a halo and it’s a sin to taint me. My days to be tainted are slipping away! I need to make sure we do every dirty, raunchy, filthy, nasty thing I’ve ever wanted to do before I get pregnant.”
The elderly couple next to me gasps and then whisper to each other in horror. The husband tugs on her arm, trying to pull her away from me as if she might catch my naughtiness, but the valet stand is crowded and there really isn’t anywhere for them to go. They’re in San Francisco—if they can’t handle me then they’re in for a rude awakening.
“Is that really an issue?” Ari asks. “Prude is the last word I’d use to describe either of you. Fo
r crying out loud, you have that skirts only rule when you go out, just in case you need to get frisky.”
“Skirts provide for easy access. Imagine trying to get skinny jeans down in a small restaurant bathroom when you’re in a hurry. Skirts, on the other hand, you just bend over and bam! You’re in!”
I can practically feel her shuddering from across the globe. She probably looks like the lady standing next to me—a healthy balance of shock and offense.
“I’d ask how underwear fits into that scenario, but I don’t want to know.”
“Underwear is for losers and nuns, and I’m neither.”
More gasping. I love this game.
“Like I said, I don’t want to know,” she mutters. “I know you’re just trying to shock me, but I know everything you’re saying is based in truth, which just proves my point. You and Spencer are fine. You have a lifetime of kinky adventures to look forward to.”
I shrug. “I disagree. I need to get on this. My dirty days are numbered, and I’m going to enjoy every last one of them.”
“Oh no.”
“‘Oh no’ what? Did Henrik break something? Another satellite phone? How many is that? Seven? Eight?”
“Eight, but that’s not the ‘oh no’. You’re the ‘oh no’. I know that tone. Bad things happen when you use that tone. Whatever you’re thinking, stop.”
The valet pulls up with my car. “Stop, I’m not thinking anything crazy. Just a bondage class. Definitely a dominatrix suit. Do you think latex uses American sizes or UK sizes?” I had to get one more gasp before I go.
“Charlie,” she says as my Bluetooth connects. “Your husband loves you, possibly more than any man has loved a woman in the history of mankind. He worships you in every possible way. You have the most active sex life of anyone I know. Please think of this before you do anything crazy that may backfire. You have nothing to worry about.”
“Lamm, we need to go, we’re losing daylight,” her boyfriend Henrik says in the background.
“Oh, you don’t want to keep Riki waiting. You’d better get going,” I reply. “Don’t worry about me. I never do anything crazy.”
“When you use that tone, everything you do is crazy. Whatever you’re thinking, stop!”
I send her two air kisses. “Got to go! Love you, be safe, and call me when you get down the mountain. I have a date with debauchery with a side of depravity. This is going to be the Summer of Sin. Ninety Days of Nymphomania.”
“Just e-mail me your court date after your arraigned, and I’ll try to make it home for your trial.”
“Don’t worry. I will.” The wheels in my brain are spinning. I hope Spencer’s ready—Mama’s ready to get dirty.
CHAPTER TWO
After going on a mini shopping spree, my plan for the evening begins to take shape. My night of titillating debauchery will begin with my surprising Spencer with my new French maid costume, two long strands of pearls that I don’t plan to keep around my neck, and the sexiest Gianvito Rossi pumps I’ve ever seen. The heels are so high I’m not sure I’ll be able to walk in them, let alone clean anything, but authenticity is the furthest thing from my mind with this getup. Plus, if all goes as planned, I won’t be doing much walking for a few days.
I’m sure I’m letting this whole experience with Derek get to me more than it should. Spencer and I have a very healthy sex life. He was my first, and I knew then he would be my only. I’ve always found that freeing. We have this bond that is like no other, and because of that there is freedom to try anything and everything. We’ve never had fear of embarrassment or rejection because it’s us. Our relationship is the ultimate safe place. So I can say, “Let’s buy one of those inverted back therapy machines, so you can eat me out while I’m upside down.” Because why not? Life is full of these morsels of pleasure and enjoyment—why not taste them all? For the record, upside down orgasms are pretty amazing.
Spencer and I try out different sexual experiences like most people try out new restaurants. But I know that once we have kids, the burning flames of lust I see in his eyes will be snuffed out. He’ll never stop loving me. In fact, when we have kids, he’ll love me even more, but I’ll stop being his dirty little girl, and I’ll become Saint Charlie, the mother of his children. He’ll have too much respect for our children to sully me.
I’m day dreaming about the night ahead of me as I pull onto our street. There’s a damn limo blocking half my driveway when I pull up, so I lay on my horn with my right hand and flip off the driver with my left. I’m about to hang out the window and tell the driver what a shit stack I think he or she is when Spencer climbs out of the backseat.
Throwing the car in park, I hop out to meet him. “Hey, sexy! What are you doing here? You’re not due home for hours.” I glance at the limo. “Ohh, did you plan a fun evening for us? Because I did too. I’m not sure what yours is, but mine comes with edible body paint.” I grab his tie and pull him toward me. “My brain has been stuck in naughty mode for hours and—”
“Spencer. We’re really must be going.” Glancing over my shoulder, I see Spencer’s boss leaning out the rear window.
My face falls. “The limo isn’t for us.”
Looking as disappointed as I feel, Spencer shakes his head.
I let his tie slip through my fingers. “You’re going out of town.”
“Yeah, and I don’t know when I’ll be back. The financial bottom fell out for one of our clients, and they need me there until we can get things stable. I’m guessing a week. Maybe longer.”
Since he won’t look me in the eyes, I’m guessing it’s definitely longer. I used to revel in the fact that my husband is one of the top people in the entire world in his field. Lately, it just sucks ass—and not in a good way.
Spencer’s a financial genius. I wish I could comprehend what exactly he does, it would make our dinner conversations a lot more interesting, but it’s way over my pay grade. Not that it makes me feel inferior or anything. Spencer’s work floats over the head of ninety-nine percent of the people. His brain just operates in a different stratosphere than the average person’s.
I never know what to say when people ask me what he does. His job title is economic analyst, which makes him sound like a talking head on Bloomberg. Essentially, filthy rich people and corporations pay him insane amounts of money to consult with them on their financial ventures. Typically, billionaires wouldn’t spend two nickels for advice from a twenty-four-year-old kid, but my husband’s a unique snowflake. He graduated with a triple major, summa cum laude from Stanford: finance, economics, and international relations. Before he graduated, he published a number of papers on economic theory, a few of which got major international attention. His work has been cited by the president of the Federal Reserve, the governing board of the IMF, and the UN Economic Council.
To say the least, my man knows his shit. The upside is that he loves his job. He gets to put all those genius brain cells to work, and it makes him ridiculously happy. The downside is that he’s in hot demand and has to travel constantly. I love seeing him succeed, but I miss him. Sleeping alone sucks. Especially after spending two hours at the adult store planning for my hot, raunchy evening.
“Spencer!” his boss calls out again. “If we don’t leave now, we’re going to miss our flight.”
“I’m sorry, babe. You have that look on your face, so I can tell you put a lot of thought into whatever you had planned for tonight. Can I get a rain check?”
My eyes are fixed on the crack in our driveway. I guess I can work on getting that fixed while he’s away. “Yeah, I guess.”
Putting his fingers under my chin, he tilts my face to meet his. “I promise I’ll make it up to you.”
After giving him a soft kiss, I smile. “I know you will. And in the meantime, I have fun new toys to break in.”
A mischievous grin crosses his face. “You do?”
“May is International Masturbation Month. We all have to do our part.”<
br />
He bites his lip. “I think I’m going to need some documentation of your efforts. Video … perhaps a live streaming.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” I nod toward the limo. “You’d better go before your boss has a heart attack, and I need to get the edible body paint inside. It doesn’t do well in the heat.”
He gives me a borderline-inappropriate-in-front-of-your-boss kiss, smiles one last time, and then climbs into the limo.
After watching the limo drive away, I drag my feet back to my car, grab packages from the trunk, and pathetically stroll into my empty house. There is nothing sadder than a bag full of restraints and edible body paint and no one to tie up and lick. The sexy excitement that had been propelling me all day long, disappears faster than Jell-O shots at a frat party. I drop the bags in front of my closet, change into my fat pants, grab a tub of ice cream and an oversized glass of wine, and then watch Gilmore Girl reruns until I pass out.
Six weeks later
“Can your vagina close up? Because I think mine is sealing shut.” Putting a mirror under my skirt, I try to see if things look any different, but I can’t see shit. “I’m going to be like a Barbie doll by the time Spencer gets home.”
Georgia just rolls her eyes as she dries her hair with a towel. We’ve been good friends since the first day in the dorms at Stanford. Over the years, she’s gotten used to my special flavor of crazy. “Your vagina is not closing up.”
Setting the mirror down, I step into my panties. “It might be! You don’t know. During that yoga class, things definitely felt tight down there.”
“It could be … I don’t know … the yoga. All that pelvic floor tightening stuff she was talking about at the start of the class. That could do it, don’t you think?”
I put my hands over my pelvic bone. “I think she thinks she’s been abandoned.”
“Ignoring the fact that you’ve just referred to your snatch in the third person, how is that possible? I’ve seen your vibrator collection”—she gestures to my crotch—“I’m sure she has gotten plenty of attention.”
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