by Sutton, Jacy
“I do,” Olivia said. “That was good. And Mike kept kissing me. On my shoulder blades. Down my back.”
“And you were.…” She let the question hang briefly. “Responding?”
“Oh yes. It felt lovely. He lay with his chest pressed to my back, and then his arms reached around me. And he began caressing my breasts.”
“And that was good, too?” she asked, her tone even.
“Wonderful,” Olivia said emphatically. She wanted this doctor to understand how hard she was trying. “But then he rolled me onto my back. And he climbed on top…” she trailed off.
The two women sat facing each other, the therapist not speaking, forcing Olivia to elaborate. Olivia tried to wait the doctor out, but the woman was much more comfortable with awkward silences, and Olivia caved.
“I told him it felt best when I was on my stomach, and he got upset and said, ‘I’m trying everything I can think of.’” Olivia felt a tight knot in her chest. She began silently counting, allowing seventy-eight seconds to tick by, and then said, “I was honest. I told him what I wanted.”
The therapist let her pen rest against her white secretarial notebook. She touched her manicured finger, a subdued coffee brown, to her average-sized eyeglass frames and looked squarely at Olivia. Again, she waited for Olivia to resume talking. But Olivia’s thoughts moved away from the sex to this $110-an-hour game of stare down she was losing. The doctor spoke suddenly, but softly, and asked, “And how did that make you feel?”
“Frustrated,” Olivia said, thinking, just like I feel right now. She couldn’t even calculate how much good advice and great cocktails this session would buy with Nancy.
“Do you always tell Mike what satisfies you?”
“I try.” There was a bite in Olivia’s tone. “Well. Not always, I guess.” Olivia paused. She sat still for a moment, then coughed softly to clear her throat. The doctor hadn’t spoken. Finally, Olivia bumbled on. “Talking about sex is awkward for us.”
“Is it easier to talk about sex with…” Dr. Jones looked down at the notes she’d been taking, “Nancy?”
“Don’t most people feel more comfortable talking about sex with a friend rather than their partner?”
“Do they?” Dr. Jones asked.
Olivia noticed a bamboo plant on one of the neatly arranged shelves. She wondered what the doctor’s reaction would be if she were to snap its scrawny stalk in half. “I guess I find it easier to talk to Nancy about my sex life because she’s not directly involved.”
The doctor nodded. Again. Scribbled something. Again.
“I just didn’t grow up talking about sex.”
“Tell me about that.”
“Tell you about not talking about something?” Olivia waited for the doctor to react, but Dr. Jones simply gave her a calm, level look.
Olivia turned her palms up. “Look, my Mom talked to me exactly three times about sex and marriage. The first time, I was in fourth grade and Nina Murman told me that boys put their penises in girls’ vaginas. I’m not sure she used the correct anatomical terms. Anyway, I didn’t believe her, so I went home and asked my Mom how babies were made. She handed me a book and I read the first two pages, which were so spectacularly dull I knew immediately Nina must be right.
“The second conversation was at the end of the four-hour drive to college my freshman year. We had just pulled up to my residence hall. I was going to point out a parking spot, when my Mom, sitting in the backseat, said, ‘Olivia, whatever you do, don’t get pregnant.’ That was talk number two. About marriage, she said, ‘It’s nice to get a three piece ensemble for the dance. Hiring a DJ looks tacky.’”
“Did your family have religious parameters?”
“No, it was the eighties. There was no such thing as Sex in the City yet.”
“What if you were to talk with Mike more straightforwardly about sex? How do you think the conversation might go?”
Olivia shrugged. “It would embarrass us. We’d both find it uncomfortable.”
“Would it lead to a fight?”
“No. We rarely fight.” Olivia claimed this as a badge of honor.
Dr. Jones made another mark in her stenographer’s pad, but, as always, didn’t comment.
“Our friends—couples we know—they fight much more than we do.”
Dr. Jones nodded.
Olivia poked to get a response. “I always thought not fighting showed strength in our relationship.”
When Dr. Jones spoke, it was so softly Olivia had to strain to hear. “Fighting’s not necessarily a bad thing. It shows there are still some embers in the fire.”
Olivia sagged back into the couch, trying to formulate a follow-up comment.
Dr. Jones glanced at the clock. “The hour’s up,” she said, and closed her notebook cover, concluding the session.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
WHEN NANCY CAME to pick her up, Olivia answered the door, holding her arms out uncertainly and showing off a mid-calf tweed wool skirt with tan riding boots. “Does this look okay?”
Nancy reached for her friend’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I think you’re a bit overdressed. I’m sorry.”
“I didn’t know.” Olivia clipped her words like a buzz cut. She stepped back to let Nancy in the front door. “I’ve never been to a sex toy party at someone’s house. Or anywhere, actually.”
“I think it’s more a jeans kind of thing.”
“Oh. I just thought….” Olivia trailed off, kneading the knobby material of the skirt between her thumb and forefinger.
The corners of Nancy’s mouth lifted. “Olivia! You don’t try the toys out for goodness sake.” As Nancy walked toward the kitchen, Olivia could hear her barely muffled laughter. “I’ll pour us some wine,” Nancy called, over her shoulder. “I think we’d better start drinking right now.”
The glass of Bordeaux left Olivia with a soft, warm glow, anticipating the evening ahead. By the time Marti arrived and they were all in the car, Olivia was dressed in jeans and a heather-gray V-neck sweater, and was game for nearly anything.
“I’ve been to a couple of these before,” Marti told them from the backseat, “but the woman who’s hosting tonight is supposed to be the best.”
“How so?”
“My niece, Lisa, just said people love her. I guess you have to book a party with her months in advance.”
“I bet it’s a fairly lucrative business,” Nancy said.
“She’s not doing it for the money.” Marti sounded like the spiky metal on a speed bump. “She’s the top Audi seller in the state, and has been for years.”
“So why do these parties?” Olivia asked.
“I’ll tell you.” Marti pulled out her phone and began pressing at the screen. “This is from her blog.” She read aloud, “My dream is every woman should come to know the orgasms I, myself, was denied until my early thirties.”
“It’s not Martin Luther King Jr.,” said Olivia, “but I bet you could get a million men to march for that.”
The three women heard laughter seeping into the hallway as they approached the condo door. When Marti’s niece opened it, Olivia could see the high ceilings, exposed piping, and a living room filled with nearly two dozen young women.
“It’s like we’re the house mothers for a sorority,” Nancy whispered.
“As the house mothers, if we sanction this party, I think we’ll be fired,” Olivia said.
“You know, they’re all several years out of college,” Marti reminded the two.
“Then why do they look so young?” Olivia asked, taking in their smooth complexions and the thick silkiness of their hair.
Lisa welcomed them, kissing Marti on the cheek, and catching Nancy and Olivia in a friendly hug. “We’re almost ready to start,” she told them, leading the three to a couch in the center of the room and shooing her friends aside. As the young women who’d been moved introduced themselves, Lisa came back with three strawberry margaritas, each decorated ostentatiously with an overs
ized bright-red strawberry, brandishing its juiciness.
There was nowhere to set their drinks, so Olivia was forced to take frequent, large sips. Lisa walked over with a tray of cocktail weenies and Russian tea cookies. “Sweet balls, anyone?”
Olivia laughed, but passed, as there was nowhere to set the lascivious appetizer.
Within moments, a woman closer to Olivia’s age, the famed hostess Barbie, walked to the front of the room and stood next to a waiting card table covered unevenly by an electric pink silk scarf. She waited silently for the room to quiet, which it did in waves as each little pocket of friends noticed the petite blond in spiky, pointed-toed black heels. Once she had everyone’s attention, Barbie said in a clear, strong voice, “Ladies, if there’s one thing I want you to remember from tonight, it’s that sex is not dirty,” she tugged the scarf off the table and finished, “—unless you’re doing it right!”
The guests catcalled and clapped as Barbie revealed a plethora of gadgets. Olivia couldn’t look away from the hostess; she so dominated the room. The word shiny popped into Olivia’s head as she watched Barbie display gadgets, taking in the saleswoman’s flamingo-pink nails and glossy, shoulder-length platinum blond hair.
The party wasn’t quite as interactive as Olivia had imagined, but Barbie did offer things to taste, touch, and smell. She squeezed a drop from a tube as she walked around the room with little taste tester strips and said, “Try this, ladies. Peppermint.”
Each woman in turn gazed up and opened their mouths like obedient baby robins.
“This is the perfect lube,” she told the group. “It warms you, and it tastes so good he’ll want to stay down there and lick, lick, lick.”
From the back of the room one of the young women whooped, “Yeah, baby.”
When Barbie came to her, Olivia licked the gel on the stick like a cat tasting milk. With each sample she shared, Barbie devoted her complete attention to that woman. There was a gentle touch, a meaningful look, a private comment, “Isn’t that yummy?” or “Would your special someone like that?”
Barbie brought out several toys to pass around to the receptive oohs and ahhs of the crowd. The first was a pink and blue vibrator that looked like a hairbrush created by Dr. Seuss.
“I have that one,” Marti whispered to Olivia. Then she called out, “It’s fabulous,” to the crowd, and some of the women nodded in agreement.
“Ladies, this is one of my favorites,” Barbie said, holding the toy up. “It’s called the Erotic Enchantment.” She trailed her manicured finger lovingly along the toy’s cotton-candy pink pleasure ticklers. “You turn it on here,” she pressed on the end, “and these spikes provide intense vibrations.” Standing in front of the assembled group, her full breasts jutting over her tiny, cinched-waist dress, Barbie placed the vibrator to her chest, rubbing it over the thin, silky material. She closed her eyes seductively for a brief moment, then looked at the women who watched with rapt attention. “Who’d like to try?”
A stocky brunette standing in the back of the room jumped up, her hand waving like a contestant on The Price is Right. “Pick me!”
Barbie motioned her to the front, then stood beside her and stroked the vibrator over the woman’s thick, wool sweater, across her breast.
“Can you feel that?” Barbie asked.
“Not too well,” she said. Then, unabashedly, the volunteer pulled her sweater off. She stood, grinning wildly now, dressed in blue jeans and a creamy bra, black lace trim contrasting against her Minnesota winter-white skin. Olivia felt voyeuristic looking directly at her, but when she glanced sideways, everyone’s eyes were drawn to the young woman boldly modeling. The group shouted encouragingly, whooping and yelling, “Go, Heather.” Marti joined in the cheering.
Barbie looked delighted and placed the vibrator at the base of Heather’s modestly sized bra, below her well-endowed chest, and then moved it slowly so it pulsed over the soft, exposed skin peeking out.
Heather groaned joyously. “Oh. Oh. Amazing.”
Barbie handed the toy to Heather and said to the enthralled crowd, “The tickler is also great on your clit. But it’s best used on the outside.”
“Not in?” a voice from the back asked.
Olivia whispered to Nancy, “Why wouldn’t you put it in? You put everything else here in.”
Nancy shrugged and shushed her. Barbie had grabbed a new item. “If in is what you’re looking for—” She held up a realistic-looking bendable, ribbed dildo. Barbie walked it around the room letting it throb suggestively. The women reached out cautious fingers to feel the rippled sensations. “And, it’s hypoallergenic.”
“Now if you could get that to send me flowers,” one of the young woman behind them said.
“Forget the flowers, handsome, just come sit by me,” her friend quipped.
Olivia wanted to join in the banter, but she felt slow, a bit tongue-tied tonight. She glanced back at the young women. They spoke animatedly, laughing and smiling. Olivia wondered if her awkwardness was because she was older than these women by about two decades, because they were a tight-knit group of friends, or because she was sitting in front of a card table filled with neon-colored dildos.
“Does it come with a carry case?” Nancy shouted, above the young women’s voices. Olivia and Marti eyed her.
“You go, girl.” Marti gave her a fist bump.
Once show-and-tell was finished, Barbie said, “Private consultations in Lisa’s boudoir,” before handing out order forms and novelty pens, featuring hunky men whose clothes magically disappeared when you tipped the pen to write. The sorority sisters, as Olivia now referred to them in her head, passed them around, rating the models.
“They’re all so confident,” Olivia said to Marti, watching the young women. “And wrinkle-free. Like Dockers.”
Marti stood. “But they don’t have our life experience. I wouldn’t trade places with them for anything.”
Olivia looked over again, fairly sure if she had the chance, she would allow a genie to grant her youth.
“Need more libations?” Marti asked, waving her now-empty margarita glass.
Olivia nodded. She gulped down the remainder of the fruity drink and said, “Something stronger, please.”
Barbie joined the three women just as Marti returned carrying a tray with shot glasses and a half-filled bottle of tequila. Barbie placed her hand possessively on Olivia’s back. “Ready to join me?”
Olivia got up and followed obediently.
In the bedroom, Lisa’s vintage, dusty-rose coverlet looked strangely at odds with the minimalist architecture of the condo. Olivia sat at the corner of the bed and traced her finger along the soft fabric.
“How can I help?” Barbie asked. Her eyes were blue, like a midafternoon July sky, or like very blue contact lenses.
Olivia looked down for a moment and then plunged in. “I can’t have an orgasm with my husband. And I’ve never been with another man.”
Not so much as a hint of surprise passed Barbie’s eyes. “That’s more common than you might think.” She patted Olivia’s hand with her own. Then Barbie brought out a vibrator, a streamlined magenta penis that boasted a cartoonish cute butterfly sprouting from the base.
“This is a wonderful toy. The butterfly’s antennae tickles your clit.” She slid her free hand along the base. “And these wings tease your pussy. And this,” she said, pointing at the penis-like shaft, “is enlarged so it can easily reach your G-spot. Have you used something like this before?”
Olivia shook her head.
“Sometime, when you’re by yourself, pour a generous glass of wine. Light a candle. Put on something sexy. You’ve got a lovely figure, you know,” she said.
Olivia felt the caress of her words.
“Then take out your toy and experiment. Enjoy it. Let the sensations lead you. Once you’ve become an expert on what pleases you, let your husband in on the fun.”
Olivia stared at the toy, wondering if she held the solution in one easy $39.95
payment.
Barbie soothingly pushed Olivia’s hair back behind her ear and said, “It may feel awkward at first, but soon you’ll be a pro. I promise, honey.”
A few moments later, holding a discreet shopping bag with the toy and special sex toy washing fluid, just $14.95, Olivia wandered back into the living room.
Someone had turned up the music, and the table and couch were pushed to the side of the room. What had been the sales floor a few moments ago was now a dance studio. Marti stood in the center, trying to follow the gyrations of Heather, who had put her shirt back on but danced as though it might come off again at any moment.
Olivia set her bag down and boogied up to Marti, bumping against her hip. “What a night!” she shouted, over the bedlam of the music.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
ARRIVING HOME LATE the night before, Olivia, a combination of tired and tipsy, had shoved the toy under their bed as Mike slept in the pitch-black room. In the morning, she’d rifled around, grabbed it and moved it to the back of her nightstand drawer. After breakfast, she’d shifted the toy again, this time into her closet, under her summer clothes that were neatly arranged in an oversized plastic bin. She told herself she wasn’t exactly hiding it from Mike, she was simply protecting him from inadvertently stumbling upon a magenta-colored, battery-operated penis.
Olivia was still thinking about the toy as she arrived home that night after work. Walking in through the side door, she came upon a flurry of mittens, hats, snow pants, and boots. In the center of it all stood Daniel, putting on his coat in big, gruff movements.
“Dad wants you to shovel?” she asked, instead of hello.
“Yes. There’s hardly enough out there to make a decent snowball. It’s stupid.”
“Well, Dad says it sticks to the driveway and makes it icy the whole winter if we don’t shovel right away.”
“I know Dad’s theories, Mom. I’ve listened to them for seventeen years.”
Olivia wrinkled her nose at him. It did seem a small amount of snow to be shoveling. But whether she or Daniel thought it a waste of time, Mike had asked him to. So he should shovel, and with a lot less complaining.
