She pulls out a handful of condoms—like six or so—and hands them to me. Yes, Poppy is that friend, the one who doesn’t think twice about providing contraception no matter the time, day, or place. “Um, thanks,” I mutter, wondering how many condoms she actually has in her purse, whether she gave me her whole stash, and why she carries so many at one time.
“Those aren’t just any condoms,” Poppy says. “I’ll have you know they are super innovative ones. They sell for like fifty bucks for a few dozen. That rubber is special. They’re extra large, too.”
“I’m touched,” I say. “I’ll pay you back.”
“No, it’s my treat,” Poppy says. “I just expect details. With Dash being a little pissy of late and Layla’s pussy still on the mend, I’m counting on you.”
* * *
Poppy left hours ago, but I’m still hanging around Layla’s place, way longer than I should. I usually don’t mind going home to my empty house. I’ve gotten used to being alone. Actually, it wasn’t that hard. I was alone in my marriage for a long time, so it wasn’t a huge adjustment. Being alone doesn’t have to equal loneliness. I’ve never been more lonely than I was the last few years of my marriage. Something just feels different tonight, so I volunteer to do some laundry and other chores to help out the new parents.
Last chore for the night is to give their dog, Pippa, a quick walk around the block. Poop bags in hand, I make my way down the Savannah streets. It’s not quite summer yet, but it’s still warm outside, so it seems the whole city is out biking, walking, or sitting on their porches, enjoying the weather before the oppressive Georgia heat barrels through.
I come upon one of the square parks Savannah is known for, and I find several couples strolling together. In fact, it seems like everyone is a couple. Why is that? When you’re single, why does it seem like you’ve got a neon sign over your head?
When you’re young, you can have a reckless love. It’s like no one else in the world exists but you and your lover. Moms don’t get that. There’s always someone else to think about. Still, I’ve been okay alone these past few years, but I don’t want to spend the rest of my life that way.
“Go potty,” I tell Pippa, but she’s simply darting back and forth, smelling every blade of grass she can find. I pull her leash a little closer, as a runner is fast approaching down the sidewalk. Like all dogs, she loves to bark and act like a complete fool. She darts right in front of the poor guy, almost tripping him.
“So sorry,” I say, as my eyes land on a smile befitting a toothpaste commercial, which is attached to a man befitting a cologne ad.
“No trouble,” he says, bending down to give Pippa a little pat.
This is a perfect sex bucket list challenge.
I flash a smile, hoping it doesn’t look like a psycho grin. “Nice night,” I say then cringe at my unoriginal, stupid comment. I truly suck at this.
He smiles when he stands up. “And getting better,” he says. “I run every night. I don’t remember seeing you before. You new to the neighborhood?”
“I’m visiting my brother,” I say, turning and motioning down the street.
“Watch your dog!” he yells.
I whip my head around to find him yanking his leg away, as Pippa is squatting and pooping on his shoe. “Oh, I’m so . . .” I can’t finish my apology before he’s shaking his head and crossing the street to escape me and my dog with bowel-control issues.
What the hell? I try to commit to the sex bucket list, and this happens? Should I just embrace the spinster life? Mortified, I cut Pippa’s walk short as punishment, take her home, then head to my own place. At least tomorrow is a workday. I’ll be busy. Keeping busy helps me stay sane.
I’m commuting to work in Atlanta tomorrow, so I need to get up early. I slip under the cold covers of my bed. I still sleep on the same side as when I was married. My body won’t let me take up the whole bed. I tell myself I’m just trained that way, but feel there’s more to it. I even bought a new mattress and bedding, but that didn’t help, either.
I say my prayers and list the things I’m thankful for. But my mind wanders to the list. While tonight was a complete bust, I have to do something to shake myself up. So I promise myself that sex-bucket-list Emerson will come out to play—or, at the very least, not shit on anyone else.
CHAPTER THREE
MULTIPLES
I step into the elevator of Southern Wings, and a hand flies out, blocking the closing door. I’d know that hand anywhere. He steps into the elevator with me, flashing a subtle smile. Mateo is a walking, living, breathing reason to pant. The man is God’s gift to women—tan skin, dark hair and eyes, and muscles for days and days.
I hired him a few years ago to guard Layla when Gage was considering a run for public office. At the time, the media was insane, the public was in a frenzy, and it seemed all hell was breaking loose. Layla needed some protection, and I couldn’t resist tormenting my baby brother by making his wife’s security guy so hot he can melt any woman’s panties.
Mateo was excellent in that role, having worked in the Secret Service before entering the private sector and ultimately being hired by us. But he never talks about that time in his life. Maybe he’s not allowed or something. It turned out that Gage actually liked him. They have the same overprotective, macho, caveman vibe. When Gage decided not to run for office, he consulted with Mateo on security issues from time to time, so I’d see him around the office occasionally.
Gage recently made Mateo head of security for Southern Wings, so the man is a permanent fixture around here now. And let me tell you, we’ve had no complaints from our female employees. They make objectifying him part of their daily routine. They all lust over him, and I don’t blame them. My personal lust level has gone up exponentially now that Mateo is full time. As far as I know, he’s never dated any of the female employees. I haven’t heard he’s banged any of them, either.
We greet each other as the elevator door closes. He looks incredible, as usual. He’s one of those men you can’t miss. He most certainly could help me out with my sex bucket list. Maybe the elevator will break down, and we’d get stuck and make out in here all day.
A Monday morning hardly seems the time to start scratching things off my list, but if I should ask out any man, it’s Mateo. Yeah, he’s a good decade younger, but he’s polite, employed, easy on the eyes. One problem, though, is he’s an employee. Conflicted, I shuffle my feet a little. Any hesitation I have about asking him out because he’s an employee is just an excuse—I don’t care about that, whether we have a company policy or not. The truth is, I’m afraid I could actually fall for Mateo—the guy is the real deal.
“How are Gage and Layla?” he asks. “The baby?”
“They’re great,” I say, glancing at him briefly.
“I guess this is your week to be in the office?” he says, and I nod. The door opens, and he places his hand out, holding it open for me. I take a step out as he asks, “Do you ever stay over in Atlanta when you’re working?”
I freeze and stare at him, deep into his brown eyes. Why does he want to know? Is he asking me over to his place? Does he want to ask me out? The elevator door closes and hits me right in the backside, forcing me into Mateo’s hard chest, my breasts pressed up against him. His arms go around me, shoving the door back open.
“God, I’m so sorry,” I say, fibbing and feeling safe and secure in his arms.
“Don’t be,” he says with a grin before releasing me.
We step out of the elevator into the prying eyes of the corporate office. Clearing my throat, and hoping my panties dry out soon, I say, “It’s been a long time since I’ve slept over.” He cocks an eyebrow at me. “I mean, in Atlanta.”
Poppy approaches us. “Mateo, I need your opinion.”
Oh, this should be good. Poppy would never cheat on Dash, but she loves to flirt and enjoys torturing Mateo with her borderline sexual harassment. As an executive in the company, I suppose I have an obligation to prevent it
, but Mateo doesn’t seem to mind. He’s always a good sport about it.
“No, Poppy, I don’t do bachelorette parties,” he says.
“What kind of man slut are you?” she asks. Normally, I find her questions off the wall with no purpose, but this time I’m interested in the answer.
“Who called me a man slut?” he asks, frowning.
“Everyone!” Poppy laughs. “You’re so alpha male and . . .”
“Does that mean I have to sleep around?”
She just shakes her head. “That’s not what I wanted to know anyway. What I need to know is why men are obsessed with breeding.”
“Breeding?” Mateo asks.
“Poppy, for goodness sake,” I say.
“No, this is important,” Poppy says. “Mateo is cut from the same mold as Gage and Dash. Gage couldn’t wait to knock Layla up, and Dash wants to do the same to me. So what is it that makes you want to breed us like we’re horses?”
Mateo ponders the question for a moment then turns his eyes from Poppy and looks directly at me, holding my eyes, and says, “I like kids, but if a woman I’m with doesn’t want more kids, I’d be okay with that.”
Poppy wrinkles her nose. “That doesn’t really answer the question. You’re no help, Mateo.”
He gives me a small smile before walking off. “Did you catch that?” I ask Poppy and pull her into my office. “He said if the woman he’s with already has kids. Does that mean he’s interested in a woman with kids?”
Her eyes get huge. “You’ve got to ask him out!”
“I can’t. He works for me.”
“Then fire him,” she says. “I need to know if he fucks as good as he looks.”
* * *
Well, I didn’t fire Mateo today. And I didn’t ask him out, either. In fact, I avoided him the rest of the day. The first day of my sex bucket list challenge is a complete failure.
The only list I’ve worked on today is my grocery list, making a quick stop at the store on my way home from the airport after flying in. Perhaps I’m going about this the wrong way.
There’s nothing about my life that screams sex or sexy. I work. I’m a mom. That’s my day. I don’t even remember the last time I played with my vibrator. It’s like my sex switch is stuck in the off position.
And it’s my fault. I don’t do anything to help myself feel sexy—no matching pretty bra and panties sets. I barely have time to have my roots touched up, much less go for a wax. Maybe that’s a good place to start. Maybe I need to take personal stock before I can properly get on with my list.
Flipping up my laptop and putting on my glasses, I snuggle into bed and eye my flannel pajamas. Good Lord, I need a lot of help. First thing I do is surf around for new bras and panties, several hundred dollars worth. It’s a lot of money for underwear, and I feel a twinge of guilt that it could be better spent on my kids, car insurance, or school uniforms. Even though my family is well off, my parents instilled in Gage and me not to spend frivolously and that nothing comes without hard work.
But I hit the purchase button anyway. I’m investing in my sexual future.
God, I sound like a financial planner. Could I be less spontaneous? I’m planning for the day I might have sex again. Even I know how sad that is.
I reach for my wine glass and start phase two of my plan—new vibrator. I’m out of the loop on the best brands and models, so I type best vibrators for women in the search box. Did you know everyone from Oprah to the Huffington Post has done articles on the subject? I decide to follow Oprah’s recommendations, because if you can’t trust her on matters of the Big O, who can you trust?
But damn, some of these things push a couple hundred bucks. And I already dropped that on underwear. They do seem high quality, though—I see one of them doubles as a necklace—so maybe that’s worth it. I can just see myself in a board meeting with my baby brother, maybe talking about the latest federal regulations, and suddenly my necklace starts buzzing. That is something that would completely happen to me, and I just don’t need that in my life right now. But maybe the one disguised as a lipstick?
I read some more. Did you know you can charge most vibrators with your computer? I had no idea masturbating has gotten so high tech. I keep surfing around and begin to see the same one over and over again. It’s apparently the best bang for the buck, no pun intended. Clicking on it, an article pops up on the person who invented it—a woman.
For some reason, that makes total sense. Who better than a woman to invent a sex toy for women? I see that she’s younger than me—the article says she’s in her late twenties—but she looks completely normal, this female vibrator trailblazer. It shouldn’t surprise me, but it does for some reason. I didn’t expect a sex toy inventor to look normal.
The article seals the deal for me. I opt to buy this one. I mean, women should support other women. I’m doing it for the cause. I’m so intrigued by her that I click on her social media page, and even send her a friend request. I blame the alcohol for doing that. Hope she doesn’t think I want to get in her pants.
Last order of business is to make a waxing appointment, and I resolve to go all the way. No cute landing strip or triangle this time. I’m going bare. Go big or go home, they say. Lucky for me, the salon and spa that does the hair on my head can also take care of my other unruly mane. I make an appointment online and see something else on their website, vaginal steaming.
Intrigued, I read the description touting it as a detox, kind of a facial for your lady parts, then do a quick Google search. Let me tell you, vaginal health is big these days. I had no idea. There’s spas for everything. And there’s no way I’m ready for what I’m seeing. Vaginal lifts? Lasers on my girl parts? Platelets shot into my vagina? No, thank you.
But I remain intrigued by the vaginal steaming. That seems harmless enough, and I make an appointment for that, too. After all, I’m starting fresh with my list. Shouldn’t she?
* * *
A couple days ago, I had my wax and even splurged to buy some stuff called Tend Skin, which is supposedly used by bikini models to prevent unsightly ingrown hairs and red bumps. So I’m thinking I have the most pampered vagina in all of Savannah.
I have to say, it’s pretty damn masochistic to have someone rip your pubic hair out by the root and then pay them sixty bucks. When the woman asked me if I wanted the backside done, I had no clue what she was talking about. I guess you learn something new every day. Apparently, I had hair by my ass, but not anymore—as smooth as can be. So today, I’m back for the steaming.
They say to do it a couple days after your period, but that didn’t fit with my timetable. I’m on a mission here. There is a whole list of different herbs to use. How am I supposed to know if my vagina likes lemon or rosemary? I know lemon is commonly used in household cleaners, so I opt for that. It will certainly do the job.
I’m taken into this room where a little pot sits on a table. The spa technician fills it, adds my special blend of herbs, turns on some relaxing music, and dims the lights. If I remember correctly, this is how Ryan used to try to get me in the mood as well, minus the pot and herbs. Well, if I’m being honest, there was some pot and herbs of a different variety back in college.
The vaginal expert proceeds to give me some instructions on what the procedure entails, and then she advises me to just relax. Yeah, I don’t really do relaxation well. My mind begins to wander. I wonder what training and certifications, if any, you need for this profession. How is the training done? Do women offer themselves as guinea pigs for the trainees? Do any guys go into this field?
I guess the expert can tell I’m not entirely comfortable because she says, “It might help if you massage your stomach or inner thighs.”
She encourages me to sit down on the pot, and wraps a towel around my waist, creating a little barrier to hold the steam in before leaving the room. I’m glad she’s gone. This seems like it should be private time—just me and my vagina.
My treatment is thirty minutes. A few mi
nutes in, I don’t think I’m going to make it. It feels like my vagina is being incinerated—like I’m literally burning it off. My entire body is covered in sweat. I feel like I’m being tortured.
But around the fifteen-minute mark, my body adjusts—and by that, I mean I’m horny as hell. I don’t know if it’s the heat or the increased blood flow down there, but I’m wide open and dripping. Though I haven’t masturbated in light years, I remember what that’s like, but this is coming from an entirely different place.
Taking a quick glance around, I make sure there aren’t any cameras. The walls of my vagina start clenching over and over again, my muscles knowing what they want. My hands grip the side of the pot—or throne, really, which deserves every bit of my worship. I’m trembling between my legs when the technician walks back in.
“I need another minute,” I pant, not wanting to come right in front of her.
“I’m sorry, but the time’s over, and we have another client.”
I stare daggers at her and curse under my breath, frustrated as hell. So I stand and clean up, and try to look on the bright side: the damn steaming has awakened something in me that I thought was in hibernation forever.
I quickly pay, leaving way over a twenty percent tip. The only thing I want to do is get home and get off. And when I arrive, as if heaven is smiling down on me, I find a non-descript package waiting on my front porch. I smile wide, knowing I’m about to finally knock something off my sex bucket list.
Number 7. Give yourself multiple orgasms.
So instead of the television, a book, or surfing the internet, I spend the night with my new vibrator. And for the first time in forever, I’m not worried about the kids walking in, how I look doing this, whether I’m a whore for it. I mean, if I want to be comfortable with a man again, I’ve got to get comfortable with myself.
So I don’t turn the lights off. I don’t hide under the covers. I lay completely naked in the bright lights of my bedroom and use my new toy. The best thing is, it’s made for me to be on top. Perfect for a woman like me, who’s trying to take back control of her sex life.
The Sex Bucket List Page 3
