“And?” she prodded when he lapsed into silence. “What's the latest and the greatest?”
“They've got a vibrating hand that simulates a hand job. The only problem is that it isn't self-lubricating, which means you have to stop every few strokes to add more lotion or oil or whatever you're using.”
“They should have put some sort of a secretor into the palm. Then all you would have to do was add the lubricant to the hand itself.”
“We could do it.”
“And how would that appeal to our mostly female clientele?”
“We could expand our clientele to include males.”
“Then we wouldn't have anything to distinguish us from every Tom, Dick, and Harry sex company out there.” She shook her head. “We have to stick to our niche. It's the only way to stand out.” Her gaze met his. “So what do you think they're planning for the Sextravaganza?”
“I think it doesn't matter what they're planning. We need to worry about what we're planning, which isn't much at this point.”
“It will be by the time I'm done.” She wasn't just getting herself back on track personally. She was doing it professionally, as well. She was going to pick up where she'd left off eight years ago, when she'd been all about making things happen rather than letting them happen. That's how she'd snagged Mark in the first place. She'd been determined to find a perfect boyfriend, and she'd done just that. She'd been determined to start her own company and she'd done just that. But those had merely been steps to get her to her true goal—her own family and the position as head designer for the largest sex aid company in the world.
She'd fallen into a major rut and it was time to pull herself out. She was going for the gold this time—a baby of her own and the job of her dreams.
And the first steps to take her the distance? Her Perfect Daddy list and the ultimate orgasm.
The thought sent a surge of determination through her and she picked up her steps on the racquetball court. She slammed the ball and sent Albert running with each return shot, until they were both panting and sweating.
“I'm getting too old for this,” he gasped as he missed the last shot and gave up.
Xandra smiled. “I believe that's my line. Men don't get old. They get better.”
“Okay, so I'm getting too good for this. Either way, I'm this close to having a heart attack. Let's call it quits and grab some lunch.”
“Whatever you say, Gramps.”
Albert knotted the towel around his waist when he stepped from the shower later that afternoon and made a solemn promise to himself.
He was not going to look.
He did not have any gray hair down there. And even if he did, all the better. For men, gray hair meant maturity and knowledge and experience and—
Christ, he had a gray hair.
He drank in a deep breath as he examined the area in question. Hey, a lot of guys had one gray hair. Some probably even had two. And quite a few more likely had three. It was no big deal that he had…Five?
Albert closed his eyes and did his best to ignore the sudden hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach.
It didn't matter. A few gray hairs down south, even five, did not change who he was or make him any less of a person. He was a successful guy. A happening guy. He had big blue eyes thanks to good genes and the added oomph of a pair of colored contacts. A great smile thanks to five years with braces and thousands of dollars spent on cosmetic whitening. He had a thick, full head of hair courtesy of the multitude of vitamins he sucked down religiously. He had a nice build, good muscle tone, and an above average package. He also had a great job that brought in a six-figure salary. And a high-rise apartment in the heart of downtown Houston, complete with valet parking and a doorman.
Yep, he was in his prime. At the top of his game. The world was his oyster and all he had to do was reach out, suck it in, and enjoy.
The last thing he needed to worry about was losing his youth or his edge or his whole happening guy status.
It wasn't like he'd found six hairs, for crying out loud. Or that life was downhill from here on out. Or that the only thing he had to do on a star-studded Saturday night was have dinner with his parents.
“You're a half hour early,” Chuck Sinclair declared when he pulled open the door.
Albert forced a smile for the man who'd nurtured him through colds and made costumes for his school plays and baked him brownies when Becky Dreyer had broken his heart in the sixth grade. “thought maybe we could visit before dinner.”
“What a wonderful idea!” Chuck beamed. He wore khaki slacks, a white button-up shirt, and a red apron that read He had a head full of silvery gray hair—barely visible beneath the white chef's hat he wore—and an equally gray mustache.
If Albert hadn't known better, he would have sworn the man standing in front of him was Chef Boyardee rather than his father, who'd been a personal stylist for a local television network in his younger years. Now he sold real estate part-time and lived for macramé and his Kathie Lee Gifford aerobics video collection.
“And you brought a gift, too,” Chuck exclaimed when he saw the bottle of wine in Albert's hand. “For moi?” He all but teared up as he took the white zinfandel. “You're such a sweet, sweet boy. Francis”—the man turned and called over his shoulder—“guess what Albert brought us?”
“A bottle of wine?” came the deep masculine voice from the den.
“How did you know?”
“He always brings wine.”
“That's because he knows how much we like wine.” Chuck turned back to Albert. “You're so thoughtful, dear. Come in, come in. Your father's watching Outdoor World, as usual.”
“I heard that,” came the deep voice from the other room.
“I hope so. I said it loud enough.” At Albert's wide-eyed expression, Chuck added, “We're all about communication now. Our therapist said that we shouldn't suppress our feelings. We should just let it all hang out. If I'm mad because your father leaves his socks in the den, I don't hold it in anymore. I just let it go.”
“You guys are seeing a therapist for communication problems?” It wasn't the fact that they were seeing a therapist that bothered Albert—his parents were always seeing a therapist. Albert himself had been a regular at Dr. Cherry Chandler's office until his eighteenth birthday when his parents had decided he was sensitive and well-rounded enough to face the world on his own. That, and the fact that Dr. Chandler stopped seeing individual patients to focus on bringing her message of sensitivity to the vast majority, rather than one convert at a time.
Up until then, however, they'd been concerned with his emotional stability. After all, it wasn't easy being the son of a gay couple. And it was even harder to be the son of the only openly gay couple in suburban Texas.
But Albert had managed just fine thanks to a house full of love and support, and the fact that he'd been an impressive six feet two by the time he'd turned fifteen and a pretty decent football player. Most people were willing to overlook the two men sitting in the stands, wearing buttons, so long as their son was throwing touchdown passes.
“We don't talk enough. I tend to suppress my needs and wants in the vain hope that your father will be intuitive enough to sense them. But he isn't. I'm convinced he slept through that ‘Being a Sensitive Mate'seminar we took summer before last. Why, the only thing he's in tune with is the television.”
“But you're okay, right? You and Dad are still solid?” “Of course, dear. But we're still just people and we need a little help once in a while. That's why we're doing a communications seminar with one of Dr. Chandler's associates at the University of Houston.” Chuck motioned to a nearby bookshelf filled with a row of bright red books. Everything from The Sensitive Housemate to The Sensitive Communicator. “The instructor teaches straight from Dr. Chandler's books and she said our situation is common at this point in the relationship. It's empty-nest syndrome.”
“I've been out of the house for over fifteen years.” “It's latent em
pty-nest syndrome. See, we were so excited at the chance to do our own thing once you left—no offense, dear—that we didn't feel the loss right away. But now that we've settled into a boring routine that involves just the two of us, we're each feeling empty and isolated. The only way to combat that feeling is communication.”
“Or a great, big, fat steak,” Francis called from the other room. “Is dinner ready yet?”
“Almost, and you know steak is bad for your arteries. We're having spaghetti and veggie balls.”
“Whatever. need to eat.”
“You need to turn the to something we can all enjoy.”
“You like fishing,” came the grumble from the other room.
“like to cook and eat fish. don't like fishing.”
“They flash recipes before they roll the credits. I'll write one down for you.”
Chuck smiled. “See? The therapy is working already. talk and your father really does listen.” He shut the door behind Albert and motioned to the open doorway to the left. “I've got bread sticks in the oven. Why don't you go join your father? Maybe you can get him to change that awful channel.”
“You're not supposed to criticize the other person's lifestyle,” Francis said from the other room.
“didn't criticize,” Chuck replied. “voiced an opinion.”
“Same thing.”
“Hardly.” Chuck disappeared into the kitchen while Albert headed for the den.
“Hey, Dad,” Albert said as he walked in and spotted the large man wearing faded jeans, a Texans sweatshirt, and a baseball cap. He was sprawled in a leather recliner, his white-socked feet crossed, a remote control in his hand.
“Hey, son.” The man smiled. “How's work?”
“Good.”
“Good. And how's…Holy moly, would you look at the size of that catfish?” His dad's attention shifted back to the television and Albert spent the next fifteen minutes watching his father watch fishing until Chuck called them to dinner.
“This is pretty good,” Francis said as he shoved a bite of food into his mouth and set about devouring the plate of pasta in front of him.
“Very good,” Albert agreed, taking a bite, followed by a sip of wine.
“This is so nice,” Chuck said as he stretched out his arms and touched both men on either side of him. “I miss the three of us at dinner together. We should do it more often.”
“The boy's busy. He's got a life.”
“I know that,” Chuck said. “I just said it's lonely at the table. That doesn't mean I expect him to give up everything to drive home and eat with us every night. It just means that I miss having more people at the dinner table. Speaking of which, Molly and Margie's oldest daughter is pregnant. They're going to have grandbaby number four. Isn't that wonderful?” Chuck sighed. “What I wouldn't give to have one grandbaby, much less four.”
“Now, Chuckles. You know what Dr. Chandler said in her last book—a truly sensitive partner is supposed to be considerate of all family members, meaning we're not supposed to let our latent empty-nest syndrome fall back on Albert. He has his own life to lead and our problems are our problems.”
“I'm not saying Albert needs to give me a grandchild. It's just that he's getting to that age where most people seriously think about settling down with the right person and having children, so it's only natural that I would start to think about the possibility of grandchildren. Or at least the possibility that Albert will actually bring a date to Molly and Margie's youngest daughter's wedding. She's getting married in three weeks.” Chuck turned to him. “Are you seeing anyone right now?” When Albert shook his head, Chuck added, “Is there anyone you're even the least bit interested in that you might ask?” Another shake and Chuck frowned. “Dear, I know it's hard in this day and age to meet the right person, but you have to try. You're not getting any younger. At your age, I was already making cupcakes for your kindergarten parties and your father was coaching Little League. Not that I'm saying you're old. It's just…Time is wasting.”
“Chuckles,” Francis warned.
“Now, now, I'm not doing anything. I'm just giving Albert a little food for thought and drawing his attention to the fact that he could at least bring a date to the wedding.”
“I'm sure he has plenty of other things to think about besides a date for some fancy schmancy wedding,” Francis said.
He was right. Albert was spearheading the product development of three different new vibrators, not to mention overseeing the manufacture of the company's new spring line. The last thing he needed to think about was a date for Molly and Margie's youngest daughter's wedding. Or how his clock was ticking. Or how the most intimate contact he'd had with a woman in the past six months was earlier that afternoon when he'd tripped over his racquet and stumbled into old Mrs. Witherspoon who'd been manuevering her walker toward the sauna.
Christ, his clock was ticking and it was just a matter of time before the alarm sounded.
Time's up!
Chapter Six
What does every woman really want?” Xandra stood at the head of the pink marble conference table Monday morning and posed the question to the half dozen members of Wild Woman's corporate team who'd assembled for their weekly meeting.
“A lifetime supply of Godiva chocolates.” “A pair of run-resistant panty hose.” “Another season of Sex and the City.” “The starring role on the next Bachelorette.” “A Persian cat addicted to peanut butter and a jar of extra creamy Jif.”
“Good answers, but I'm talking every woman, regardless of race, creed, color, socioeconomic status or”—her gaze shifted to Stacey Bernard, the engineer in charge of product implementation—“lack of a decent social life. A need that crosses all lines of distinction. A desire all women share, whether they're short or tall, blonde, or brunette, whether they're from Podunk, Idaho, or New York City. A longing that spans all cultural and geographic boundaries.”
“How about two Persians?” Stacey offered.
“Now we know why you're in charge of product implementation, rather than development,” Albert said.
“I'm just as creative as you.” Stacey glared at Albert.
“In your dreams.”
“Believe me, you're not anywhere close to my dreams.”
“It's just you and the peanut butter and the Persian.”
“At least I have a sex life that consists of something besides my hand.”
“Yeah, one that has you at the top of the SPCA's most wanted list.”
“Peanut is as happy as a clam—”
“People,” Xandra cut in. “Can we please stick to the subject.”
“Fruit,” Stacey muttered.
“Witch,” Albert muttered back.
“I can practically feel the love in this room,” Xandra said before giving Stacey a look that she quickly shifted to Albert. “Can we please get back on track?”
“I'm with you, boss,” Stacey said.
“Me, too,” Albert added.
“Good. Every woman. Serious need. Think people.” She eyed the roomful of people and took in the shrugs and exasperated sighs. “An orgasm,” she finally declared. “Every woman wants an orgasm, but not just any old kind. One that's intense. Mind-blowing. Life-changing. The ultimate orgasm.”
“Mine are all like that,” Stacey said.
“Says who?” Albert eyed her. “Peanut?”
“Would you just leave Peanut out of this?”
“You brought him up.”
“Peanut's a she, not a he.”
“And you think I butter my bread on the opposite side?”
“Forget Peanut,” Xandra shouted. “This is about coming up with a product that will guarantee every woman an ultimate orgasm, regardless of how good or bad her partner is. It's about this.” Xandra held up the drawing she'd spent all of Sunday working on.
“It looks like a female condom.” The comment came from Kimmy Adams.
Kimmy was Xandra's personal assistant. She was blonde and beautiful and always the
best dressed employee at Wild Woman. Albert, the only male team leader, wore khakis and a white polo shirt. Stacey wore black slacks and a black blouse covered with a white lab coat. The half dozen others went for comfort, wearing either jeans or capris paired with a casual shirt.
Kimmy, on the other hand, put fashion above everything else. She wore a trendy red skirt with a matching jacket. Red sandals with two inch high heels completed the outfit, along with a set of silver bangle bracelets and a pair of hoop earrings. With the brains to back up her looks—she was an honors graduate from Rice University with a degree in marketing—Kimmy was the epitome of the young, hip professional.
Even more, she looked as if she was comfortable all dressed up, unlike her boss who felt like a stuffed sausage in her pin-striped Liz Claiborne skirt and jacket.
Xandra tugged at the hem of her jacket and drew in a much-needed breath—with her extra ten pounds she was busting at the seams. “It is a female condom,” she went on. “But it's also much more. It has heat receptors.” She pointed to the illustration of the small device she'd seen featured in the most recent issue of Science Digest. “Or at least, it will when we're done with it. See, the idea is this: to take a female condom, fill it with heat receptors, and market it as the new orgasmic enhancement product.”
“Why a female condom? Why not the all-familiar male condom?”
“Because male prophylactics are designed to fit a man's penis which, unfortunately, is not always designed to fit his partner. This product will be crafted specifically for a woman's body, to fit comfortably inside and cling to the walls of her vagina. She'll be able to choose from a variety of sizes to guarantee a perfect fit. A man's penis size won't matter at all. This product is all about a woman taking charge of her own pleasure, guaranteeing it. As long as the man can move, it won't matter how expert his lovemaking skills. Which brings us to how it actually works. See”—she pointed to the diagram—“the penis—any penis—generates friction and heat with a steady in-and-out motion. These receptors will trap that heat and send out an electrical pulse. This pulse brings the female condom alive and, in turn, stimulates the adjoining tissue. In essence, it zaps the nerves.”
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