by Eden Davis
And tonight she was in a reflective mood. This had been a crazy ass day and she needed some quiet time to wrap her mind around everything that had taken place, particularly that morning. Livia wanted to review (and revel) in her behavior at her client’s home but the echo of female voices filled her head with an incessant barrage of unsolicited commentary.
You’re such a prude…your no-sex-havin’ self…yummy trouble…one-night stand…doesn’t even own a vibrator…start her slow…you’re such a prude…prude…prude.
Her best friends’ statements repeated themselves over and over like a bad hotdog. Liv couldn’t disagree with them; technically, they spoke the truth. And their comments, insensitive as they might have sounded, were wrapped and delivered in true love. But still, was tonight really the time and/or place for their onslaught? Tonight was supposed to be about celebrating her life and good health, not highlighting her sad, hide-and-go-seek sex life.
Livia glanced over at the pile of lingerie, her eyes settling on Lena’s Queen Kong brassiere. It looked strangely out of place among the colorful purveyors of seductive suggestion. Each, with their CFM qualities, belonged on the chest of a sexual predator, not a divorced cake baker whose taste in over the shoulder, boulder holders ran toward the boring and sensible.
Jasi, not just certifiably insane but extremely organized as well, had placed adhesive dots with the giver’s name on each item so Livi could write thank you notes. She inspected them, one by one, realizing that each represented the giver’s taste much more than her own, but through each, a snapshot of who she was, or more accurately who she wasn’t, began to develop.
She slipped out of her rhinestone-encrusted halter dress and into Jenny’s gift of a velvet balcony bra. And in yet another untypical move, padded over to the mirror for a head-to-toe inspection. For Livia, the mirror was merely a feng shui decorating move. She never looked at herself in a full-length mirror with more than a passing glance while fully dressed, so standing there semi-nude was a rare happening, and completely in the buff a non-event.
Even knocking on the door of her fifth decade, the demi-gods in charge of youthful aging had been kind. Liv’s perpetually tan complexion was relatively unlined and despite a few little age spots around the eyes and a couple of pores on her nose that you could plant tulips in, it kept secret her true age. Every feature of her heart-shaped face—pouty mouth, narrow nose and almond-shaped brown eyes—still hung together in a pleasing, deserves-a-second look mosaic, and now their collective beauty was highlighted by the wise glow that comes with life experience. Her golden brown halo of hair, highlighted blonde to hide the gray, was full of healthy, spiral curls that framed her face like honeycombed fingers.
Livia did a slow pirouette in the mirror to inspect her five-foot, ten-inch frame. Dressed in a hot bra and her usual Fruit of the Loom granny panties, the visual before her was definitely a tale of two biddies. Hot chick versus old babe. A classic yay-and-nay scenario. The yay was her bust, which, showcased in this up-and-at-em, fuchsia-colored bra, was freakin’ spectacular. The new girls were perky and upright, and because she’d had the best plastic surgeon on earth, looked totally natural and not like someone had super glued half a cantaloupe on each side of her chest.
The nay was also her bust. This hot set of knockers looked noticeably out of place on the rest of Liv’s nearly half a century old body. Her new boobs were now part of a premenopausal size eight torso that on any given day fluctuated to a size ten just because it felt like it. They looked down on her pudge of a tummy, which on a daily basis, mocked her inability to have children by keeping her looking “slightly” preggers.
Livia dropped her drawers to the floor, turned to inspect the rear view, and cringed. From the front, she was a hottie; from back, a nottie. Her breasts no longer drooped but her cellulite-kissed butt sure did. Definitely too much time spent taste-testing cake batter and not enough doing squats.
Note to self: Add a gym membership to your “fifty and fabulous” birthday list.
She was definitely soft. A comfortable, rumpled bed at the end of a hard day kind of soft, but soft nonetheless. But you know what? Her friends didn’t lie. She was still kind of sexy. That self-realization made Livia smile. She blew herself a coy and campy kiss, which made her laugh. And then for some unexplainable reason, she started imitating the looks of erotic bliss she’d seen this morning on the wall of Naomi Maddox’s den. Livia slowly licked her top lip like she’d seen Coco do and released a seductive “ooh.” She closed her eyes and with open, welcoming lips, let her head fall back with an aroused moan, just like Nilla had done while Coco had sucked her nipples. Before she knew it, Livia was in the throes of a hot and heavy When Harry Met Sally meets Debbie Does Dallas display of faux orgasmic delight. Feeling silly and spent, she climbed back in bed, confused by her feelings.
The orgasm may have been fake, but the desire it stirred up definitely was not. She was horny. Again. Still. And not run-of-the-mill horny, but Maxwell, Til the Police Come Knocking horny. Prince, Do Me Baby horny. Livia was craving sex tonight more strongly than she’d ever craved it before in all of her sexual life. And it wasn’t just the fact that she hadn’t had sex in over four years. This was different. More raw. More urgent. Less quick fix, and more long-term satisfaction kind of desire.
You had sex for years but never with any real passion.
Whoa. Where did that bolt of enlightenment come from?
Sex had not been a problem in her long marriage, but it had never been a particular highlight either. Even up to the end, Dale and she still had relations at least once a week, but always at his prodding. Truth be told, she’d been a sex-by-request wife. Rarely initiating but hardly ever turning down any advances either. Still, with all that marital action, Livia had always thought of herself as a perfectly adequate lover. Having no other experience to compare it to, she’d even go so far as to say a good lover (Dale never complained), but certainly not an adventurous one.
For twenty-five years, she had lots of sex. Sex on request. Sex by appointment. Sex by the numbers way inside the box. But never crazy, passionate, paint outside the lines, drive me crazy sex. She liked sex and would even venture to say she enjoyed it, but she never actually craved it. For her, sex was a lot like potato chips. She rarely bought them, but if offered, she’d help herself and engage in some mindless snacking. It occurred to her that she’d been a trained performer who followed a sexual script that had been written throughout the years by the tastes and habits of a man whom she’d finally come to realize wasn’t too sexually interesting either.
Jasi and the girls were right about me, Livia thought. I am a no sex havin’ so and so whose vagina should be named Ethel for all the action I’ve gotten.
But Livia didn’t want to be an Ethel anymore. She wanted to feel hot and sexy now and always, like she had all day today since fingering herself to orgasm within earshot of a strange man in a yellow chair. She wanted a bold, confident, bad girl vagina. A vagina named Suzy, Lola or Sadie—a vagina that was powerful and sexual, one that knew what she wanted and took it. Lola wasn’t afraid of sexual energy. She fed on lust like a vampire feeds on blood. Desire was the magic elixir that made Sadie feel alive.
After twenty-five years of monogamous monotony, and before her Suzy shut down and turned into a senior citizen, Livia wanted to be a sexually confident, bad girl who had a full and sassy sex life. Yeah, that’s exactly what she wanted. The only issue was how did she turn a lifetime of paralyzing, judgmental morality into delicious, albeit respectful decadence? How did she go from being straight-laced, sexually conservative Livia, to a grown and sexy woman who embraced her libido and lived an amorous life on her own terms? Who was that woman and where was she hiding? Livia knew she was somewhere deep inside because she’d emerged this afternoon to introduce herself, only to disappear again. But she was still there. Livi could feel her.
Start with the fuck-it list, she decided. Make a list of all the sexual fantasies that had been previously shot
down and/or ignored for being outlandish, sluttish or scandalous by Grandma Ethel. A list that fulfilled her promise to her girlfriends and, at the same time, set her inner slut free.
Purposefully, Livia sashayed down the hall to her office and sat Ethel down. From the drawer, she pulled out the pink-and-black flocked journal Caroline had given her for Christmas. It seemed an appropriate journal for this particular inventory. Livi thought for a moment and quickly realized that first things being first, she needed to make two lists—both personal, but one more defining than the other. She pondered for a bit and then, under the heading of Sexy Sidekick, added names that in one word, exuded sensuality and sexiness.
Sexy Sidekick
1. Lola
2. Tina
3. Suzy
4. Quincy
5. Trixie
6. Sophia
Lola, she liked a lot. She thought of the song, Whatever Lola Wants, and liked the thought, but it sounded way too cliché so Livia eliminated her. Tina, her inspiration being the incredibly sexy and timeless Ms. Turner, didn’t quite do it either. She didn’t have that raw, smoky sensuality and no matter how hard she tried, never would. Suzy sounded way too sexy girl next door. Trixie was too The Honeymooners, and Sophia, while the surname conjured up the hot, molto sexy Italian legend, it sounded too sophisticated for her vadge. Livia needed a handle that when spoken, felt like her, but a different part of herself. The sexy, adventurous part. She kept coming back to Quincy, which sounded like a modern, fun, adventurous and mischievous lover.
It took Livia twenty minutes, but after careful consideration, her vagina had a first name and a whole new attitude. Goodbye, Ethel. Hello, Quincy.
She decided to move her second list-making task to the bathtub. Liv drew a warm bath, adding vanilla-scented bath salts to the water. It was the baker in her. The hot water mixed with the salts, releasing a calming, satisfying scent into the air. With candles ablaze, Michael Buble singing in the background, and a fresh wine spritzer sitting on the edge, Liv slowly submerged her body into the tub. She sat back and relaxed into the water, releasing her stress and unleashing her imagination for the task ahead. She titled this one the Fuck-It List. But once that was done, she had no idea where to start. Livi quickly drained the spritzer and let the buzz go to her head and pry loose whatever sexual fantasies were there hiding behind a lifetime of appropriate and ladylike behavior.
“What would Quincy do?” she wondered aloud, delegating the task to her newly appointed sexier side.
Toys, Quincy answered, remembering Aleesa’s comment.
Her cousin was right; Livia didn’t have any playthings, never did. Her ex had never been big on sex toys. He didn’t like the idea of bringing anything into their bed that could in any way be construed as competition. He’d told Livia that if she had a need for pleasure toys, then she must feel that he wasn’t man enough. Even after their divorce, largely because of her health issues, sex had been so far behind the back burner that the idea of buying a vibrator had never been considered.
“But Quincy was about to change all that,” Livia informed the butterflies flitting around the tile.
Fuck-It List
1. Buy and play with toys
2. Vacation on a nude beach and go skinny dipping
This is all you’ve got, bold Quincy interrupted to chide. You only pinky swore to actually do two. Go for it!
That dare wrapped in a reminder released an imagination that Liv never realized she possessed. The cocktail was fueling her imagination and releasing pent up frustrations. She thought about conversations Jasi, Lena, Aleesa and she’d had about sex; about movie scenes she’d enjoyed; sex scenes she’d read in books that had turned her on. Livi remembered how much she’d enjoyed the HBO documentary, Real Sex, and took inspiration from that. Before she knew it, Quincy had quite a fuck-it list awaiting her.
There were nine “action items” on the list and one to go, but the now tepid bathwater was killing her wine buzz and slowing the creative flow. Livia put the journal down and turned on the hot water, making a sensual game out of directing the warm water over her shoulders and bosom. The strong cravings she’d felt earlier, strengthened by her concentration on erotic ideas, were back with a vengeance. Quincy needed relief. And with no man in sight, that left the job up to her.
With Michael Buble’s sexy Rat Pack voice begging Livia to tell him, Quando, Quando, Quando, (when, when, when) in the background, she reached for the bottle of body oil. She tipped it slightly over her body, letting the warm oil drizzle down the full and fleshy mounds of her chest. For the first time since the surgery, Livia manually inspected her breasts, experiencing their nubile firmness with proud excitement. Did her first set ever feel this firm or look this sexy? No longer incubators of disease, they’d become brand new and more lethal than ever weapons of mass seduction. As the delicious vanilla scent seduced her nasal passages, Livi cupped her breasts with both hands, gently pushing them together and watching as one thick fragrant drop traveled down her left breast and hung clinging to its tip. She captured the drop on her fingertip and slowly massaged it into the nipple, feeling the slightest bit of sensation as they began to well under the slippery smoothness of her oiled fingers. They were definitely not as sensitive as they’d been before surgery, but there was now more sensation than there’d been weeks ago. In Livia’s book, any sensation at all was a good thing.
Her nipples between her fingers and her head full of her fuck-it list and all the erotic possibilities awaiting her, caused a rush of heat that had nothing to do with sitting in a bathtub full of warm water. Livia closed her eyes, and slipped effortlessly into fantasy. She was back at Naomi Maddox’s house, but this time inside the room and sitting in the tall, yellow leather chair. He sat across from her on the foot stool. The man her mind created was fine, friendly and vaguely familiar. Terrence Howard’s eyes, Denzel’s smile, The Rock’s chiseled body. A DNA bonanza of Hollywood star features. All imagined. All good. And for all intents and purposes, all hers.
“You want to touch them, don’t you,” she teased, looking him straight in his hazel eyes.
“Yes, they’re beautiful. May I? Please,” he begged.
“No. Not yet. I want you to watch me. Would you like that, baby? Would you like to see me fuck myself?” She emphasized her query by parting her lips and placing her finger in her mouth. Her digit became his penis and she erotically treated it as such. Her tongue wrapped the tip in circles of bliss before her lips clamped down and, with a seductive rhythm of varied speed and pressure, sucked. She could feel the erotic pull both in her fingers and clit and she could tell that the visual, in combination with her increasingly obvious arousal, was getting to him.
“Yes.” His voice was but a deep whisper as he fought to maintain his cool. But the sight of her naked breasts, released from their satin confinement and showcased by a half-unbuttoned blouse was rendering his efforts ineffective.
“Okay. I promise to let you watch me but only if you abide by my rule—no touching yourself or me until I give you permission. Agreed?”
“Yes.”
“Good boy,” she said before treating him to the sight of her lifting a breast to meet her bended head and taking her nipple into her own mouth. She circled her areola before lapping her nipple with a wide, firm tongue. “You like that, huh? Me too,” she told him, seduced by her own bawdy behavior.
He said nothing, just sat licking his lips and trying to keep his hand away from his rising dick.
Her vagina was wet and juicy and crying out for attention. Slowly, she did a full body stretch, shifting her weight to her feet and arching her torso away from the cool, smooth leather, and raised her skirt until it was high in her lap. Then, in a classic Sharon Stone, Basic Instinct move, she slowly separated her legs, revealing her hidden treasures, which were conveniently unfettered by fabric.
“Come closer,” she commanded and watched as he obediently leaned his face into her hot crotch. She gently spread the lips of her pussy,
revealing Quincy’s lovely pink underside and stiffening clitoris. “Blow on it.”
A steady stream of warm breath hit her wet nib, tantalizing her with a fire and ice sensation and taking her desire up a notch. “Hmmm,” she moaned. “Isn’t she pretty? Wouldn’t you like to give Quincy a kiss?”
He did, and moved to respond, but she wasn’t quite ready yet.
“No, keep blowing,” she called out.
Back in position, he continued to blow while moving his hands, which had been clutching the sides of the ottoman, to stroke his engorged member.
“Ah-ah-ah. No touching,” she decreed, painfully enforcing her own rule. Every nerve ending in her body wanted, needed, demanded that he touch her, but delayed gratification was still proving to be a powerful aphrodisiac.
“That feels nice, baby. Now taste it,” she commanded, gently opening the folds of her vagina wider.
He dropped to his knees, and with his face directly in her pleasure zone, lapped up her creamy middle with his tongue. Wanting to make the best of this opportunity, he began to tickle her clit, first at the tip and then with the broad whole of his tongue. She felt weak with want and grabbed his head, pushing him deeper between her legs. Without instruction (ya gotta love a man who thinks quickly on his knees), he began to suck her clitoris like a pacifier, pulling the blood from the rest of her limbs and causing it to pool at the very tip of her sexual universe.
Her hands, answering the call from a jealous chest hungry for more attention, kneaded her breasts before concentrating his attention on rolling her nipples until they were as stiff and engorged as her clit.
“Stop, stop,” she demanded, pushing him away before he could make her come. Despite the throbbing, telltale signs of an approaching orgasm, she wasn’t ready to come. “Stand up.”
