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When the alarm trills, I settle my tab, drop some cash in the tip car, and make my way up the hill. I wave away the shuttle that slows to pick me up. I need the walk to clear my head. At this point in my life, the kind of trouble she spells is the very last thing I need.
I churn the same arguments while I make way to her room. Yet, I never consider turning back because for each argument, there is a single, compelling rebuttal that resounds until it becomes a refrain; The woman of my every dream just offered herself to me.
So, tonight, I’m finally going to have what I want, how I want. And I’m going to enjoy her very much.
I Want More
Regan
“If you didn’t know me, would you want to fuck me?” I prop my iPad against the bathroom mirror. I step away, place my hands on my hips, throw my shoulders back and wait for my friend Charlie to give his verdict.
His dark eyes bug out of his head. “If my wife walks in right now, which she might ’cause she gets twitchy when you call, she would flip out. Put some damn clothes on right now.” His volume progresses over the course of that sentence and by the time he’s done, he’s shouting. He winces. “Please?” he pleads in a hushed voice.
I open my mouth to argue. His wife’s jealousy is annoying as hell. But the last thing I want is to make it even more difficult for Charlie to be my friend. I position the camera so he can only see my face and flash him an apologetic grimace and perch on the edge of the claw footed tub. “Sorry, I’m just freaking out because I’m about to be naked in front of a man for the first time in five years and I don’t want to make a fool of myself.”
His expression darkens. “You’re letting Marcel back into your bed? I hope you’ve got extra strong condoms because there’s no--”
“It’s not Marcel, someone I met on vacation.” Normally, I’d let him pillory my husband for being a manwhore, but he’s the last person I want to talk about.
“Wow. Okay.” He lets out a low, long whistle of surprise that raises my hackles.
I narrow my eyes. “Don’t you judge me. You know I’ve never even considered anything like this.”
“Woah, you know I would never,” he admonishes me with a glare. “Look, I believe in the institution of marriage. But you and Marcel—what you have isn’t even close to that. I’m just praying this is your first step to finally leaving that son of a bitch.”
Relief and gratitude swell simultaneously. “I hope so, too. I can’t regret him because of my children, but I don’t want to live like this anymore,” I confess.
He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Excellent. It hurt like hell to lose you to him and I’ve been waiting for this day for more than ten years.”
Guilt that lives right below the surface simmers. “Charlie, I—”
“No, don’t apologize,” he snaps and then softens his rebuke with a tender smile. “I’ve got my girl and we’re happy. And you’re one of the best friends I’ve ever had, Regan. When I got fired from V&E and not even my brother in law would have lunch with me, who invited me to be her plus one at every single event and paid my legal fees when I thought they were going to cost me everything I’d managed to hold on to?”
Giving Charlie the benefit of my social credit when he was fired was one of the few times, recently, that I’ve felt useful. I roll my eyes and flush at the naked gratitude in his eyes. “What good are friends if they’re not there for you when you actually need them?”
He grins. “Exactly. I’m just glad you’re ready to make you the most important person in your life. And let me add that your body is one of the great wonders of the world. Everyone wants to fuck you. Even a few straight women I know.”
I laugh out loud, “Oh shut it, flatterer.” I chide through a fond smile. Charlie’s a better friend than I deserve.
“I only speak the truth. Call me when you’re back in Houston. We’ll get the kids together, throw some steaks on the grill, and catch up. And since I didn’t get caught, I’ll thank you for a peek at that very fine ass.”
He winks and then hangs up.
I turn back to the full-length mirror on the back of my bathroom door and my humor fades as I give myself a critical assessment.
My mother jokes that we hail from the same gene pool that produced Naomi Campbell. It’s true that genetics have been kind and spared us cellulite and stretch marks, Naomi didn’t test the bounds of that generosity by carrying and giving birth to three children.
When I told my mother I was pregnant, the first appointment she insisted I make was with a plastic surgeon. Between him, my personal trainer, and my Weight Watchers sponsor, I’ve managed to keep my stomach flat, my tits perky, and my ass firm. I believe Charlie when he says it’s generally appealing.
But there are places on my body that haven’t been restored to their original glory. I run a hand between my thighs and wrinkle my nose at the soft, plump, looser than it used to be, flesh I encounter.
My handsome stranger’s not co-ed or anything, but he doesn’t look older than thirty.
Has he ever seen a vagina that’s given birth? Much less three times?
I sigh and draw my hand away. Does it matter that my pussy’s not so pretty anymore? He’s going to fuck it, not look at it.
I wash my hands and startle at the unfamiliar sight of my ringless left hand. Taking it off for the first time in a decade was fraught with a whole host of emotions. Not one of them is shame or regret.
