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23
Birdie sat at the bar of Wayward’s local watering hole, drinking a glass of cranberry juice as she contemplated that afternoon’s other-worldly extracurricular activities on the mayor’s desk.
Leaning her chin on one hand, she relived that amazing experience with a breathy sigh.
It had been far too long since having had any worthwhile sex to speak of.
Nothing as nearly mind-blowing .
It was a kind reminder that she was a woman who could be coaxed to orgasm without the assistance of a bottle of lube and a battery-operated device.
Squinting her eyes, she tried to remember the last time she had sex, with a companion.
There was that one time when she had attended a beauty convention with her boss, who gladly paid for a babysitter to stay with Mia in return for her being her hairstyle model.
Her boss owned the salon and was known for being on the cutting edge when it came to hairstyles. Not your cheap everyday salon, but one where you had to sell an organ to afford one of their cut and colors.
For Birdie, it had been a good job, as low-level jobs went. Steady pay, although not nearly enough at times, and a work environment full of camaraderie amongst the stylists.
The last evening of the convention, after her boss used her then brunette head of hair to give a tutorial on a Jennifer Aniston-esque hairstyle, she made her way to the hotel bar.
After a few too many cocktails, she spent the evening with a male hairdresser that was bi, and she had been, supposedly, lucky enough to win the draw that night.
Granted, the only other contender was a guy who was rather large, smelled of Axe, and wore an overabundance of hair gel. Absolute libido crushers for a man who charged close to a grand for a cut and color.
That was the last time she’d had sex, and there was nothing exciting about it. Rather it was mortifying.
The hairstylist was tall and lanky, with several earrings running down one lobe and a silver ball through his tongue.
She recalled how his hands kept going toward an area of her body she wasn’t looking to be aroused.
Twisting and turning, she did her best to divert his attention to the preferred orifice. It wasn’t until he pulled open the bedside drawer, lifted a pair of vinyl gloves for color jobs and preceded to pull one taut onto one hand, that she questioned his intentions. When he released it, with a resounding slap, it was the wake-up call she needed that alerted her to the fact he was into something she wasn’t.
That’s when she held up one finger and asked him to “hold that thought.” She flew out of the bedroom of his high-end suite like her perfectly coifed hair was on fire, shoving her legs in her jeans, throwing her sweater over her head, and grabbing her shoes before bolting out the door.
Not that she was altogether sure what he had in mind with those gloves, but considering the hole he kept paying attention to, she wasn’t about to find out.
Now that she thought about it. That wasn’t really sex-sex. Nothing had been consummated per se. Just him trying to finger her bottom and her slapping his hands.
What a letdown, considering how she had looked forward to a well-deserved weekend of getting a kick-ass hairstyle, letting her proverbial hair down, and releasing a trailer truckload of pent-up sexual frustration .
But maybe not so much letting her freak flag fly.
Rather it was just an unkind reminder why it was better to just stay home with Mia and avoid such awkward adult encounters.
Today wasn’t awkward at all. It was sublime.
Of course, getting kissed would’ve been nice.
Why wouldn’t he kiss her?
She also thought through his lackluster response for her needing a job and his all but pat on the head, letting her know he’d get back with her after giving her a mind-blowing orgasm.
Then, again, he had been the one to inform her she had a house she could sell.
Who knew? Apparently Marshall.
So many damned secrets.
