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“Lucy,” she starts, dragging the terry cloth along her chin and down her throat. “I don’t want you to get mad or offended or anything,” she continues, drawing her words out slowly, cautiously.
But I already know.
“It’s ok Maxi, it’s not you. It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to orgasm. Months. Maybe even a year.”
She cups a hand to her gaping mouth, her eyebrows shooting up to her hairline. “Lucy,” she breathes, her disbelief palpable. “Why not? Wait—didn’t you and your ex break up just a few months ago?” She’s doing mental math.
I nod my head with a sad smile pulling at my lips. “Yeah, two months ago. I actually broke up with him the day before my first day at Crave.”
“Oh-oh,” she stutters, clearly having solved the equation.
“It wasn’t a good relationship. And Jizzabelle,” I start, unsure of where I’m taking this. It’s better to not get into a lot of detail, because starting fresh requires not a single crumb of the past. “Jizzabelle was not at all like Crave,” I say, deciding those words are perfect and truthful, yet not too descriptive. She bobs her head as she drops the towel in the laundry bin near us. They’re kind of everywhere around here, and it’s so much better than wet spots all over the floor, like at Jizzabelle.
“I’m sorry. I hope you find it again,” she says, pouting her plush bottom lip. I smile and slide into the robe I’d draped on the chair before the scene.
“Thanks,” I smile, unsure of how to respond to that comment.
The idea of being intimate, having someone inside me in those ways again, comes with a plethora of various emotions.
Excitement, because sex is the ultimate way to be connected to someone. And when you care about them, it’s goddamn magic.
Fear, because what if? There are so many, my brain spins at the notion:what if. Because I’ve been taken down by the what if’s before.
Andnerves. Nervous to be vulnerable to heartbreak and abuse. Nervous that it’s too soon. Nervous that I’m undeserving. Nervous that I attract the losers. Just plain nervous.
I didn’t think I’d want to share that part of me ever again. I thought I’d ruined it, used and abused myself in getting orgasms and handing them to undeserving partners—and Jizzabelle. I’ve accepted I will never be able to mentally get myself to a place where I could orgasm again.
I’ve kind of made my peace with it.
I still like sex. I still enjoy my job. There’s just nofinalefor me. I can live with that.
I don’t need to figure out an explanation for her though, because Maxi turns and waves me off as she heads to makeup. I have casting with Vienna today—our first day, and my focus should be there. Focused on the great deal Debauchery and Crave made me, and all the opportunity stretched before me.
Orgasms can wait.
“And that’s how casting works. Pretty cool, right?” Vienna nods excitedly, bumping her glasses up her nose with a curled knuckle. In her overalls—smeared with all sorts of hues of clay—and Crocs, she beams at me, completely unphased by the fact that I’m spread eagle in front of her.
I nod with a smile, because even with a ton of shit on my mind, her happiness is infectious, even if only slightly. “Yeah, it’s very cool.”
She takes a rubber glove—one so big I think it’s got a full sleeve attached—and shoves her arm in with a snap. “Now, you coconut oil up and I’ll grab the mixture. Your body chemistry and natural resting heat will be different than Tucker’s, and that’s what this formula is based off of, so don’t get concerned if we have to do this part like, twenty times.” She smiles. “It’s just part of the process.”
I nod as I nab the bottle of coconut oil and squirt a healthy amount into my palm. After distributing the oil to both palms, I coat my labia and groin, spreading some of the warm liquid up my thighs.
Vienna turns around with compound in an injectable syringe, her molding cup out. She seals it around my vagina, injecting the warm mix from the top. It fills in around me, rough and heavy, and I take a deep breath to steady the ripple of discomfort that wriggles down my back.
“You feel like you have to pee?” Vienna questions, though clearly rhetorical. “That’s normal. It’s the weight of the clay and the heat. It made Tuck feel that way, too. Of course,” she smiles, talking now more to herself than to me, but I’m grateful for the distraction. “He didn’t tell me that until after. If he would have, I could’ve told him it was normal.”
“You two make a great couple. Are you excited to be engaged?” Even I know the question is dumb as I say it, because of course she’s happy to be engaged to the man she loves. That’s normal. But I’m so awkward around relationships now, because it’s been so long since I’ve experienced a healthy romantic one. Even speaking about one feels like cautiously tiptoeing around shattered glass.
She’s so overtly happy that she doesn’t pay attention to how stupid the question is. “Yes,” she beams, eyes shiny. “I’m so excited. Vienna Eliot sounds so nice, doesn’t it?” she asks, and I nod because it absolutely does.
“So good,” I continue. She asks me to hold the molding cup as she peels off the glove and replaces it with a disposable one. Vienna sets the egg timer and returns to my vagina.
“Tucker told me you asked him about Cohen,” she says suddenly, her tone low and private, despite the fact the door to the work room is indeed shut.
Sweat immediately surfaces along the length of my back, and I look down directly at the mold being made between my legs. “He’s just so reserved,” I say after a moment, because that’s a good answer, too.
I like Vienna, and I hate that a lot of our conversation today has consisted of things I’m not saying.
