Vanessa shakes her head. “Disagree. Have you ever hugged someone who didn’t know how to hug? It can be very unpleasant. Vise-like, clammy, or flaccid hugs should be outlawed.”
“No, the word ‘flaccid’ should be outlawed,” I offer, gesturing for them to come inside.
“You hate the word ‘flaccid’?” Perri asks as I shut the door behind them.
“I hate the idea of flaccid. So the word might as well go away too. Am I right or am I right?”
“Darling, don’t we all want to eliminate flaccidness from the world,” Vanessa says, and I offer a palm to high-five.
Vanessa smacks back, and so does Perri. Then my redhead friend grabs my arms, spins me around, and points me upstairs. “Go get your sexy little yoga pants on, Garfield. It’s Pilates or bust, and no nap for you.”
Harrumphing loudly for effect, I head upstairs, splash some cold water on my face, then yank my hair back in a tight ponytail. I stare at my reflection, and a devilish little smirk appears on my face as I recall last night. It was crazy, maybe even daring to ask Gabe for guidance. Yet it worked. It truly seemed helpful to chat with him.
I already feel more informed and a little more empowered. I’m excited about seeing him today for our mission.
So excited it gives me a huge blast of energy—something I didn’t expect to feel at the torturous hour of six in the morning. I make a quick change into workout clothes and return downstairs with a peppy smile. “Okay, let's go, girls.”
“Whoa. Did you have a personality transplant with a happy puppy upstairs?”
“Can’t a girl be full of energy in the morning?” I ask as we leave my house and walk to the Pilates studio in the middle of town.
“Not you. You look like you have a dirty little secret. Did you have a man hidden away in your bathroom who gave you a quickie while we waited down below?”
“Please.” I glance around, then lower my voice to a whisper. “But I did decide to take the bull by the horns.”
Vanessa mimes riding a bull. “Tell me more, cowgirl.”
“Yes, that exactly. Reverse cowgirl. Well, sort of. I’m going to experiment a little. Learn some more about what I might like.” I don’t keep secrets from Perri and Vanessa, dirty or otherwise. These ladies are like sisters. I’m an only child, but we grew up together, and I’ve known them my whole life. My best friends are my family.
“I’ve decided I’m done with being too vanilla. I asked Gabe to help me.”
Vanessa stops in her tracks, slamming an arm against my chest. “Oh no, you didn’t? Like you’re going to do a let’s get it on tutorial?”
“Please, no. This won’t be hands-on. More like mouths-on.” But that’s not the best analogy either. I backpedal. “I mean, we’re going to talk through some stuff. Go over a bunch of different options. Discuss what I might like and how to ask for it. It’s going to work out so perfectly. It’s like a dress rehearsal before a big show.”
Perri clears her throat loudly. Deliberately. “You do know that a dress rehearsal means you go on stage and put on your costumes and go through all the motions?”
“I do know that.” I smack her butt. “See? Isn't it better that I practice with him rather than you?”
She jumps away and gives me the side-eye. “Yeah, I don’t want you to spank me, sweetie. Unless you’re six two, inked, and built like a Greek god.”
“And if you find that man, please share him,” Vanessa adds, but I flash back to last night and wonder if it’s a Greek god she wants or someone else—namely Perri’s brother.
“How exactly does your sex school start?”
“Last night we talked through things on my list, so that was essentially the first lesson.”
“What’s the next lesson?” Perri asks.
I tell them what Gabe and I have planned for this afternoon.
“We've done that with you before,” Vanessa points out.
“I know, but it will be interesting to go with a man and get the guy’s perspective.”
“I bet perspective’s not the only thing Gabe wants to give you,” Vanessa says in a low voice.
But she’s wrong. I’m not his type. That’s why I chose perfectly. This will be one week of learning, with no risk of crossing into the romance zone. We can safely stay friends and focus on my new sex-education syllabus.
And I’m as ready as I’ll ever be for lesson number two.
18
Gabe
It seemed like a good idea at the time.
But now?
Now I think I’m going to require a longer-than-usual run if I expect to survive sex toy shopping with Arden.
I hate shopping.
Wait, hate is too strong a word.
I don’t detest anything.
Except for drunk drivers, arsonists, and the designated hitter rule.
Also, littering and broccoli.
But those are all reasonable hates.
Shopping is more like something I strive to avoid the same way I aim to dodge day-old bagels, warm beer, and community pools.
But when you’re shopping for sex toys with a woman you want to screw, well, that requires a whole new approach.
That’s why I run this morning alongside my cousin. I meet up with Tom, who recently moved to the neighboring town with his new woman, Finley. Tom’s a brainiac and a roller-coaster designer, so I ask him to tell me about his new projects.
Listening to him talk about engineering feats of daring keeps me in the right zone.
The no-thinking-about-sex zone.
The conversation is solely on work, and it helps. After a few miles, he’s done. “I’ll catch you next time,” he says. “And I promise I’ll regale you with exciting details on how to make a ride go upside down.”
I give him a quick tip of the cap. “The regaling is on the calendar.”
I continue without him, because my mission requires extra.
Extra running.
Extra focus.
A lot of extra miles to get out of the sex-centric zone I’ve been living in. It’s a proven medical fact that men require at least a half dozen miles of hard running or several hours on the StairMaster before the constant thought of sex vacates the brain for even a few minutes.
Over the river and through the woods I go, putting distance between the swirl of dirty thoughts and my stark reality. I pass seven miles, then hit eight, adding a long workout at the gym with weights. As I lower the barbell on my final set, I’ve slipped into a blissful, blank mind-set.
There’s one more thing I need to seal the deal and live in this state a little longer.
Seeing my parents.
There is no bigger sex buzzkill than a visit with Mom and Dad, so I pop by for a little breakfast. My mom whips up some spectacular scrambled eggs with provolone cheese and mushrooms, and my father’s coffee ought to be worshipped by baristas the world over.
As I chew, Mom chats about how my sister, Kim, is doing with her third pregnancy, how big her belly is, and how awful she’s feeling trying to move.
Yup.
All the details of Kim waddling around are adding up to a blank sex slate upstairs, and I couldn’t be happier.
By the time I return home, tired from the run, stuffed from breakfast, and filled with images of my basketball-belly sister, I can’t escape the no-sex zone.
This is not an easy state for a man to achieve. We can only successfully reach this sexual tabula rasa, say, 1 percent of the day.
Wait. That’s far too generous.
More like 0.2 percent.
But when you’re there, you feel like you can master string theory and write a symphony.
I hum a few notes from Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy,” since that’s about the only classical music I know, and damn, that shit is good. Beethoven could write some badass melodies.
Since I’m all about expanding my mind for the precious few minutes that it’s uncluttered by sex thoughts, I decide I ought to try to learn quantum physics. I down a huge glass of water, grab my phone, and find a podcast on the topic. I sync my phone to my speaker and head into the bathroom, strip out of my clothes, and turn on the hot water.
I close the shower door, stepping under the stream, zoning in on the podcaster as he talks of atoms and electrons. I run the soap over my body, letting my brain be a sponge soaking up all this new information.
“. . . added wave crests result in brighter light,” the voice says, and my mind hiccups on that word—crest.
It reminds me of something else. Something a woman’s pleasure might do.
Stop.
Stay focused.
I square my shoulders and train my ears on the podcast host as I run shampoo through my hair.
“. . . objects exist in a haze of probability.”
Haze.
Like how Arden would look in a sex-drenched—
No. Don’t go there.
As he drones on about the size and speed of moving objects, I’m not sure I can hold onto this rarefied state. I’m slipping, falling, flailing back to the 99 percent land.
All these words make me think of her.
Of toys.
Of shopping.
Of orgasms cresting. Of the hazy look in her eyes. And her list. Dear God, her fucking list. All the things on that list I don’t want to mime.
I want to do.
As I run the soap over my body, my hand strays down my stomach, lower still, and I take my dick in my palm.
I give in to the material world of pleasure and sex, back where I, evidently, belong.
Gripping my shaft, I run through Arden’s wish list, item by item, as if I’m considering every dish at a rich and scrumptious buffet. My fist shuttles up and down my cock, the soap slicking its path.
She wants me to ring the doorbell so she can answer it in an apron and nothing else.
I suck in a harsh breath imagining where that moment might lead. Undoing the strap, exposing her tits, letting the fabric fall to the floor.
A shudder slams into my body, and my cock hardens even more, doing a most excellent impression of an iron spike. My fist grips it tighter, racing up and down my length.