Читать книгу Cougar: An Erotica Collection - Elizabeth Coldwell - Страница 6

October 15

I need a place to vent. This has to be it. I’ve never been a Dear Diary sort of person. To me it reeks of teenage angst. Oh, God, to be starting it at forty-three … I am officially old and sad.

What to say? Where to start? They say, begin at the beginning. But I can’t. Not right now. I haven’t the strength. It would take too long, be too painful. I just need an outlet. So I’m going to start with a rant.

I fucking hate cell phones! Do people even call them cell phones anymore? God, I’m so out of touch I don’t even know what to call them. Personal, hand-held, bloody instruments for ruining a marriage! Oh, God! No. It’s too much. I can’t do this.

November 1

Let’s try again.

I’m not even going to go there this time. I’m going to start with the positive.

I went out last night! I mean, out out. The kind of out I used to go when I was twenty-one. Except that when I was twenty-one I didn’t appreciate out. Not really. Out was just what we did on a Thursday – a Thursday! – or Friday and definitely on Saturday. Does twenty-one, single with no kids ever appreciate out? I certainly didn’t. But I did last night!

I went out. And I hooked up. That’s what they say now, right? That’s what I’m saying. I fucking hooked up. And I say ‘fucking’ now too!

Let me tell you about the old me. The old me was a scared little girl. She did what she was told. She looked down when she walked. Never met anyone’s eyes. Never got hit on. Never got laid.

I retired that scared, pathetic little girl last night.

I must say, I like the new girl. No matter how much pain was needed to birth her. Birthing hurts. That’s a fact. This one was no different.

But now she’s here. The new girl walks with her head up. She’s got confidence. She meets people’s eyes. And it’s amazing the friends you make when you meet people’s eyes.

I cannot understate how good it felt to walk into that club last night and not know what the end of the night would bring. There were possibilities. Possibilities! What a delightful word! Not casserole dinner and watching TV and no talking and perfunctory sex, no! Fuck that. Give me strangers and conversation and flirting. And sex. Sex that’s anything but perfunctory.

Hold on, I’m getting ahead of myself! First: I looked HOT last night. Hot! Me! I’ve never looked hot in my life but here’s something fabulous about a seriously less than fabulous situation: when your heart is broken you don’t want to eat. So you lose weight! It’s the diet secret of the century! I can just see the commercial:

The problem with other diets is that they don’t deal with those pesky cravings. You’re eating a salad but you’re thinking about dill pickle chips. With the Heartbreak Diet those cravings are gone! Your stomach is constantly churning. Your head is wrapped in pain and trauma. Cravings vanish! Hunger, gone! The pounds melt away. Friends will be jealous and ask how you did it. Only you’ll know the secret: The Heartbreak Diet! (Cheating Husband and Conniving Bitch Best Friend sold separately.)

A marketing possibility, I’d say. But I digress.

I took my skinny ass to the mall and bought the hottest, sluttiest outfit I could find. Black. Lots of skin. Lots of cleavage. I put on all the makeup my mother forbade me from wearing in junior high.

And.

I.

Went.

Out.

Oh, yes, there’s a new sheriff in town.

She’s fucking guys and not taking last names.

November 5

Tonight was Bradley.

I met Bradley last Thursday. Bradley is basically the guy in high school whom I wrote love letters to that I never sent. It’s the age-old story: geeky bookworm secretly loves football jock. If only I wore black-rimmed glasses and had my best friend Alicia Silverstone give me a makeover, it could have been the fourth most popular John Hughes film of its time. In reality it was twenty-five years in the making. And my best friend was too busy with my husband’s cock in her mouth.

The sheriff had her warpaint on. She was meeting stares. And returning them. Bradley was the third guy to buy me a drink and the first to pique my interest.

I say he was the jock from my high school but in fact he couldn’t have gone to high school with me. Because when I was in high school he wasn’t born yet.

There is something so delicious about the young ones, isn’t there? And boom, just like that, I’m a cougar. Who knew? Not Bradley. He still thinks I’m twenty-six.

I’ll admit, the lights were low. In the club, all the way home in the cab, back at his little apartment over the tattoo shop, the lighting was thankfully dim. Was it naughty of me to keep up the charade? When he saw the photo of my daughter on my phone and asked if it was my sister, what should I have said? I don’t know now and I didn’t know then, which is why I kept my mouth shut and the lights dim and half my clothes on while I straddled his condom-sheathed cock. He soon forgot.

Bradley with his thick thatch of dark hair, on top and below, his muscled and tanned young body, his smooth skin almost hairless, his dark eyes that have yet to be jaded by mortgages and early-morning feedings and lay-offs and … disappointment. Oh, he was so good, so trusting, so eager.

When he first said, ‘Shit, babe. Why are you slowing down?’ I admit I got off on that a tiny bit.

‘Shhhh, Bradley, it’s OK’ is what I bent over and whispered in his ear as I stilled my naked body on top of him. ‘You want this to be fun for me too, don’t you? I haven’t come yet.’

I wonder how many girls Bradley’s fucked in his young life. I’m sure there have been quite a few, handsome as he is. I’m equally sure they were pretty one-sided romps on the pleasure scale, judging from the way he seemed so ready to just blow inside me as I rode him.

Here’s another secret: I’ve always wanted to know, what’s it like to make a guy wait?

What’s it like to make a guy want it so bad he’d give you his car, sign over his last penny, curse his mother, sell his soul, just to be allowed release?

I wanted to experiment early on with the person whose name shall not be mentioned here, but he wasn’t interested. Waiting made him impatient and annoyed. So I’ve only ever explored in my imagination. It’s been my naughty secret for the last twenty-odd years. But now the gates of the playground of my imagination have been broken wide open. I cannot run out fast enough.

I wanted to make a guy wait. I wanted to feed off his desperation. What would happen if I did? I wanted to know.

And at that moment I decided Bradley was gonna help me find out.

November 6

Had to put you away last night. It was a late night already with my new little friend so by the time I got to you, Dear Diary, I could barely keep my eyes open.

But before I continue to tell you the tale of Bradley, let’s change your name. I hate Dear Diary. Let’s call you Dear Fuckbook. Because that’s my dream for you.