Читать книгу Getting sexy - Kayla Perrin - Страница 10

All that talk about sex with Claudia over dinner has me totally hot and bothered and completely frustrated. So the first thing I do when I head back home and find that Charles is still at work is lock myself in the bedroom and masturbate.

I imagine that I’m with the Charles from the early days of our relationship. The Charles who was always passionate for me, even when I woke up next to him with morning breath. The Charles who would slip his hand down my pants on a ride at an amusement park, or undo my blouse and fondle my breasts in a movie theatre. The Charles who would know with just a look that I was ready to make love.

“Charles, Charles, Charles,” I mutter as I touch myself, imagining it’s his fingers on me, his tongue tracing circles around my nipple.

I cry out as I climax, happily riding the sensuous wave—but only for a moment. Because immediately afterward I feel cold and empty. So cold and empty I could cry.

I have a husband, damn it. Why do I have to pleasure myself, when I have a man who’s young and should be wild about me?

“Forget Charles,” I tell myself and climb off the bed. I head to the bathroom and start the shower. Maybe cool water will help put out the fire inside me.

Ten minutes later, I step out of the shower and towel off. I try to forget about sex, but even as I apply scented lotion to my legs, I can’t help but think of the way Charles used to do this for me, his hands moving over my body with aching slowness.

Surely Oprah will help get my mind off sex. For an hour I can feel better about myself by observing others’ miserable lives. I quickly dress in a T-shirt and shorts, then head to the living room to queue up the VCR. I tape Oprah daily.

I rewind the tape for several seconds, then stop and hit play. When the show comes on, Oprah is looking thoughtfully at a teary-eyed woman.

“So what do you think happened?” Oprah asks the dark-haired woman. “Why did the passion in your marriage die?”

The woman looks downright confused. “I don’t know.”

“You have to know,” Oprah insists. “When you think about your marriage, your life—and I’m sure you have—you have to have at least an idea of what went wrong.”

That’s not fair, Oprah, I think. Maybe she doesn’t know. I’m living proof that things can go sour and a person has no clue why.

“The children,” the woman finally answers. “I suppose once the children came along, that’s when the spark started to fizzle.”

“I’ve said this once,” Oprah begins, “I’ll say it again. Women often put themselves last when the children come along. They get so caught up in mothering, they forget their own needs as women.”

“Not all the time,” I say to the TV. I know without a doubt that if Charles and I were to have children, I’d still make room for an active sex life. As it is, we have no kids, so what’s Charles’s damn excuse?

Stretched out on the sofa, I continue to watch the show, though I’m not sure why. This isn’t exactly making me forget about my dismal situation with my husband. But on the bright side, as I watch a series of women talk about their passionless marriages, I know I’m not alone.

I sit up when Oprah announces that she has a surprise for her guests. She does the best surprises.

“I know you’re all here today because you want help,” Oprah says. “And I want to help you regain the passion your marriages are missing. That’s why I’m sending you and your spouses on a four-day getaway to the romantic Canyon Ranch Spa in Tucson, Arizona!”

The couples burst into full-blown smiles and the audience rowdily applauds.

“This spa has everything you can possibly think of for couples. Classes on kissing. How to create exceptional sex.” The audience hoots and hollers. “If you can’t reconnect sexually with your partner after this four-day weekend, then I don’t think you ever will.”

Oh my God. This is it. The answer I’ve been waiting for.

Of course! How could I have been so narrow-minded?

When was the last time Charles and I took a trip together? About a year and a half ago, and we had really great sex then. I have to get Charles away from work, take him on a romantic trip to this place designed for lovers, and there’s no way we won’t recapture what’s missing in our relationship.

I jump off the sofa and head toward the home office. I intend to find out everything there is to know about the Canyon Ranch Spa. I don’t care what it costs. I’d pay any amount to get Charles alone somewhere where the entire object of the place is to have sex.

If nothing else, I’ll be able to figure out once and for all if my husband is attracted to me. If we’re alone together in a sexual paradise and he still can’t get it up, then I’ll have to…

Truthfully, I don’t want to think about what I’ll have to do. I don’t want to be in a loveless marriage, and I do want to have children.

All of which I’m sure will happen, just as soon as Charles and I recharge our marriage. And I’m rearing to go. But I can hear Charles’s protests that work will keep him at home. He puts in more hours than one would think humanly possible.

I know it’s going to be hard to get him away from work, but I’m going to try. One weekend is all we need.

I type in the words Canyon Ranch Spa.

As the page loads, I’m instantly impressed. This place is stunning. Outdoor Jacuzzi tubs, palm trees…This is romantic at its best.

I look heavenward and utter, “Thank you, God.”

Hours later, I can’t sleep.

Beside me, Charles is lightly snoring. He hasn’t touched me, of course, despite the red negligee I’m wearing. I know priests who couldn’t resist me in this outfit, yet Charles is painfully oblivious.

I stroke his arm. “Charles.”

He doesn’t move, so this time I shake his shoulder. I don’t care that it’s two in the morning. I want to make love, or at least talk to him.

“Charles.”

“Hmm?” he finally mutters.

“Sorry to wake you up,” I tell him. But I’m not. I need to talk to him about this, and it has to be now.

“What is it?” he asks in a sleep-filled voice.

“I was wondering…wondering if you might be able to take some time off work soon.”

“What?”

“There’s this place I found out about, and I’d like us to go. It’s in Arizona.”

Charles groans. “Can’t we talk about this in the morning?”

“I guess so…But I’m excited. Do you know when you will have some time?”

“I don’t know.”

“Can you check tomorrow?”

“What’s this about?”

Now I hesitate. “It’s about us reconnecting. Going away together so we get out of the routine we’re in.”

“Oh.” He pauses. “Can I go back to sleep now?”

My heart is beating hard as I edge my body closer to his. It shouldn’t be, damn it. This is my husband. I should feel one hundred percent comfortable holding him in the night, comfortable slipping my body onto his, comfortable taking his penis into my hands…But I don’t, because I’m afraid he’ll reject me.

Slowly, I slip an arm around him, settling my hand on his warm stomach. My fingers tease the hairs around his navel.

I don’t realize that I’m holding my breath until Charles does something that he hasn’t done in a long time.

He places a hand over mine.

A surge of warmth rushes through my body. I release the breath I was holding on a low moan. The ache inside me is so intense as I trail a finger down past his belly button, straight toward his groin. I feel the mass of hair and already I’m getting wet.

Finally, Charles and I are going to make love.

I cover him with my hand and as soon as I do, he covers my hand again. I press my lips against his shoulder. “Oh, Charles…”

He pries my fingers off of him.

“Ann, it’s two in the morning. I’m tired.”

I stifle my moan of disappointment as I roll over, but I can’t stop the tears filling my eyes.

I’m obviously desperate.

That explains what I’m doing here this afternoon, at my sister’s workplace, instead of at my studio developing the film I’m supposed to. I absolutely hate coming here, because I don’t agree with my sister’s lifestyle, but I have to face it—she gets laid and I don’t, so there’s clearly a thing or two I can learn from her.

Despite the eighty-five-degree weather, I’m wearing a scarf wrapped around my head, and the biggest, darkest sunglasses I own when I walk into the Pleasure Dome, the club where Samera works. When I called and didn’t get her at home or on her cell, I figured she had to be working, because even if she’s on a hot date, she always answers her cell.

The club is dark and smoky, just the way I’d expect a place like this to be. In the middle of the room, a large stage is illuminated with fluorescent blue lighting. For a Wednesday afternoon, I’m surprised that there’s more than a handful of men in the place, and I have to look around to find a table that’s unoccupied. It’s to the very far right of the stage. I keep my eyes focused on the table as I head toward it.

Only when I’m safely seated do I check out the stripper onstage. The woman performing has long black hair and is wearing a garter belt with no panties. The garter is stuffed with cash. I suspect the long black hair that hangs to her ass is a wig. Probably a French maid’s outfit, I think with chagrin, remembering my embarrassment over how Charles completely rejected me.

The woman does this lazy sexy-type walk to the pole onstage. She wraps a leg around it and does this gyrating thing against it, as if it’s a huge penis. I watch her, both mortified and fascinated by the way she moves. After swinging around the pole, she eases her body forward and presses the pole between her very large and obviously fake breasts.

Finally, I slip my sunglasses off, because they’re straining my eyes in the dimly lit room. Surreptitiously, I watch the guys watching her. No man in the place can take his eyes off her. And I have to say, there’s something about the way she’s using the pole that is utterly erotic. Funny, I can see what she’s doing as erotic today, as opposed to before, when I saw it all as filthy and sinful.

Gripping the pole with both hands, the stripper bends her body backward with the ease of a contortionist, giving the guys what must be a delicious view of her heavy breasts. Oh yeah, the men are mesmerized. I even see one of them lick his lips.

Maybe I need to get a pole like this in our bedroom. Surely Charles couldn’t reject me if I were to do this sort of seductive dance. The idea seems absurd, but it’s not half-bad. I could get Samera to teach me the basics…

Now the dancer slides all the way down the pole until she is on the floor. On all fours, she does this catlike crawl to the edge of the stage. It’s all part of her routine, but I can’t help chuckling at how she collects the pile of cash on the stage. A few more extended legs and back arching and gentle caresses of some men’s faces, and then the stripper gets to her feet and makes her exit.

My eyes dart around the club. There are a few topless women working the floor, serving drinks, but my sister isn’t one of them.

The slow music comes to an end, and the loud, pulsing beat of Christina Aguilera’s “Dirrty” fills the club. The next stripper, with wild blond hair and wearing a red leather minidress unzipped to her navel, hurries onto the stage brandishing a whip. It takes me only a moment to realize that it’s my sister.

Her skirt is so short that as she passes me, I see more of her ass than of the red leather. She’s also got these thigh-high shiny black boots on, the kind with spiked heels that must be at least four inches. How she even walks on those things let alone dances in them is beyond me.

The men hoot and howl in appreciation, and Samera slaps her whip against the stage. I glance away. Oh, Sammie. Why do you do it? Why make yourself an object like this?

When I look her way again, money is flying onto the stage. A lot of money. Which pretty much answers the question of why she does it—or at least that’s what I like to tell myself.

Because I know Samera also loves her job. Long before she got paid to take off her clothes, she got off on wearing skimpy outfits and watching men’s reactions to her. She especially had fun with our mother’s second husband, teasing the poor guy until he broke down and screwed her. My mother kicked them both out, screaming about how they’d both burn in hell for what they’d done. I figure that Samera had heard so often that she was going to burn in hell, she figured she might as well enjoy the rest of her life in the most explicitly sexual way possible.

Doing a slow twirl, Samera completely unzips her dress. She teases the guys with views of her bountiful bosom—also enhanced by the help of surgery. Surgery I accompanied her to, and tried to talk her out of all the way to the clinic.

I turn my head. I’m not comfortable watching Samera like this. It’s like my mother’s internal dialogue is stuck in my head, and I can’t get past thinking that what Samera’s doing is completely sinful. I feel awful for her, so awful I’m almost tempted to pray for her soul.

Snap!

I jump at the sound of the whip, and my eyes fly to the stage. There’s Samera, her breasts exposed, the dress gone, and only a black piece of leather covering her crotch.

Her eyes light up with recognition as our eyes connect. I give a small wave.

She heads off toward the front of the stage, her hips moving in an exaggerated sexual movement. She grabs the pole and twists around it, then bends onto her haunches, giving the men a view of the contrast of pale ass against black leather. When she goes onto all fours, I turn away again and pretend to be absorbed in a search for something that’s inside my purse.

I know Samera’s routine is over when I hear the round of applause. Now I look back to the stage. Except for the boots, Samera is completely naked. She winks at me as she exits.

How does she do it? Strut naked like that in front of strangers? I don’t get it.

A few minutes later, Samera comes running out from the back area of the club and straight for me. I stand, and she throws herself at me, hugging me hard.

“Annie, what are you doing here?”

I’m not sure what to say. “We said we’d get together for lunch, remember?”

“And you want to do that here?”

As Samera and I pull apart, I take in what she’s wearing. A white cutoff T-shirt that shows the bottom of her breasts. Instead of a skirt, she’s wearing skintight leather pants and those spiked plastic-looking shoes I call hooker heels.

“Well…sure,” I tell her. “Why not?”

Samera eyes me with suspicion. “You’ve either lost your mind or you’ve found your wild side. And why are you wearing a scarf on your head?”

“Oh, this. I…” I can’t think of a decent thing to say, and pull the scarf off my head.

She takes my hand. “Come on. Let’s sit down.”

“Are you finished?” I ask her as we sit at the table I’d occupied a moment earlier.

“God, no. I’ve got four more sets to do. But I have around half an hour to spare. Now tell me, what’s up? Because I know something must be up for you to be here right now.”

I blow out a hard breath. “You’re right.”

“Charles?” she guesses, scowling as she does.

I’m not going to lie. “Yeah.”

“What’s the jerk done this time?”

“It’s what he hasn’t done. We’re still not having sex.” It’s strange that I don’t mind sharing this intimate detail with Samera when we’re not very close.

Like I said, I’m desperate.

“What do you mean you’re not having sex?” Samera asks in disbelief. “Didn’t you buy all sorts of toys and stuff to use with him last week?”

“Not all sorts, but I did buy an outfit. Something I thought would turn him on, and it didn’t. This really trampy French maid’s out—”

“He’s fucking someone else. You know that now, don’t you?”

“No,” I say adamantly. “I don’t know that. What I know is that my husband is very busy, and somewhere along the way we’ve lost our connection. He’s so busy, he’s forgotten about sex. But it’s not a reason to walk away from my marriage, even if right now it feels like we’ll never make love again. I just need…help.”

“What do you want me to do?”

What indeed? “I don’t know.”

“I’m sure you have something in mind. Or you wouldn’t be here. You could have called me, asked for directions to more shops.”

“Okay. I’m desperate. I guess I thought I’d come here and watch…and pick up some pointers.” My admission surprises me as much as Samera. “And if you have any tips on how to turn things around with Charles and save my marriage, I’m all ears.”

“I don’t know what kind of tips I can give you. From everything I know, you get naked for a guy and he can’t help but get hard for you.”

“I think that works in a relationship when it’s new, fresh. But Charles and I have been married for years. I guess…” It pains me to even think what I’m about to say, because I never thought it would happen to us. “I guess things have gotten stale.”

“Which is exactly why I don’t believe in marriage. Nor long-term relationships.”

“Sammie.” God, I sound whiny. I hate how pathetic I sound, but I can’t help it. I’m as desperate as any of the women on Desperate Housewives, and I’m about to lose my mind.

“All right. Let me think. The toys didn’t work.”

“It was a French maid’s outfit, and maybe it was too conservative. Maybe I have to go all out and become really skanky.”

I stop talking when a topless waitress appears at our table. I feel so embarrassed for the woman, I want to use my scarf to cover her breasts. At least they look real, which is a plus. Why can’t men like women the way they naturally are? We have to take them the way they are.

“Molly,” Samera coos. “This is my sister, Annelise.”

“Hi.” Molly gives me a bright smile, as if I’m a long-lost friend or something.

“What do you want to drink?” Samera asks.

“Oh, I don’t think—”

“Get her a sex on the beach,” Samera tells her, then laughs. “I bet you’d like that right about now, wouldn’t you?”

I grin—painfully—until Molly waltzes away. Then I say, “You don’t have to announce to the world that I’m not getting laid.”

“Relax. Molly doesn’t know anything, and even if she did, she could care less.”

I suppose Samera’s right. “Can you teach me some of those slutty moves you girls do with the pole?”

“They’re not slutty. They’re artistic.”

“That’s what I meant,” I say. I flash Samera a sugary smile, and then we both chuckle.

“Oh, Annie. I know we’re not close, but I hate what Charles is doing to you. Making you doubt your sexual power. You’re better off without him.”

“Sammie, please.” I know my sister feels this way. She made it clear how much she disliked Charles on our wedding day when she cornered me in the bathroom and told me that it wasn’t too late to annul my marriage. Those were the days that Charles and I screwed like rabbits. “Will you teach me to use the pole or not?”

“I can teach you, but maybe what you need to do is make a big change—not just in the bedroom.”

“Huh?”

“You know—change everything about yourself. Start wearing low-cut blouses and tight jeans and strappy sandals all the time.” Samera’s eyes slowly roam over me. “Let’s face it—oversized T-shirts and baggy jeans don’t exactly get most guys in the mood. Is this how you always dress?”

“No.” Yes. “Well, some of the time.” At Samera’s doubtful scowl, I admit, “Okay, most of the time. But I want to be comfortable. When I’m at the studio, I get on the floor, on the grass, or climb a tree—whatever’s necessary for the best shot. I need to be able to move.”

“Do you want to get laid or don’t you?”

“I want to get laid,” I reply without hesitation.

“Then trust me. Make a change. A big one. Get some kick-ass skintight black leather pants. And a lot of tight, short skirts. Guys love that. It’s easy access, and pretty much wherever you are, all you need to do is bend over for a quickie.”

“Sammie!” I exclaim, mortified that she’d do such things in public. But then I think about my dismal situation, and I can’t deny that if I were out with Charles and he wanted me badly enough to sneak off into a bathroom and give it to me in a dingy stall, I would feel so loved.

Molly appears, breasts bouncing. She places my drink on the table. Then she heads off to deal with some guys at a nearby table who are calling out to her. Thankfully.

“You ought to try sex in public before you knock it,” Samera comments.

“I’d have sex on national TV right now if it meant Charles could get it up.”

“That’d send Mama right to her grave!” A sharp burst of laughter escapes Samera, but as her laughter dies, I see something in her eyes—something that says she misses our mother. “You talk to her lately?”

“Mama?”

She nods.

“About a week ago. She was heading off to some bible something or other in California.”

“You mean they let her out of the compound in Alabama?”

“Sounded like it was a group trip.”

“When is she gonna realize that those fucking assholes are cult leaders?” Samera shakes her head. “Religious freaks. I can’t stand them.”

“She seems happy.” And that’s the best I can hope for, really. I know she’s had a hard life. Personally, I think she suffered some childhood trauma that’s had her searching for peace ever since. I only talk to my mother once in a while, mostly when she has a moment to call me. She’s thrown herself one hundred percent into this new church family of hers, and she doesn’t have much time for me anymore. It’s just as well. I can only take so much of her fire-and-brimstone talk.

Samera scowls. “Forget Mama. You came to talk about Charles.”

Oh, Samera talks a good game, as if she doesn’t care one bit about our mother, but I know she’s does. And I know she was hurt when my mother cut her out of her life. Yet another person who rejected her the way our father rejected both of us when we were little kids.

But it’s not a subject I want to discuss now, even if I think it’d do Samera good. Instead, I say, “Sexy clothes, huh? You think that will do the trick?”

“Not just sexy. Trampy. And don’t just wear them around the house. Wear them when you leave to hang with your girlfriends. That’ll make Charles wonder who you’re going to meet. Seriously, give guys a little competition and you’ll see how fast they try and get you in bed.”

“You might just be right.” When we were dating, if Charles noticed another guy looking at me, he always held me a little tighter.

“I am right. And you know it, or you wouldn’t be here.”

“I won’t argue with that.”

“Look, sweetie. Lana’s just finished her routine, which means I have to go back and get ready. But you stay and finish your drink. It’s on me.”

We both stand and hug. “I love you, Sammie.” And I do. With all my heart. Regardless of how little we see each other, she’s always in my heart. As her older sister by four years, there’s a part of me that’s very protective of her, even though she’s the one who could probably kick butt to save my ass.

“I love you, too. And one more piece of advice?”

We pull apart. “Sure.”

“Start checking Charles’s clothes. Check his wallet, his car. Everything.”

“Sam—”

“I’m serious. See if that motherfucker’s got phone numbers hidden and a secret stash of condoms. Because a guy’s a guy. If he’s not fucking his wife, then he’s fucking someone else.”