She pulled one out, tore it open, and expertly applied it to his member. She then reached over to the same nightstand and squirted some of the body lotion from a large bottle into her hands. She rubbed some of the lotion into her vagina—it was always dry, as she seemed to have some medical issue that prevented her from lubricating naturally—and then smeared the rest over his encased penis.
“How do you want to do it?” she asked him, still talking breathlessly, though she was not the least bit breathless.
“I want you from behind,” he said. “Get up on the bed.”
She got up on the bed, positioning herself on her hands and knees. She felt his hands gripping her waist and then, in one strong stroke, he was inside her and thrusting. She felt a dim sort of pleasure from the act, a pleasant friction that gave her a little warmth, but that was about all. Before the lubrication even started to dry, she felt his rhythm become erratic, heard his breathing become a frantic pant. That was her cue. She began to moan loudly and thrust herself back at him. Just as he began to spasm, she cried out loudly and jerked her butt back and forth a few times.
“Oh God, yesss!” she cried, as if ecstasy had overwhelmed her. It hadn’t. She had never actually had a real orgasm before, was half convinced that, for women anyway, they were nothing but a myth.
Dave spasmed a few more times, made a few articulations of his own, and then slowed his pace down to a stop. She felt him remove himself from her body. A moment later, he was standing on the floor again, the used condom in his hand, his fingers tying a knot in it. He carried it to the bathroom attached to her room. A moment later, she heard the sound of the toilet flushing.
By the time he came back, his now flaccid penis flopping with each step he took, she was lying on the bed on her back. Dave then kept his part of the bargain. He climbed in next to her and cuddled up against her.
“That was great, baby,” he whispered to her, kissing her on the forehead. “It sounds like you had a nice come.”
“It was awesome,” she assured him. “One of the best.”
“I aim to please,” he said slyly, his fingers twirling through her hair.
“And you do,” she said, stroking his leg, enjoying the warmth and the closeness of his body. “Don’t you think it’s been long enough now that we can do it without those rubbers? I’m on the pill, you know. I won’t get pregnant.”
“I know you’re on the pill, baby,” he told her. “That’s not the issue. We’ve been over this.”
“I know we’ve been over it,” she said.
“It’s for your protection, not mine. I told you, I have no idea who that bitch has slept with. She might’ve passed something on to me.”
That bitch was Barbara Boulder, the woman he was still technically married to—thus the factor that was putting a bit of a kink into setting a date for their own wedding. She was a lying, cheating whore of a woman who was doing her best to delay the divorce and keep Dave from seeing his kids—both of whom were in their late teens and approaching high school graduation. He couldn’t officially divorce her until both kids were out of high school and his practice was completely paid off. And so, they had to keep things on the down-low between them, lest her lawyers try to use the relationship against Dave in the upcoming divorce proceedings. It was a horror story the likes of which she had never conceived of and her heart cried for him on a daily basis. But still...
“It’s been two years since you’ve had sex with her, right?” she asked. “That’s what you always tell me. Isn’t that long enough for anything you might’ve picked up from her to be out of your system?”
“Not HIV,” he said solemnly. “I’m telling you, that bitch has slept with drug addicts. She has no standards whatsoever. That shit can stay in your body for years before you have symptoms.”
“But you’ve been tested, right?” she asked.
“Of course I’ve been tested,” he said. “That doesn’t mean anything. The virus can stay dormant and not show up in a test for up to five years.”
“I read that you’ll test positive within three months with the technology they have today,” she countered.
“That’s not true,” he said firmly. “I’m a doctor, remember. Don’t trust what you read in those magazines. I know what I’m talking about.”
She nodded slowly. “I guess you’re right,” she said. After all, he was a doctor, right? And what reason would he have for deceiving her about this?
“Anyway,” he said, “you said you got some kind of music thing? What’s that all about?”
“Well,” she said, quickly forgetting about the condom discussion, “I’m almost ashamed to even tell you about it, but it pays so good, I just have to.”
“You said twelve hundred a week? Did I hear you right?”
“You did,” she said. “Fifty dollars an hour and twenty-four hours a week.”
He gave her a look of concern. “That’s an awful lot of money, Red. Are you sure playing the saxophone is what you’re being hired for?”
She slapped at his shoulder. “Oh, you!” she said. “Of course that’s what I’m being hired for.”
“What’s the catch?” he asked. “You said you were ashamed.”
She gave a sideways smile. “I’m kind of selling out by taking it,” she said. “Do you know who Celia Valdez is?”
He shook his head. “Never heard of her.”
“She’s a pop singer from Venezuela. She used to be the singer for that cheesy group La Diferencia.”
He shook his head again. “Never heard of them either.”
“She’s married to Greg Oldfellow, the actor?”
“I’ve heard of him,” Dave allowed. “He was in that horrible flick about elephants in Seattle. One of the biggest bombs of all time. I don’t know anything about his wife though. I’m not a celebrity follower.”
“Well ... she’s married to him. She’s the one who sings that song I Love to Dance.”
That rang a bell with him. “Oh yes,” he said. “They play that one from time to time on the music feed we play on the overhead at the practice.” He made a sour face. “Absolute drivel, just like most of that music.”
“It is absolute drivel,” she said. “That’s the part I’m ashamed of. She’s working on a solo album and I’m going to be playing sax for her.”
“No kidding?” he said. “How’d you meet up with her?”
She told the story of Ben from her UCLA jazz band days and how he had called her out of the blue. This part of the story seemed to alarm him a bit.
“He still had your number?” he asked. “What’s up with that?”
“We were bandmates,” she said dismissively. “We all had each other’s number. He’s married and has a kid on the way.”
“Men have been known to cheat on their wives,” he said—with a complete lack of any sense of irony, no less.
She did not pick up on the irony either. “Ben is not like that. He’s a nice guy and he’s not my type anyway. You don’t have to worry about that.”
“I suppose,” he grunted.
“Anyway,” she continued. “The gig is just to help her work up the songs right now. If it works out, however, they might ask me to play on the recording itself.”
“Won’t that interfere with your job?” he asked.
“The recording gig pays better,” she said. “A lot better. I would be willing to ask for a leave of absence if they offered me the recording gig.”
“Would they grant something like that?”
She shrugged. “I guess I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. Right now, I’m still trying to figure out how to dumb down my playing for her.”
“Is it really that bad?” he asked.