Part of me stands at the door, waiting for her to come back. Hoping that she’ll change her mind and choose me. Choose us.
The other part of me lies at the bottom of the pool drowning, while a million tiny stars look down at me in pity.
“TODAY’S LESSON IS actually very simple. So let’s get straight to the point, shall we? Open the cases in front of you.”
I wait for the sounds of metal latches and the horrified intake of eleven breaths, but I don’t look at any of them. I don’t make eye contact. Not today.
“What are we supposed to do with these?” Lorinda. Or maybe Maryanne. Or…fuck if I care.
“Suck them.”
“What?” Another Mrs. Fucktease von Clueless.
“You’re going to learn how to suck them,” I say louder, my voice carrying throughout the room. I close my eyes and count to ten in an attempt to get a handle on my shit.
“Now if you’ll all be so kind as to remove the dildos from your case and, using the suction at the bottom, attach them to the table in front of you, we can begin.”
“You really expect us to do this?” another asks, her whiney voice making me cringe. “It’s disgusting and degrading.”
“And that’s exactly the train of thought that forces your husband’s dick into your nanny’s mouth.”
“That’s sick!”
“That’s the fucking truth.” I massage the back of my neck and take a leveling breath. It’s completely silent, save for the sound of incessant pounding in my skull.
I’m hungover.
And not, like, a little hungover.
I’m a lot hungover.
Plus, I look like shit. I didn’t shave and only had time to hit the hot spots in the shower before class started. My simple tan slacks and white linen shirt are unpressed and my hair is just finger-combed. And my mouth tastes like a raw oyster that’s been sitting under the desert sun all day.
Like I said, I look like shit. And I probably smell like I bathed in that fifth of Jack instead of drinking it, now that it’s seeping out of my pores.
I swallow against the dryness on my tongue, but to no avail. “Look, if you want to learn how to do this shit and do it right, I’ll teach you. If you’re too hung up on stereotypes, or think Jesus won’t love you over giving a little head, then there’s the door. So what’s it gonna be, ladies? You want your husband to look at you as a housewife? Or as his own, personal whore? You choose.”
No one answers, yet they all stay deathly still in their seats, staring in delightful horror at the 8-inch, flesh-toned dildos in front of them.
“Good,” I nod with a grimace. Fuck, that hurts.“Let’s begin.”
“DON’T BE AFRAID of it, Maryanne. It won’t bite you.”
I watch as the matronly woman slides her trembling lips over the tip of the silicone penis. Her pink tongue gives it a lick before she eases her head down, taking it into her mouth completely.
“Good. That’s good. Let it touch the back of your throat and gently suck as you pull out slowly.”
She complies, looking up at me with big, brown eyes, seeking validation. I pat her on the back and nod before moving on to the next housewife.
“Shayla, use your tongue, baby,” I croon, resting a warm hand on her shoulder as I squat down next to her. “Lick the tip when you pull up. Swirl it around the head. Imagine tasting those little drops of precum. That’s how you know he’s ready for you; you’re making him feel good. Now, when you ease it back into your mouth, put pressure on the underside of his shaft.”
Just like Maryanne, Shayla does exactly what I say, even letting her eyes close as she imagines the feel of a hot, pulsing cock sliding between her lips. I almost smile with pride, when a moan rumbles the back of her throat. She feels it too. The thought bringing a man to his knees with her mouth is getting her hot. Shit, it’s even getting me a little hot.
Beside Shayla, Lacey is trying to suck the plastic off her rent-a-dick.
“Slow down, Lacey. Slow. Sensual. Take your time.” I place my hand on the back of her head and push it down slowly, forcing her to match my tempo. “Slow, sweetheart. Just like that. Taste every inch; savor it. Put more of it in your mouth, baby. Yeah…all the way to the back of your throat.”
I gently grip her hair when she lets out a muffled groan. “Ok, now a little faster. Suck it harder, baby, but still be soft. Put that pretty, wet mouth all over it.”
Pulling her hair a bit, I speed up until Lacey’s head steadily bobs up and down. When she takes hold of the dildo and begins fisting it enthusiastically as she sucks, I let go and take a step back, admiring the little monster I’ve created.
I actively engage the women as they explore the art of oral copulation, getting off on their obvious discomfort and inexperience. This is exactly what I need to distract me from the pressure at my temples, and the rage resting at the back of my neck. Not to mention the niggling ache in my chest. I shut it out. I shut it all out, focusing only on my work. Which is exactly what the fuck I should have been doing all along. Not humoring a silly woman while she cries about her cheating bastard of a husband and failed fraud of a marriage. Not sitting through dozens of episodes of mindless drivel and eating lard while she nestles against my side like the cocktease that she is. And not letting her lead me to believe that I was anything more than the hired help, damn near the equivalent of a gay BFF.
How did I get to this? How in the fuck did I lose sight of what I am and what I stand for so easily?
I can’t even really blame her. She’s simple and vapid and shallow. She couldn’t drown in the depth of her petty thoughts. So I can’t hold her responsible for the state that I’m in. Ilet this happen. Ilet her in when I swore that would never happen. I should’ve known better. I knew what type of person she was since the day she made it clear that I was an outsider. A nobody. Not even good enough to be fucking honest with. I was a shiny new toy to play with, then discard when she grew tired of me.
My thoughts lead me to the mahogany desk she’s stationed at, but I don’t look at her. I only know it’s her by her shoes—those same sandals that would slap against the pavement when she’d intrude on my nights by the pool. The same sandals that she’d slip off before tucking her feet under her ass and curling her body next to mine.
I hate those fucking sandals. I should have told her that. No man wants a woman that wears sandals. They want women that wear heels. Platform stilettos. Heels that look damn sexy when they’re sitting on our shoulders or wrapped around our waists. Ain’t shit sexy about sandals. They’re one tier up from flip-flops, which are barely a step away from Crocs.
Fucking Crocs.
“You’re doing it wrong,” I blurt out gruffly, before my little reflective moment takes a turn for the worst.
“What?”
I still don’t look at her. I just keep my eyes trained on those sandals and her little, pink-tipped toes peeking out of them. Even her toes are adorable.
Hmph. Adorable.
I’ve never been a fan of adorable. Chubby-cheeked babies are adorable. Puppies are adorable. Sometimes even little old ladies named Ethel. None of those things equate sexy.So neither should she.
“I said, you’re doing it wrong,” I say more sternly.
“I heard that.” Her voice is small and sad. Just like she is. A small, sad, adorable woman. “What am I doing wrong?”
“Everything.”
“Everything?” She sounds defeated. Like she wanted so bad to succeed at this so she could give Evan the blowjob of his life, ensuring that he’d never stray. Like she wanted to be the Superhead of the Upper East Side and boast her talents on a billboard in Times Square.