Lorinda Cosgrove. As in Cos-Mart, the place where you can go shopping for honey buns, cheap lingerie, and a nine-millimeter at 3 A.M. while wearing cutoff booty shorts and Crocs. No lie, there are websites dedicated to these train wrecks. Google that shit.
“Yes, I am aware of your assessment, as crude as it is. However, what do you expect to achieve?”
I shake my head marginally. There’s one in every class. One that doesn’t want to accept the ugly truth staring her in the face. Even though she’s read the manual, signed the contracts, and undergone all the necessary briefings before arriving, she still can’t grasp her reality—flashing bright, neon arrows toward her dried-up vagina. Good thing I have no qualms about reminding her.
“You suck at sex,” I deadpan, my expression blank. Audible gasps escape from almost every collagen-plumped lip, yet I continue to drive my point home. “You don’t satisfy your husband sexually, which is why he wants to cheat on you, if he hasn’t already. You may be a fantastic wife, mother, homemaker, whatever, but you are a lousy lover. And that trumps all.”
Lorinda clutches her chest with a shaky, manicured hand. The woman sitting next to her, a heavier-set, forty-something housewife—whose husband’s midlife crisis, and his love of barely legal debutantes, have turned their marriage into a media circus—steadies her with a motherly squeeze on the shoulder. Aw, how sweet.
“And that goes for all of you,” I say, casting my glance around the room. “You’re here because you know you’re about to lose the one thing you’ve worked your pretty little asses off for—your man. You love the lifestyle you live, and instead of licking your wounds and moving on, you’d rather fix your broken marriage. And I’m here to help you.”
“But how?”
A slow, sardonic smile unfurls across my face. “I’m going to teach you how to fuck your husband.”
More gasps. More pearl clutching. Even a few shrieks of My word!
“But that’s not . . .” Lorinda screeches above the flurry of discontent. “Not proper. Not dignified.”
And there it is.
It’s the reason why her husband, Lane Cosgrove, likes to bend his pretty blond secretary over his desk and fuck her senseless while she calls him “Daddy.” He has a thing for anal—giving and taking it. His secretary keeps a strap-on in the locked file cabinet beside her desk for Thursday nights. Lane always works late on Thursdays, leaving Lorinda to her usual book-club meeting, women’s Bible study, wine tasting, etc., etc. Nothing Lane does on Thursdays is “proper.” Letting his secretary probe him with a ten-inch dildo while his mouth is stuffed with her panties to muffle his cries is anything but dignified. And he knows it. That’s why Lorinda can’t satisfy his needs. And letting your very rich and powerful husband leave home sexually unsatisfied is like giving him a loaded gun. Sooner or later, he’s going to pop off a few rounds.
On cue, my head of concierge services, Diane, enters, followed by several members of my staff. Time to move this little welcoming party right along before any more tears are shed.
“Ladies, if you think that you do not need this program and have ended up here by some mistake, please feel free to leave. Our drivers are prepared to take you straight to the airport, and you will be given a full refund. We just ask that you honor the nondisclosure agreements you and your spouses have signed.”
No one makes a move to stand, so I continue. “If you would like to stay and learn how to improve your sex lives and, ultimately, your relationships, our staff will show you to your rooms. You will find that they are fully equipped with en suite facilities and amenities, plus we have a twenty-four-hour chef and staff at your disposal. The property also houses a state-of-the-art fitness center, spa, and salon for all your personal needs. Comfort is key here. Welcome to Oasis, ladies. We want you to consider this your home for the next six weeks of instruction.”
Eleven sets of eyes stare back at me, waiting for the first command. No one wants to be the first to jump out of her seat, arms flailing as she screams, Pick me! Pick me! Teach me, I want to learn! They all want this; they all want to know the secrets of marital bliss. And they know everything I’ve said is true.
Each and every one of these women knows that someone else is fucking their husband because she herself doesn’t know how to do it herself.
And deep down, I feel for them. Hell, I even sympathize with them. They made it their life’s goal to meet and marry someone who would catapult them from their mediocre backgrounds and send them flying to the comforts of wealth and luxury.
It’s a regular Pretty Woman syndrome. They go from lying on their backs for lavish gifts or some inconsequential promise of commitment in the form of a cheap, dime-store diamond ring, to more jewels than they even have limbs to wear them on. But what these ladies fail to realize is that whatever they had to do to nab their Richard Gere, they have to do that—and more—to keep him.
The staff ushers the women up to their private rooms, leaving me alone in the great room just as the Arizona sun begins to set, slowly sliding down the azure sky. It morphs into a life-size canvas of ombré oranges, pinks, blues, and purples, the breathtaking view not sullied by towering buildings or jigsaw highways. Oasis is tucked far away from civilization, away from paparazzi, designer bullshit, and reality television.
This is my favorite part of the day—when gravity pulls that scorching, desert sun above, coaxing it into the outstretched, jagged arms of mountains and cacti. Even the most tortured souls seek comfort and solitude.
I make my way across the courtyard toward the guesthouse. I own all the property, but I don’t sleep in the main house. There’s a level of privacy and professionalism that I must uphold, and being locked in a secluded mansion with eleven women can be . . . difficult. My business is sex. I instruct sex. I live and breathe sex. And I need it, just like their duplicitous husbands.
So thanks to my don’t-shit-where-you-eat policy, I endure six, sexless weeks during instruction, only sating my sexual appetite between the four courses I host per year. Even then, I’m discreet. Being any other way just isn’t profitable in my line of work.
After letting the shower rinse away the day’s aggravation, I dress and head to the dining room for dinner. The ladies trickle in one by one, quietly taking seats around the grand table. They’re all still here. Eleven women desperate to reconnect with the men they hope to be tied to until death. The men that promised to move heaven and earth in exchange for their promise of commitment. The men who have broken their vows in order to sate sexual deviancies and feed their egos.
The women are silent as we’re served the first course. Hardly anyone touches the starter of foie gras, elaborately dressed with poached apple in a fig reduction. Not even the scrape of silver against china echoes through the vast space.
I chew slowly, surveying the eleven, perfectly poised women from the head of the table. All are determined to avoid eye contact as they pretend to nibble their appetizers and numb their nerves with wine.
“So . . .” I start, drawing their reluctant eyes. “When was the last time any of you masturbated?”
A symphony of coughs and gasps coaxes my mouth into a satisfied grin. This group should be fun.
“Excuse me?” one sneers, after downing her red wine. A server moves to grace her with a refill of velvety courage, knowing she’ll need it.
“Did I stutter? Or do you not know what it means to masturbate?”
“What? I know what”—she cringes, flustered, and shakes her head in embarrassment—“. . . masturbating is. Why do you feel the need to ask such crude, inappropriate questions?”
I examine the striking redhead still glaring at me, her cherry lips tight with irritation. Her too large, almost animated eyes narrow in abhorrence, burning right through me with unspoken judgment. Even with her face twisted into a scowl, she’s stunning. Not overly done up or glamorous. She’s old Hollywood beautiful, yet there’s something fresh and simple about her.