he hadn’t discovered Viagra yet. We, on the other hand, firmly believed that if we didn’t stay up on feminine wiles we’d be doomed to fade into the humdrum of asexuality. Use it or lose it. That was our motto.
Eating and the movie came first. Before Brad had defeated his enemies on my big screen—another perk of having clients who couldn’t pay with cash, oops guess that was three times—Shari hit pause long enough for ice cream to be served. Dessert in modest quantities had never been against the rules. We considered it in the same category as Prozac or Xanax, a basic essential for the mature woman. More often than not, Mary Jane brought something from her bakery, Sweet Cakes, but tonight she’d fallen down on the job. I worried about her. She seemed preoccupied a lot lately.
I’d forgotten about the box of decadent chocolate hiding in the very back recesses, territory I rarely broached, of my freezer. Perhaps forgotten wasn’t the right word, more likely I had blocked it from my memory for the sake of my hips. Uncovering the hidden treasure had saved the evening.
I felt way stuffed afterwards but it beat the hell out of the emptiness I’d experienced in front of my bedroom mirror.
I’d bet my coveted Birkin and the wide screen that Ken Willis hadn’t felt one speck of guilt or disappointment or any damned thing else. It was the curse of womanhood. Always carry all the guilt. Always shoulder all the worry, stress and any other emotionally wrenching stroke or heart attack trigger known to modern medicine.
I stared at Brad on the gargantuan screen as the movie resumed. Shari was right, he looked hot. A lot like my new business associate. Before I could stop my carbohydrate sodden brain, Dawson’s image bloomed in the private theater of my mind.
Dawson, ex-homicide detective who’d decked his superior for bonking his future wife. God, he was cute and way younger than dear old Brad.
Striking blue eyes. Like the sea lapping against the shore. And the lips. Well, suffice to say that Hollywood heartthrob Brad could use a set of lips like that. Full, sculpted but definitely not feminine. Kissable. Suckable. I moistened my lips hungrily.
Whew! I should have adjusted the thermostat. It was hot in here. My heart was racing. Hot flashes? I wondered vaguely and got depressed all over again.
“Are you all right?”
Donna’s voice startled me. “What?” I glanced at her then looked away so guiltily and so fast I got whiplash from the momentum.
My oldest friend scrutinized me for a second too long. “You look flushed, Jackie.” Her hyperanalyzing gaze tapered to mere slits. “What’s going on? You’re way too quiet.”
I cleared my throat. “It does feel a little hot in here.”
“ Everybody take it off! ” Mary Jane sang out. “ Lose your clothes .”
“Okay Lady Gaga or whoever you are,” Shari said, “enough with the singing. What’ve you done with our friend Mary Jane?”
“It’s not Lady Gaga,” Mary Jane corrected, “it’s Kesha. You should listen to something every once in a while besides that cry-in-your-beer country stuff.”
Shari’s mouth sagged in surprise as did mine. Had Mary Jane been abducted by aliens? You could not live in Texas and not like country music. It was the law.
“What?” Mary Jane cried at our thunderstruck expressions. “I like all kinds of music and for your information, I think some of those rappers are cute. I’ve done my share of daydreaming about Lil Wayne.”
At least the pressure was off me with that startling revelation from the always-demure-one. Except for Donna. She still watched me from the corner of her eye. Two years of psychology to go with her degree in social work made the already too perceptive woman practically a psychic. Her ability to ferret out the secrets of Houston’s rich and famous rivaled Hobbs’
Eating and the movie came first. Before Brad had defeated his enemies on my big screen—another perk of having clients who couldn’t pay with cash, oops guess that was three times—Shari hit pause long enough for ice cream to be served. Dessert in modest quantities had never been against the rules. We considered it in the same category as Prozac or Xanax, a basic essential for the mature woman. More often than not, Mary Jane brought something from her bakery, Sweet Cakes, but tonight she’d fallen down on the job. I worried about her. She seemed preoccupied a lot lately.
I’d forgotten about the box of decadent chocolate hiding in the very back recesses, territory I rarely broached, of my freezer. Perhaps forgotten wasn’t the right word, more likely I had blocked it from my memory for the sake of my hips. Uncovering the hidden treasure had saved the evening.
I felt way stuffed afterwards but it beat the hell out of the emptiness I’d experienced in front of my bedroom mirror.
I’d bet my coveted Birkin and the wide screen that Ken Willis hadn’t felt one speck of guilt or disappointment or any damned thing else. It was the curse of womanhood. Always carry all the guilt. Always shoulder all the worry, stress and any other emotionally wrenching stroke or heart attack trigger known to modern medicine.
I stared at Brad on the gargantuan screen as the movie resumed. Shari was right, he looked hot. A lot like my new business associate. Before I could stop my carbohydrate sodden brain, Dawson’s image bloomed in the private theater of my mind.
Dawson, ex-homicide detective who’d decked his superior for bonking his future wife. God, he was cute and way younger than dear old Brad.
Striking blue eyes. Like the sea lapping against the shore. And the lips. Well, suffice to say that Hollywood heartthrob Brad could use a set of lips like that. Full, sculpted but definitely not feminine. Kissable. Suckable. I moistened my lips hungrily.
Whew! I should have adjusted the thermostat. It was hot in here. My heart was racing. Hot flashes? I wondered vaguely and got depressed all over again.
“Are you all right?”
Donna’s voice startled me. “What?” I glanced at her then looked away so guiltily and so fast I got whiplash from the momentum.
My oldest friend scrutinized me for a second too long. “You look flushed, Jackie.” Her hyperanalyzing gaze tapered to mere slits. “What’s going on? You’re way too quiet.”
I cleared my throat. “It does feel a little hot in here.”
“ Everybody take it off! ” Mary Jane sang out. “ Lose your clothes .”
“Okay Lady Gaga or whoever you are,” Shari said, “enough with the singing. What’ve you done with our friend Mary Jane?”
“It’s not Lady Gaga,” Mary Jane corrected, “it’s Kesha. You should listen to something every once in a while besides that cry-in-your-beer country stuff.”
Shari’s mouth sagged in surprise as did mine. Had Mary Jane been abducted by aliens? You could not live in Texas and not like country music. It was the law.
“What?” Mary Jane cried at our thunderstruck expressions. “I like all kinds of music and for your information, I think some of those rappers are cute. I’ve done my share of daydreaming about Lil Wayne.”
At least the pressure was off me with that startling revelation from the always-demure-one. Except for Donna. She still watched me from the corner of her eye. Two years of psychology to go with her degree in social work made the already too perceptive woman practically a psychic. Her ability to ferret out the secrets of Houston’s rich and famous rivaled Hobbs’
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