Chapter 2
T he bet: That I wouldn’t dare have sex, hot and heavy sex, with a stranger. No names. No obligations or complications. Just sex!
The prize: A week’s vacation at a day spa resort paid for by the loser.
And what do I hate more than anything else? Yes, you guessed it—losing—especially to Sherry. She gets this evil gleam in her eye, and you just know that it will cost you more than money.
So here I am, entering a biker bar. And who is this gorgeous redhead dragging me over the threshold, with my elbow in a vice-like grip? This, of course, is Sherry. Sheryl Jackson, my best friend: a thirty-year-old function coordinator. She’s a couple of inches shorter than me but towers over me with attitude. She’s the whole package—bubbly personality, self-confidence oozing out of her pores, the body and face of a goddess. If I ever decide to turn lesbian, then she’s my pin-up girl. I’ve been told that she only likes me around to make her look better, but I know it’s not true—she couldn’t possibly look better! Don’t get me wrong; I don’t mind being her plain-Jane sidekick. I’m not at all jealous of her—okay, maybe a little. We’ve been friends since my family moved in next to hers when we were both six. I’m closer to her than to my own sister. And that’s partly why we’re here. She says that as my proxy sister, it is her responsibility to make sure that my virginity doesn’t grow back and that this is the perfect solution. It’s okay for her; men drool when she passes. I have to put in hours of effort just to get a glance. And when I’m with her, I’m not so sure that it’s me they’re glancing at.
It’s been nearly two years since my last serious relationship. Serious for me, but as it turned out, not so much for him. I wasted ten months of my life on that jerk! All the signs were there, but like the lovesick fool I was, I didn’t see them. It wasn’t unusual that he traveled constantly between two cities—for business, he said. He was here so often that he moved into my apartment. More convenient than hotels, he said. What he didn’t say was that his other residence contained his wife and two kids! Why didn’t I see it? It all seems so obvious now. He only traveled on business but never had any dirty laundry, never had to buy supplies like toiletries or new clothing. They always just appeared when he returned to me.
Don’t get me wrong—the sex was great. We always did the things that apparently his wife wouldn’t. That was his excuse anyway, when I eventually found out about his double life. Sherry was always trying to sow the seeds of doubt into my brain, but the brain and body weren’t listening. Not until the day I received an anonymous letter suggesting I contact his wife. Listed was a name and address. It took me over a month to do it, but the reply confirmed it. And do you know what surprised me? She seemed to already know. She wasn’t angry with me or anything. No name-calling, just a polite letter telling me about her and the kids. I think that was worse than if she had lashed out at me. I felt used and dirty. And she said that it wasn’t the first time and probably wouldn’t be the last. Well, I had more pride than she did, so I ended it. Oh… I heard the usual: “She doesn’t understand me, only you do,” “But it’s so good between us,” “It’s you that I really love” bullshit, but I don’t share. Then came the insults about how he was sick of me anyway, had only been with me because he felt sorry for me, etcetera. Then it turned really nasty with threats and debasing comments. After I got a restraining order and changed to an unlisted phone number, the communication ceased. So for the last two years, Steve Baxter has been a fading memory, and the only sexual partner I’ve had takes two AA batteries.
Chapter 3
S o here we are. We’ve dressed to kill, courtesy of Sherry’s extensive wardrobe. Short tight skirts, tight skimpy tops, and shoes
T he bet: That I wouldn’t dare have sex, hot and heavy sex, with a stranger. No names. No obligations or complications. Just sex!
The prize: A week’s vacation at a day spa resort paid for by the loser.
And what do I hate more than anything else? Yes, you guessed it—losing—especially to Sherry. She gets this evil gleam in her eye, and you just know that it will cost you more than money.
So here I am, entering a biker bar. And who is this gorgeous redhead dragging me over the threshold, with my elbow in a vice-like grip? This, of course, is Sherry. Sheryl Jackson, my best friend: a thirty-year-old function coordinator. She’s a couple of inches shorter than me but towers over me with attitude. She’s the whole package—bubbly personality, self-confidence oozing out of her pores, the body and face of a goddess. If I ever decide to turn lesbian, then she’s my pin-up girl. I’ve been told that she only likes me around to make her look better, but I know it’s not true—she couldn’t possibly look better! Don’t get me wrong; I don’t mind being her plain-Jane sidekick. I’m not at all jealous of her—okay, maybe a little. We’ve been friends since my family moved in next to hers when we were both six. I’m closer to her than to my own sister. And that’s partly why we’re here. She says that as my proxy sister, it is her responsibility to make sure that my virginity doesn’t grow back and that this is the perfect solution. It’s okay for her; men drool when she passes. I have to put in hours of effort just to get a glance. And when I’m with her, I’m not so sure that it’s me they’re glancing at.
It’s been nearly two years since my last serious relationship. Serious for me, but as it turned out, not so much for him. I wasted ten months of my life on that jerk! All the signs were there, but like the lovesick fool I was, I didn’t see them. It wasn’t unusual that he traveled constantly between two cities—for business, he said. He was here so often that he moved into my apartment. More convenient than hotels, he said. What he didn’t say was that his other residence contained his wife and two kids! Why didn’t I see it? It all seems so obvious now. He only traveled on business but never had any dirty laundry, never had to buy supplies like toiletries or new clothing. They always just appeared when he returned to me.
Don’t get me wrong—the sex was great. We always did the things that apparently his wife wouldn’t. That was his excuse anyway, when I eventually found out about his double life. Sherry was always trying to sow the seeds of doubt into my brain, but the brain and body weren’t listening. Not until the day I received an anonymous letter suggesting I contact his wife. Listed was a name and address. It took me over a month to do it, but the reply confirmed it. And do you know what surprised me? She seemed to already know. She wasn’t angry with me or anything. No name-calling, just a polite letter telling me about her and the kids. I think that was worse than if she had lashed out at me. I felt used and dirty. And she said that it wasn’t the first time and probably wouldn’t be the last. Well, I had more pride than she did, so I ended it. Oh… I heard the usual: “She doesn’t understand me, only you do,” “But it’s so good between us,” “It’s you that I really love” bullshit, but I don’t share. Then came the insults about how he was sick of me anyway, had only been with me because he felt sorry for me, etcetera. Then it turned really nasty with threats and debasing comments. After I got a restraining order and changed to an unlisted phone number, the communication ceased. So for the last two years, Steve Baxter has been a fading memory, and the only sexual partner I’ve had takes two AA batteries.
Chapter 3
S o here we are. We’ve dressed to kill, courtesy of Sherry’s extensive wardrobe. Short tight skirts, tight skimpy tops, and shoes
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