One Size Fits All

  “I don’t care how good the vibrator is, it doesn’t replace the real thing.” I drop my head in my hands. “She needs cock. A real one—attached to my husband, with a pulse and everything. Until I get that, the vagina fusion will continue.”

  She steps into her dress, turns her back toward me, and gestures for me to zip her up. “I’ve gone way longer than six weeks without any action. Hell, some of my dry spells have gone longer than six months. I promise you, everything down there is still open for business.”

  I zip her up and then gently swat her on the ass. “Maybe that’s how your body works, but I’ve been properly serviced on a regular schedule since I was fifteen. We’re talking multiple times a day, virtually every day since I was a teenager. Even with the increased travel over the last few years, we’ve never gone longer than four days. I’m telling you, she feels neglected.”

  Georgia combs out her long black hair. “Do you have any idea how spoiled you are? Because you are—like Veruca Salt spoiled. In my last three serious relationships, I was lucky if the guy knew where all my parts were. Servicing them is a whole other story.”

  I shove my yoga gear into my gym bag. “I know exactly how lucky I am, but that doesn’t change the fact that when I’m forced to spend long stretches of time away from my husband, I feel empty inside. In more ways than one.”

  She tosses her brush into her bag. “Why don’t you go to him?”

  “I can’t. They have him drowning in work. First it was that one client in Chicago, then they sent him to London, then Hong Kong, then Tokyo, and now he’s in New York. He says every time he feels like he’s getting ahead, they put more on his plate. He’s working twenty-hour days and weekends. Plus, his firm is obnoxious about spouses staying in the hotel room on the company’s dime. A few months ago, a guy’s wife met him in Paris, and when the firm found out, the guy got canned. Spencer loves his job too much. I’m not going to risk his career just so I can see him sooner.”

  Glancing up at me as she buckles her Mary Janes, Georgia looks at me as though I’m dense. “So don’t stay in his room. Check into your own room and use that as your love shack. I can’t imagine they would do a room check to make sure he’s sleeping where he’s supposed to be.”

  Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I lead us out of the locker room. “Interesting idea, but that doesn’t solve the time issue. He barely stops to eat and sleep.”

  “Just call his secretary. He must have one night that they don’t need him until the wee hours. Find out when it is and hop on a plane.”

  Before I get a chance to reply, Georgia’s phone rings. She fishes her phone from her purse and glances at the screen. “That’s work. I swear to God, I step out for an hour to find some Zen in a yoga class and the damn place falls apart.” Hitting talk, she answers the call. Her face screws up in annoyance as she listens, but then she pulls the phone away, leans forward, and then kisses my cheek. “I’ve got to get back before my boss makes an even bigger mess for me to clean up,” she whispers. “Text me later. I expect to hear trip details!”

  The idea percolates on my walk home. Before I get too far ahead of myself, I call Marjorie, Spence’s secretary. Wednesday night is open. His last meeting is at six, and the team has the night off to prepare for a quick trip to Berlin. Supposedly, Berlin is the last leg of this crazy trip. Having been burned by those kinds of promises before, I book a flight and start to plan.

  CHAPTER THREE

  What to bring, what to bring?

  I tap my fingers on the closet door as I debate what I should pack. Feather ticklers? Blindfolds? Massage oil? There’s that naughty nurse costume that drives Spencer crazy? I have ten hours with my husband and forty-nine days of pent-up sexual tension. How can I make the most of our time?

  Cross complicated lingerie off the list. While nice in theory, I know as soon as we get into the room, I won’t have the patience for him to undo all the hook-and-eyes and corset laces and garter belts. There are some men who would just rip it off and get to the good stuff. Fancy lingerie makes Spencer tantric. He wants to savor every second—run his tongue where the seam meets my skin, then remove it all with his teeth, painstakingly slow. When he does it, it’s freaking hot as hell, and I know I’m in for hours, maybe even days of endless pleasure. Tantric orgasms feel like NASA launched a rocket through my vagina. I’ve never felt anything that intense. But I’m operating on an orgasmic deficit here. I don’t have the patience for intense. I need hard, fast and unabashedly dirty sex. We can save tantric for when he gets home.

  I pass over the drawers filled with panties. Commando it is. No underwear is better for the environment—one less thing to wash. So really, I’m saving the planet.

  Back to the task at hand: packing. Before I can pack, I have to decide how I want to play this. I’d love to pick up where we left off and be the naughty maid waiting in his room, but his room is off limits. We could play mysterious stranger. We’ll meet at the bar—flirt and drink until one of us says, “Have you seen the linens in this hotel? No? Top notch, truly. Would you like to see?”

  But that could be hours of flirting and talking. Just the thought of being in the same room as him causes me to throb between the legs and makes it impossible to concentrate. If I can’t stay in character, it will kill the roll play and then things get weird. Nothing douses the heat from a naughty game like breaking character.

  Mysterious stranger is out. Tapping my finger on my chin I ponder the different options.

  Ah ha! I’ve got it!

  We’ve talked about doing this before, but until now the situation has never been quite right. Spencer is going to love this. As the plan takes shape in my mind, I peruse my closet, looking for the perfect outfit. The problem is, I’m not exactly sure what the perfect outfit is.

  I grab my phone and dial my twin brother. “Hey, what sort of things would a hooker wear?” I ask when he answers the phone.

  “What?” Chase chokes out.

  I scan through my dresses. “Not a stand-on-the-street-corner kind of hooker. The kind that sits at swanky hotel bars to pick up wealthy business travelers. A cocktail dress? Or is that too much? Just a simple LBD? Do they wear things that might as well be a blinking sign that reads, ‘Hooker for rent by the hour: Orifice Vacancy: Yes,’ or are they more discrete?”

  “How the hell would I know?” he asks, clearly offended. My brother is far from a vestal virgin, but he hates talking about anything sexual with me.

  “You’re a professional football player. You’re telling me you’ve never seen a high-priced escort? None of your teammates prefer the company of a woman who isn’t going to smear his name in the tabloid, confuse a one-night stand with a relationship, or show up eight months pregnant looking for a payout?”

  He clears his throat. “Why are you asking? This is random, even for you.”

  Holding up an eggplant-colored Gucci dress, I glance in the mirror to see if it will work. “Research.”

  “For what?”

  I think I wore this dress to a baptism. That’s definitely not the look I’m going for. I return it and keep looking. “Roll play.”

  I hear a loud thunk, as though he dropped the phone. “Gah! Charlotte, don’t tell me that shit! The only way Spencer and I can stay best friends is if I’m able to block out any knowledge that you two … that the two of you … you know.”

  “Fuck like bunnies? Do it like dolphins. Make love like lions. Hump like—”

  “Charlie,” he warns. “Knock it off.”

  “I don’t know why it bothers you so much. Yes, I’m your twin, and yes he’s your best friend. It may have been weird when we were younger, but it’s time to grow up. Spence and I have the picture-perfect marriage, which includes a very healthy sex life. You should be happy for me.”

  He sighs. “I am happy for you, I just don’t want to know about it, okay? It makes me want to punch his face in and then break every single one of his fingers. I kinda think that might fuck
up our friendship.”

  “Okay, okay. If you fill me in on the hooker dress code, I’ll stop tormenting you.”

  “They’re always a little overdressed for a hotel bar, like they’re going to a play or a nice restaurant. The good ones blend in, and you have to really look to spot them.”

  My eyes narrow. “I knew you’d know. You dirty dog.”

  “I’ve been propositioned, but I’ve never—I wouldn’t … I don’t need to pay for it.”

  The defensive edge in his voice makes me giggle. “Hey, don’t worry. I don’t judge. Who you do is your business. I, unlike you, want you to have a good life, sex and all. I just hope you got tested afterward.”

  “I’ve never used a prostitute!”

  “Fine. If you say so,” I tease.

  He prattles on, defending his honor while I flip through my dresses until I land on the perfect one. I bought it years ago but never wore it. It’s just a little too much sexy for most events. A sequined cocktail dress with a plunging V neckline and a draped back. The dress is just long enough to go commando without giving the whole city a show. Plus, it’s a no bra required kind of dress—still saving the world. “Yeah, yeah, you’re a monk who’s never been tempted by the evil whiles of female flesh. Whatever you need me to believe to get me out of this conversation, I’m sold. Thanks for the info, but I’ve got to jet. Let’s do lunch next week, okay?”

  After hanging up, I text Marjorie. I tell her I want to surprise Spencer in the hotel bar, but I need help getting him there. I leave out the details of my happy hooker plan. Moments later, she texts back and tells me to leave everything to her.

  Now all I have to do is figure out how to get him to play along. If he spots me first, most likely Swoony Spencer will sweep me into his arms and whisper sweet nothings in my ear until we make it upstairs where we make slow sweet love all night. I don’t want all my dirty, raunchy plans to fall to the way side. We have our entire lives for put-on-some-John-Legend-and-be-quiet-so-we-don’t-wake-the-kids sex. I want him to fuck me so hard people three floors below call the front desk complaining about the noise.

  I’ve got less than two days to figure out how to make it happen.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  TSA and I have a sordid and unpleasant history. When I pack sex toys in my carry-on, without fail, they pull my bag aside and hand search it. I always try to get in the line with the least sleazy-looking guy, but inevitably, nice-looking guy goes on break, and Perv-a-nator comes on just as my bag is about to go through.

  On principle, I’m totally cool with it. TSA has a tough job, and I respect the work they do. However, when a penis-shaped object is seen on the X-ray machine, I’m not buying it that they don’t have any idea what it is. Skevey McPervy always looks a little too happy to go through my bag, paying special attention to my underwear before carefully inspecting my toy. It happens every damn time. The last time, I pitched a fit, ended up making a fairly big scene, and then was detained for being uncooperative. Admittedly, yelling, “Yes, my grand plan is to take over the plane with my Rabbit. I’m going to put the pilots in orgasm comas, and then I’ll be free to continue on with my nefarious plan!” wasn’t my best idea, and I ended up missing my flight.

  I started packing toys in checked luggage, but low and behold, when I get to my final destination, the toys were missing and in their place was a note from TSA saying that my bag was searched. Who steals used vibrators? Seriously, that’s disgusting.

  Considering I grabbed the only available seat on a flight to JFK today, I can’t miss this flight, and I’d like for my toys to make the journey with me. So, my plan is to play it nice this time. I will kill them with kindness. And if that doesn’t work, I’ll beat them over the head with my dildo.

  After arriving at the airport with plenty of time before my flight, I head over to the TSA office. “Hi there,” I say in my sweetest voice possible. “I have a few questions before I check in for my flight. I’m not sure if I need to check these items or if it’s okay to carry them on.”

  The guy behind the counter spins around, and I have to force myself not to gawk. He looks like a kid playing dress up. Has he even hit puberty yet? My goodness.

  “I’m Reggie, how can I help you?” His voice cracks on the “you”. Turning bright red, he clears his throat and tries again with at a forced, lower octave. “How can I help you?”

  I lift my bag onto the counter. “I’m flying with some personal items, and your website was a bit confusing.” I unzip my bag, revealing a few toys.

  The kid’s eyes practically fall out of his head. Putting his hands up as blinders, he turns his back to me. “Ma’am, it’s not necessary to show me your personal items.”

  “Well, I saw some rules that said you can only carry-on items that are seven inches or smaller. Is girth a factor?” I hold up a g-spot stimulator. “This one is curved. It’s seven inches at the highest point, but the product is listed as being a nine-inch toy. Is this one okay to carry on?”

  Still with his hands up around his eyes, he stares at the ground. Is he going to turn into a pillar of salt if he looks at a sex toy? “Ma’am, could you please return the items to your bag?”

  Ignoring the fact that he’s completely ignoring my questions, I continue on. I unwrap the bubble wrap around the new glass dildo. “This one is glass and has some gel or something inside to help with freezing. I called the company and they said it’s less than three ounces, but they couldn’t give me documentation to prove it. Will this be a problem?”

  He steps toward the back of the room, turns his head toward an open doorway, and shouts, “Help! I need some help up here!”

  “Then I saw on a TSA blog post that ‘personal items’ aren’t limited by the seven-inch restriction. Items don’t get much more personal than these. Do they fall under that length exclusion?”

  “Ma’am, I’m very uncomfortable with this. I’ve asked you numerous times to please return your penises.” His face screws up. “I mean personal items to your bag. It is a simple request. I insist you to comply.”

  “But I just need you to tell me what to do.” I hold up two of the vibrators. “Can I carry these on or not?”

  Another guy in a uniform jogs out from the back. He bursts out laughing as he takes in the scene. He pats Reggie on the back. “I’ve got this one, Reg. Why don’t you take five?”

  Reggie, who’s face is now as red as a strawberry, runs to the back room without looking back. The new guy bites his lip, and I can tell he’s trying to hold in his laughter. “It’s his first day. He started this morning.

  “He’s young, just turned eighteen. Not only that, but he was homeschooled, comes from a really religious family who kept him sheltered.”

  Crap, I was just kidding about the pillar of salt thing. Poor kid’s probably back there bleaching his eyes and hoping it cleans his soul. Nothing like corrupting the pure to start off a trip of sin.

  “I’m not sure he’s going to make it,” he continues. “We see all sorts of things here, and I think he’s just a bit too innocent to handle it.”

  I nod at my pile of toys. “Like a strange woman asking you to assess her sex—”

  He holds up his hand to stop me. “Personal items.” He pulls a pad from under the counter, scribbles on it, and then hands me a slip. “Hand that to the people at security. They’ll let your items through without a problem.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate that.” I pack my bag and then turn to leave.

  “Oh, Miss?”

  I spin around. “Yes.”

  “Make sure you go to the X-ray machines on the right. George is on the left and he … enjoys hand searching pretty ladies’ bags. You’ll want to avoid him. He’ll let you through, but it might take a while.”

  I wink at him. “Thanks for the tip.”

  When I get to the security line, I’m careful to stay to the right. Just as I get to the X-ray machine, I notice the woman behind the machine stand and an overweight man
with a handlebar mustache and greasy, slicked-back hair take her place. “Next,” he shouts.

  Walking through the metal detector, I smile at him. “Let me guess, you’re George?”

  “Yes, ma’am. If you’d please step aside, I’m going to need to hand search your bag.”

  Motherfucker.

  ****

  I’ll never eat curry again. The cab I picked up at JFK reeks of it. The smell is so overwhelmingly potent, I’d be willing to bet my bottom dollar he sells curry out of his trunk, like a poor man’s food truck. Whatever the reason, this car smells like the place curry goes to die. To top it off, the driver has some stuck in his beard. There’s a piece of red pepper and a glob of sauce dangling there in his rat’s nest of a beard. Every time we hit a pothole, it jiggles around. Every time it moves, I gag. I know I shouldn’t look at it, but my eyes won’t go anywhere else. How does he not feel it? Is he saving some for a mid-afternoon snack? Occasionally, Spence won’t shave for a few days, and he calls it his flavor savor. I always found that kind of hot, but now it’s ruined for me. I will forever picture this fat, hairy, smelly guy and his curry stank-filled cab.

  We hit three massive potholes in a row, and I have to choke down the vomit. It will be a miracle if I make it to the hotel without retching.

  When the driver finally pulls up to the cab stand, I throw some money at him and jump out. The second my head is out out of the stench bubble, I suck in air like a stoner at free sample day at the pot dispensary. The air smells like rotting garbage and smog, but it still smells better than that damn cab. While I’m trying to bring down the oxygen to curry/B.O. ratio in my body, a guy in a crumpled suit shoves me, trying to grab my cab.

  “Hey! Back off, buddy, I need a second,” I shout as I block his advance. “Trust me, you don’t want to go in there. Find another cab.”

  Glancing at his watch, he mumbles, “I don’t have time for this shit.” He pushes me again, this time knocking me backward. I stumble, trip on the curb, and then fall on my ass, skinning my forearms and elbows in the process. The jackass throws my bag out of the backseat and onto the sidewalk, yells, “Welcome to New York,” and then slams the door.