“He totally did. He was dicking us at the same time, which means we were dicking each other. You and I basically had sex,” she says nonchalantly, with a shrug of her shoulders.
“According to a recent study, there are exactly twenty-six hundred slang terms for genitalia,” Belle continues, and Ariel and I both turn to stare at her. “I’m just saying. I’m not the only one who uses different words for body parts. It’s completely normal.”
“It’s not completely normal for two friends to have had sex. This crosses a whole bunch of boundaries I’m not ready for,” Ariel complains.
“We didn’t have sex, will you stop?” I argue, trying really hard to remain calm.
“It’s okay. We’ll get past this. We’ll need a few years of therapy, but I’m sure we’ll be fine. We just need to stop picturing the two of us riding the same penis at the same time, probably within hours of each other. Fuck, I think I’m going to be sick.”
Ariel presses her hand against her mouth and I watch her throat constrict as she swallows a few times.
“That never happened. We do not need therapy.”
“You were still married to him seven months ago. I can do the math,” she replies.
“I assure you, your math is most likely off.”
My heart is beating rapidly in my chest and it’s taking everything in me not to shout at the top of my lungs for her to just drop it and move on to picking out what I’m going to wear tonight.
“Two-hundred-and-ten odd days, subtracted by you were still married to the guy equals we had sex with the same penis!” Ariel shouts in frustration, throwing her hands up in the air.
“WE DID NOT HAVE SEX WITH THE SAME PENIS BECAUSE TWO HUNDRED AND TEN ODD DAYS AGO I WAS NOT HAVING SEX WITH MY HUSBAND! THE LAST TIME I HAD SEX WITH MY HUSBAND WAS ONE THOUSAND NINETY-FIVE DAYS AGO!” I scream.
An uncomfortable silence fills the room at my proclamation, and I quickly smooth my sweaty palms down the front of my skirt.
“Jesus, and I’ve just been joking about the whole prude thing all this time. Who knew it was actually true? Three years? I know this is going to sound really bitchy, but no wonder the guy cheated. You gotta give it up more than that,” Ariel says, making my blood boil.
“Experts define a sexless marriage as having sex no more than ten times in any given year, or less than once per month,” Belle mutters.
Having just about enough of this nonsense, I snatch the Clone-a-Willy from Ariel’s hand, and now it’s my turn to start pointing it in her face.
“You know who bought this thing? I did. I BOUGHT BRIAN THE CLONE-A-WILLY!” I inform her, my voice rising with each word I speak. “Because you’re right. The idea that I would use this thing while he was away on business SHOULD be hot. But he thought it was weird and gross, so I tossed it into the back of my closet and never brought it up again. And no, I haven’t had sex in three years, but it’s not for lack of trying. I wanted to have sex. I wanted to have ALL the sex, but Brian was tired, Brian wasn’t in the mood, Brian had a long day at work, Brian had an early meeting the next morning. I bought so much lingerie it looked like Victoria’s Secret threw up in my dresser, but BRIAN WASN’T IN THE MOOD. It turns out, Brian just wasn’t in the mood for me.”
All of the anger and frustration leaves me in an instant, and before I know it, my knees have given out and I’m sitting right on top of the pile of boring beige clothing, crying and waving the Clone-a-Willy around above my head.
“I booked hotel rooms in the city, I lit candles, I planned surprise weekend getaways, I bought porn! My Google search history is probably still full of all the porn I bought, and tomorrow I might get hit by a bus and people will see my Google porn history and it won’t be pretty!” I sob. “For three years I tried everything I could to get my husband to have sex with me, and nothing worked. Now I’m going to die, sexless and alone, with student/teacher pornography stuck in my cookies!”
Ariel quickly drops down next to me, grabs the Clone-a-Willy from my hand and chucks it across the room.
“You are NOT going to die sexless and alone with anything stuck in your cookie, aside from another much larger, much more enjoyable frickle,” Ariel reassures me.
“He really didn’t have a very satisfying frickle. God, I miss sex,” I say with a sigh.
“His frickle was fucked, and he wouldn’t know how to use it if he had a road map and a tour guide.”
“See? It’s fun saying frickle!” Belle exclaims.
Ariel grabs one of my hands, pulling me up from the floor as I swipe away the tears.
“I’m sorry I insinuated this was all your fault. I’m still having trouble coming to terms with the fact that there’s a wildcat hidden under all that beige,” Ariel apologizes. “Tonight, Stella is getting her groove back.”
Ariel marches over to the pile of clothing bags and begins unzipping them.
“We’re going to sex you up, and PJ won’t even know what hit him,” she announces, pulling out a skintight red dress that barely has enough material to it to cover all the important parts.
“I don’t want anything to hit PJ. I don’t even like him,” I lie, picturing his gorgeous face and how nicely he can wear a pair of jeans.
“You don’t have to like him to get yourself some good dicking. You need a good dicking, Cindy. Brian was mediocre at best. You need mind-blowing, toe-curling, forget-your-own-name dicking. And while you’re busy getting fucked into next week, you can also use him for his business knowledge, so it’s a win-win.”
I’m not going to lie: The idea of sleeping with PJ does fill me with a thrill of excitement. He definitely looks like a man who wouldn’t need a road map or a tour guide in the bedroom. But this business we’re trying to establish needs to be our top priority. Getting out of debt and taking charge of my life needs to come first, not a man with piercing blue eyes who I’m quite certain still doesn’t think we’re serious, or that the three of us could possibly make a business like this successful.
I’ll let Ariel dress me, and I’ll go to PJ’s stupid club tonight, but I’ll do it for me. Because I need a change. Because I need a reminder that I am a strong, independent woman who can make anything happen. With a little confidence and my new friends by my side, I can do anything.
“Operation Get Cindy Laid is now in full effect,” Ariel announces, tossing the red dress at me.
“That is not the purpose of this evening, and I’m not wearing this,” I tell her, throwing the dress right back at her.
“I just found out you like porn. I feel closer to you than ever before. Don’t ruin this for me. Get your ass in the bathroom and put on the slutty red dress,” she orders, grabbing my hand and smacking the dress into it.
“Fine. But this night is strictly about business and nothing else,” I tell her as I turn and make my way to the bathroom.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Small-business license, website design, filing tax paperwork, blah, blah, blah, Cindy’s getting a frickle shoved in her frackle,” Ariel shouts after me.
Chapter 12: Does Your Wife Know Where You Are Tonight?
“This is fascinating. I already interviewed twenty men and I have so much information it will blow your minds. I should make flashcards when I get home,” Belle muses as she scribbles notes in a small notebook she’s been carrying around with her since we got to Charming’s.
I attempt to tug down the hem of the shorts Ariel forced me to wear to stop my rear end from popping out each time I walk, but it’s no use. These miniscule black-leather things feel like they’ve been painted on me, and they won’t budge.
“Excuse me, sir?” Belle speaks loudly above the music thumping through the sound system as she grabs the arm of a gentleman walking by us. “Do you have a few minutes to speak with me? I’d just like to know how many singles you currently carry in your wallet. And did you stop at a bank on the way here to make change? I notice you’re wearing a wedding ring. Does your wife know where you are tonight, and if so—”
“Stop.
”
We both turn when we hear a menacing voice speak from behind us, our heads tipping back to look up at the angry, hulking man standing with his feet planted apart and his arms crossed in front of him.
“I’m almost finished with my questions. Just a few more and then—”
“No.” Beast cuts Belle off again.
“Stop interrupting her. It’s rude.”
But I give up scolding him for his manners because I’m busy trying to tug the hem of my shorts down with one hand, while attempting to hold the deep V of my low-cut, white silk shirt closed, so my breasts don’t fall out of the stupid thing.
Each pull and tug I perform makes the spaghetti straps of my dressy tank top fall down my arms until there’s nothing holding up my shirt but my hand holding it against my chest.
This is ridiculous.
“Marching around this club asking the customers if their wives know where they are is rude,” Beast grumbles, stringing together more words than I’ve ever heard him utter.
“I’m compiling facts and doing research. You can’t tell me what to do,” Belle states, narrowing her eyes and taking a step toward him, not even a little bit afraid of the glare he’s giving her.
“Stop. Talking. To customers,” Beast growls in a low voice.
“Fine. Then I’ll ask you. Does your wife know where you are tonight? How many singles do you currently have in your back pocket?” Belle asks, her pen poised above the notebook, ready and waiting for any knowledge he might give her, oblivious to the dark look that passes over his eyes at her questions.
“Go home.”
With those final words, Beast turns and stalks away, his giant body swallowed up by the crowd of people milling about with drinks in their hands, waiting for the first performer to get on stage.
“How am I supposed to conduct research when no one is cooperating?” Belle complains, pushing her glasses up on her nose as Ariel walks up between us, tipping back a tumbler and finishing off the contents, the ice cubes clinking against the glass when she pulls it away from her mouth.
“You’re supposed to conduct research by partaking in the festivities, not killing everyone’s buzz with a hundred questions like you’re a reporter on the beat. Do some shots. Mingle. Give a few lap dances. Embrace the beauty of the American strip-club experience,” Ariel tells us. “And for God’s sake, stop covering up the goods.”
She smacks my hand away from the plunging neckline of my blouse.
“Yes, please stop covering up the goods.”
Ariel lets out a long, suffering sigh when Eric joins our group, his eyes zeroed in on the ample amount of cleavage she doesn’t bother to try to hide in the skintight red dress I refused to wear.
“Oh look—walking, talking herpes just arrived. Now the party can really begin,” Ariel deadpans.
“You know every time you speak it makes my dick hard?” Eric says with a smirk.
“Okay, I get it now. If he had said it makes his frickle hard, that wouldn’t have been as hot,” Belle whispers in my ear.
“Go away and find someone else to annoy. We’ve got work to do,” Ariel tells him as she sets her empty glass down on the nearest table, grabs mine and Belle’s arms, and starts to drag us away from the man who sticks his hands into the front pocket of his dress pants and continues to smile at us as she forcibly moves us away from him.
“I’ll be in the VIP section if you need to practice those lap dances!” Eric shouts after Ariel, which causes her to drop her hold on my arm and lift her middle finger up in the air without even turning back to look at him.
We finally stop on the other side of the club, at the bar. Ariel pushes her way through the line of people waiting for drinks. Within seconds, she’s flagged down a bartender, and before I can even blink, she’s handing each of us a shot glass filled with light pink liquid.
“How did you get served so fast? This place is a madhouse.” I hold the small glass with both hands as I look nervously around the room.
“They’re called tits, Cindy. Use them to your advantage,” Ariel tells me, reaching down into the top of her dress and fiddling with her boobs until she’s satisfied with her cleavage.
It was one thing to have the confidence to walk into Charming’s when it was closed. This is a whole new level of self-assurance I’m pretty sure I haven’t mastered yet. Sure, the tiny leather shorts and sexy top I’m wearing make me feel good about myself when I’m not worried about parts of my body popping out for everyone to see. And it’s impossible not to walk with an extra sway to my hips in the black stilettos Ariel made me wear. But I don’t know how to act like she’s acting. She’s so comfortable in her own skin, she doesn’t even have to think about flirting with any of the men who have approached her tonight. It just comes naturally. She doesn’t have to overanalyze everything before she says it, wondering if she sounds like an idiot or looks like a fool.
“You’ve spent the last hour hiding in the corner, not talking to anyone. You’re not gonna get anywhere unless you lose the nerves. Drink your shot like a good little girl. It’s called Tequila Rose and it’s delicious,” Ariel says, grabbing my wrist and bringing my hand with the shot glass up toward my mouth.
Knowing she’ll just make a scene if I don’t do what she says, I drink the shot, surprised that it doesn’t burn going down and really does taste wonderful. It reminds me of the strawberry milk mix my stepmonster would buy for her daughters that I was never allowed to touch but always snuck late at night, after they were asleep.
“I have not spent the last hour not talking to anyone. I spoke to several of the strippers, and Belle can attest to that.”
I turned toward Belle and watch her down the shot in her hand before slamming the empty glass on the bar and waving down the bartender for another. He quickly refills her glass, and she tips the new one back just as quickly, smacking it against the bar top and motioning for another refill as she looks at a page of the notebook in her hands.
“Remind me to sneak you out of the bedroom window of your dad’s house more often. Look at Belle getting white-girl wasted,” Ariel says with a proud look on her face when Belle hiccups and then giggles.
“You set the timer on your phone for one a.m., right? My dad gets up to take his arthritis medication at one thirty, and I have to be back before he wakes up,” Belle tells us distractedly as she flips through her notebook.
“And just like that you murder all of my hopes and dreams,” Ariel sighs.
“Anyway, Cindy is right. We did speak to a few of the dancers while you were mingling. We found out Megan gets some great deals on her stripper shoes from the Rack Room, but we need to make sure to sign up for their email alerts to get the coupons,” Belle reads from one of the pages. “All of the music she purchases for her dances from iTunes can be a used as a tax write-off, as well as the clothing she buys, as long as she can prove they’re costumes and she doesn’t wear them every day. If we hire staff, we’ll need to make sure they each get 1099s at the end of the year, and Rachel gave me the name of her accountant so we can give him—”
Belle stops talking when Ariel reaches over and pinches her lips together with her thumb and two of her fingers.
“No more talking. No more interviewing. I can dress the two of you up, but I can’t take you anywhere without the stick in your ass showing,” Ariel says, pointing at me before turning her finger toward Belle. “And your purity blinking like a neon sign above your head. We’re at a strip club, for fuck’s sake. Yes, we are doing some recon for our business, but we also need to have fun.”
“Technically, you only dressed me up. Why does Belle get to wear what she always wears and I have to dress . . . skanky?” I question, looking down at my outfit and then pointing to Belle’s modest, light-green sundress.
“Because Belle is a colt, just learning to walk. We have to ease her into this or she’s going to fall flat on her face. We had to grab her arms and pull her out of a first-floor window tonight just to get her here,” Ariel
reminds me as Belle nods in agreement, grabbing the shot glass the bartender refilled for her again and tipping it back. “And you’re dressed like a skank because you are a skank. Deep down, under the beige and pearls and PTA bake sales, is a Clone-a-Willy and fetish-porn lover, screaming to get out. Let the skank out, Cindy. Let her out and let her fuck shit up.”
I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths, letting the sultry beat of the music piping through the club flow through me and get me in the right frame of mind. I need to stop complaining and stop worrying so much. I can’t exactly be the strong, independent woman I know is inside me if I can’t have a little fun. The problem is, it’s been so long since I had anything even resembling fun, that I’m not sure I even know where to begin.
Ariel smiles at me when I open my eyes and move closer to the bar, resting my elbows on top of it to push my cleavage together as I make eye contact with the bartender. He quickly refills my shot glass with more pink liquid and gives me a wink.
“It’s on the house. Courtesy of Mr. Charming,” the bartender tells me, lifting his chin in the direction of somewhere over my shoulder before walking away.
I turn around with the shot in my hand, and the three of us stare at a booth in the far corner of the room, where PJ is currently sitting, staring right at me.
He’s all alone on the long leather seat, his arms outstretched on the back of the couch, like he’s just waiting for someone to come over and sit down next to him. He’s traded in his usual uniform of jeans and a casual shirt for a pair black dress pants and a white button-down, with the cuffs unbuttoned and pushed up to his elbows. I can see the magnificent muscles in his forearms as his hands grip the back of the leather couch. And even from all the way over here, every time a few of the club lights flash over his face, I can see how intently he’s staring at me, and all the skin I’m showing tonight heats under his perusal.
“Well, your tits just got you a free shot. Now it’s time to really put those babies to work. Get over there and fuck shit up,” Ariel tells me with an encouraging smack on the ass that causes me to jump and give her a dirty look over my shoulder.