Page 41 of Spicy or Sweet
“I don’t want to meet anyone else. I’m here, aren’t I?” I reply, nudging her foot with mine.
“Yeah.” Her smile softens. “You are.”
“I’ve never used one, you know,” I say, nodding to the display.
“A strap?”
“No, a Grinch butt plug,” I reply, rolling my eyes.
She laughs, a warm, honeyed sound that goes to my head more than the old-fashioned has. “Damn, I can’t believe it. You totally give me Grinch butt plug vibes, sweetheart. But seriously, I like toys. I like trying new things out, but I can have plenty of fun without them if you’re not into them.”
“I don’t really know what I’m into,” I reply honestly. “But I’m open to trying whatever you think I might like. I trust you.”
She sits up straighter, like she likes hearing me say I trust her. And I do.
Truthfully, I’m entirely out of my element here. I’ve used exactly one sex toy—a trusty rabbit I’ve had for longer than I’d like to admit—and my sexual history is beyond basic. With Philippe, it was once every couple of months at the most, usually on a special occasion, or when we were a little tipsy. Before Philippe, I was never with anyone long enough to get comfortable and try anything new.
Noelle makes me want to try new things, though.
“Do you have a big collection?” I ask, and she nods, beckoning me over to her nightstand.
She pulls open the bottom drawer, and I’m honestly surprised she managed to get it closed; it’s so full. It’s a rainbow of pink, and purple, various nude shades, and bright blue… “Are those tentacles?”
Her cheeks turn as pink as the spiral of pink silicon sitting on top of the drawer. I couldn’t even begin to guess how it’s used.
“Technically, it’s just one tentacle. I was curious, but it’s not my thing,” Noelle explains. “When I’m not working, which is most of the time, or with my family, I like to just stay home, and this drawer makes for the best kind of stress relief I’ve got right now. It’s amazing what a vibrator, whatever fantasy I’m fixating on at the moment, and thirty minutes to myself will do.”
“I get that,” I say, peering into the drawer. “Have you ever thought about me?” I don’t mean to say it; the question slipsfrom my tongue like it demands to be heard. But I don’t regret it when Noelle’s pupils flare in response.
“After I kissed you. I tried every other way to distract myself, but nothing worked. I got the notification to say you’d matched with me right as I came.”
God. Why is that so hot?
“What one did you use?” I ask, looking back at the drawer.
Noelle leans down and pulls out a hot pink toy with what I think is a suction head. I’ve never used one, but I’m not completely naive about what’s what.
“Can you show me how it works?”
“You want me to use it on you?” Noelle asks, her voice low. The little twang she has seems to be stronger when she’s turned on, and it coils around me, squeezing the breath from my lungs.
I shake my head, and her eyes widen. “I want to watch you use it.”
“Fuck,” Noelle whispers. “Of course. Yes. But only if I get to watch you, too.”
She grabs another toy from the drawer and passes it to me. The pink toy she has is bigger, with a curved handle that I suspect means it can be used internally as well as externally. The silver one she hands me has the same suction head, but it’s smaller and more oval-shaped.
“I’ve never used suction,” I say, and by the time I look up from the toy, she’s already half undressed.
A wicked smile curves her lips. “Prepare to have your mind blown. Once you try suction, you can never go back.” She must notice my dubious expression as I look at the toy, because she adds, “Trust me. This is one of those times where size doesn’t matter.”
I turn away to get undressed, folding my clothes and setting them on her dresser. I’m usually a ball things up in the corner of the room kind of person, but something about undressing infront of each other feels more intimate than it has the past two times, when I was so caught up in the moment, I didn’t even consider feeling self-conscious.
Now, though, I can’t help it. I wasn’t kidding when I told Noelle I felt old, and my body looks exactly like what you’d expect from the body of an almost-forty-seven-year-old who never works out and spent too much time in the sun as a teenager. There’s a softness to my stomach, a sagginess to my breasts that I didn’t have when I was Noelle’s age. I have a large scar that starts a couple inches below my belly button, curves around, and continues up my abdomen, from my emergency surgery after the accident. My grays come in faster than I can dye them; I have sunspots, and stretch marks, and all kinds of things I didn’t have to think about when I was married to a man who was aging at the same time I was. A thirty-year-old is a whole other ballgame.
But when I turn around, Noelle is lying back against her pillows with an expression that can only be described as ravenous.
“The fantasy had nothing on reality,” she says, shaking her head as she takes me in. “Look at you.”
