“A handful of MPU faculty and the visiting potential collaborators for the class. It will be small, I promise.”
“And when is it?”
“Friday evening at 7. I’ll pick you up and we can ride together,” I say as I slide my hands down her back, palms stopping just above her ass as I lean closer and say, “And maybe, if Skye doesn’t have to work too early the next morning, you could come home with me afterward?” I can feel the tension building in her body with every whispered word, and her arms tighten around me, holding me to her. Her fingers digging into my back are all the confirmation I need.
We’ll attend Abigail’s dinner party. I’ll introduce Alis to the other L&L faculty and then to Dr. Ryan. We’ll shake hands and I’ll hope to God he remembers meeting me and helping me when I was a lowly PhD student riddled with writer’s block. Not that I need to impress her, but Alis will appreciate the surprise of meeting someone sorevered in our field. I’m sure she’s heard of him — you can’t partake in L&L Academia, particularly the French lit sector, without having heard of and even fawned over Dr. Jonathan Ryan. He’ll agree to the lecture series, she’ll be high on the thrill of meeting Dr. Ryan, I’ll be high on the promise of a dream come true — a collaboration withtheJonathan Ryan. Most importantly, we’ll both be taught with the anticipation of returning to my house, to my room, to my bed, where I will spend the rest of the night indulging myself in Alis’s body.
Friday night is going to be the best night of my life.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Alis
Before I knew it,Friday had arrived and I was standing in front of my floor-length mirror, holding two dresses in front of me, trying to decide which I should wear. It’s November, so it’s too cold for most of my dresses, however, I have two long-sleeved, knee-length cocktail dresses that would both suit the occasion.
I’m pulling one to the side and replacing it with the other when Skye enters my bedroom. “The blue one,” she says. “Definitely go with the blue one.”
“And why, my dearest Skye, would I heed your opinion on what to wear to a faculty dinner of all places?” She knows I’m poking fun, and she plays right into my hand, offering an undeniably ‘Skye’ response with so much conviction, I may acquiesce and choose the blue instead of the green.
“For starters, your boobs look fuck hot in the blue dress. Fuck hot but not skanky hot, you know?” I shake my head and laugh, but she continues. “Second, you are wearing thigh highs, not tights, under that dress and only the blue one provides the opportunity to slip a glimpse of your garter to Dexter at the dinner table.”
“Is sex theonlything you think about?” I laugh, secretly loving the thought of flashing Dexter a peek at my garter under the table.
“Typically, no. But tonight, when my fuck hot best friend is going to be stripped naked by her equally fuck hot professor boyfriend, most definitely.”
“Why are we friends?” I kid, once again replacing the dress in front of me as if I’m still conflicted about which one to choose.
“Because I’m fucking fabulous, that’s why.” She’s not wrong. Skye is definitely an acquired taste — too much for some, but she couldn’t care less. She’s brash, fierce, and takes the world by storm (fitting that her name is Skye). And I love her more than my own life. It was Skye who literally held me together after Belle and Alex’s funeral. Skye, who didn’t take a second to consider her options when I decided to attend MPU. Hell, she didn’t even wait for the invitation to move with us — just seamlessly traded singular for plural pronouns. I wasn’t moving to Grand River —wewere. I wasn’t leaving everyone I know and love to move to a city four hours away where I didn’t know a single person —wewere. I am the least single single parent that ever lived.
I return the green dress to my closet and hang the blue on the back of my bathroom door before stepping in to shower and shave every square inch of my body from the waist down. I may not have had sex in nearly ten years, but I still remember the importance of smooth legs. I got waxed earlier this week, which I hadn’t done in at least five years. It’s incredible, the things we do to present ourselves as a suitable offering to a lover. I’m not sure many things convey selflessness as clearly as “I let a stranger smear hot wax all over my vagina and then rip the hairs from the roots, all for your pleasure.”
As I step from my bathroom I find Skye still sitting on my bed, perched in the same position I left her in fifteen minutes ago. The pink bag gift bag, however, was not there when I left.
“What’s that?” I ask, already knowing it’s lingerie by the brand stamped across these alternating light and dark pink stripes.
“You may call me your fairy cuntmother,” Skye says melodically,wiggling her fingers over the bag as if depositing fairy dust on its contents.
I palm my forehead.She did not just say that.“For the second time,whyare we friends?!”
“Lookie, lookie! It’s lacy!” she squeals, not bothering to wait for me to open the present myself. Skye tosses the pink tissue paper aside and then takes out two black, lacy, incredibly see-through undergarments. I’m standing before her in my towel, hair clipped into a messy bun to keep it dry while I showered, trying desperately to be appalled at what I’m seeing.
Who am I kidding?I love it.“It’s perfect,” I beam, and I know that was the exact response she hoped for when she squeals again in excitement, tossing my both items before reaching into the bag once more to reveal new thigh highs and a matching garter belt.
“You do know I already own something very similar to this, right?” I ask.
“So what if you do? This is a big night! It deserves to be celebrated, and what better way to celebrate the de-revirginizing of your poor, neglected vag.”
“Get out,” I swat at her with the panties. She stands, laughing at my frustration, and then clasps her hands together under her chin, saying, “My sweet baby girl is finally becoming a woman. I’ve never been more proud than I am at this very moment.”
Swatting her again, I add my foot to the mix, literally kicking her out of my room so I can get dressed.
It’s 6:30 when Dexter arrives, his tall, exquisite frame coming into view as I step from my room in my navy blue, velvet cocktail dress and black pumps. I don’t wear heels often — the last time was the night I met Dexter and I will never wear those shoes ever again — so I chose a modest-height shoe that still accentuates my calves. My hair hangs over my shoulder in a teased fishtail braid, loose waves framing my face. I decided to forego the glasses in favor of contact lenses, not wanting to feed into the “younger woman” persona any more than my short stature and obvious lack of life experience suggest.
“You look… incredible.” My cheeks blush under his praise, and I step closer to him, gently tugging on his tie as I offer my own words of affirmation to him.
“You clean up nicely,” I say, smiling up at him. Dexter leans in and kisses me, a chaste hello, and asks, “You ready to go?”
I nod and gesture toward the small overnight bag sitting by the door. “Would you carry that for me?” I ask. Dexter pulls me in for another lingering peck before intertwining our fingers with one hand and securing my bag in the other.
