25. Jeanie
25 /
jeanie
Mama Mojo
On the pool deck, staff stack chairs and clean up for the evening. A few guests linger. I bypass giggling couples in steaming hot tubs. Other groups, dressed up, are heading to dinner or bars. Wanting some time to myself, I venture deeper to find a quiet pool.
Beneath an enclave of palm trees wrapped with twinkle lights, the glowing pool feels like a lagoon in paradise. I settle into a large flamingo inner tube and drift around, my feet and hands hanging in the warm water.
Alone with my thoughts, I can’t help it when they return to an earlier subject.
What kind of life would make me happy? I take it a step further and wonder what would make me happy in a world without Roman? It’s difficult to untangle myself from him, but this afternoon, I realized I may not win this fight.
Being by myself has always terrified me, but for the first time, a very tiny part is intrigued. My life could be whatever I want. There would be no one else to compromise with. Ideas pour in as soon as I give myself permission.
I could live in downtown Chicago and take walks along Lake Michigan, sit at coffee shops, eat at fancy restaurants, or shop on Michigan Avenue. I want to keep in touch with my new bridesmaid friends, shop in Paris, drink wine in Tuscany, hold a koala bear in Australia. Heck, I want to travel the world.
Moving forward, I want to live my life with no regrets.
When I inherited a little money in college, Roman and I opened our first shop. We weren’t even married yet when I got pregnant. He became the personality of the shop while I managed everything behind the scenes. After we got married and our success grew, I transitioned to stay home with Dex. But I’ve desperately missed the day-to-day business. It was my first baby.
Maybe I could start something new. I grin at this idea.
After a few days with Nathan, I realize I need romance ... and sex. A lot of it. I need it so badly it hurts.
I sigh dramatically.
Nathan has a show in Tampa tonight. He invited me to join him, but I declined because of my wedding duties. Now I’m wishing I were with him.
A new idea occurs to me, and it causes one mischievous eyebrow to rise.
Folding in half, I drop through the center of the inner tube and plunge butt-first into the water. Beneath the pool’s surface, I swim to the stairs and climb out on a new pursuit.
Dripping wet in my hotel room, I angle my head and consider Mini-Wolf. From the center of the bed, he’s staring back with Nathan’s sultry come-hither gaze. His penis attachment remains erect from last night when we were clowning around.
Mini-Wolf is not your average sex doll. In fact, I would rate his looks as a ten. His articulation is unlike anything I’ve seen. Others are mere party balloons compared to him. And what makes him better? I have a serious crush on his namesake.
After locking the adjoining door, I dim the lights. I stand over Mini-Wolf, studying his fleshy length and girth. His penis is modeled after Nathan’s. I’m sure because the image of it is etched into my brain.
Am I really doing this?
No regrets.
The moment I make the decision, my bottoms are off faster than returning from a walk on a humid day. Aggressively, I toss Mini-Wolf flat on the mattress and crawl over top. Straddled, with my knees pressed against his hips, I find he’s sturdy, almost like a real man. Like Nathan.
I flip the switch. On the first speed, his dick thrums low with a steady rumble. I close my eyes and pretend. In my wild imagination, he’s the real Nathan, and he’s hard and ready for me.
I’m wet before I lower myself. That’s how sex-starved I am. I glide along his length, and I release a slow whine at the unfurling sensation. My long-dormant insides awaken from their eternal slumber.
When I need more, I tease my opening, allowing the crown inside. With a hiss and a wince, I slide deeper until I’m seated. I brace myself on his hard chest and switch him to level two.
“Ohhmahgawdokayyess,” I say as rotating nubs rise from his dick and massage my G-spot.
Between the new stimulation and the vibration, I’m rocketed skyward, already searching for frenzied relief. My body is an utter ball of tension when it happens. Spasms, and possibly rainbows, explode from my core. I cry out as I ride several unforgiving waves of pleasure.
“Yes, yes, yes!” I scream.
Mission complete, I switch him off, disconnect, and flop bonelessly at his side. Satiation settles over me in a cloudy layer. I lie immobile, breathing hard but grinning wide.
A mental image of what transpired plays out in my head. Then I laugh. Hard.
Curling forward, I grab my side. Turns out sex can be fun with the right person, or, uh, inanimate object, when you make it to the finish line.
I stop laughing when an unlocked memory nudges in. I ordered a vibrator early in our marriage, but Roman found it before I could use it. He got angry, like using a toy was cheating on him. Because I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, I tossed it.
Like many things in our married life, the importance of sex fell by the wayside. Roman never prioritized my gratification. As far as ability goes, he wasn’t even knocking on Mini-Wolf’s door. He was on the other side of the world, packed in a capsule and shooting through space, three galaxies away.
Deciding I deserve a party for this glorious, life-changing occasion, I perk up. I declare a mama-got-her-mojo-back party and order room service: a cheeseburger, truffle fries, and a key lime pie. Then I turn on my disco light and hang some streamers, thankful for my decoration stash.
At three a.m., my iPhone blares with 90s music. For the first time in a long time, I’m euphoric with happiness. The current rap song helps. It evokes a hot memory and a lazy smile.
It’s the orchestra intro that gets me. My head pressed into a pillow, I bob to the rhythm. I stretch my legs and sit upright. My bare feet hit the floor, and the fibers of the area rug squish between each toe. The song kicks in, and I stand.
I belt out my own version of the lyrics, “I’mma sexy fuckable mother.”
After hopping backward to the beat, I triple-slap my very bare rump. At the full-length mirror, I grind and pump. My sublime ass-mass moves on its own in time to the music. I pretend I’m a backup dancer for a pop princess, circa 2001. No, a pop queen, right now.
I’m renewed. I’m sexy, I’m wolfwoman, hear my pussy roar!
Biting my bottom lip, I twerk harder and inch around the hotel room. I open the slider, allowing salty air to rush inside. I don’t care who sees. Nothing can stop me now. I dance toward the lump on the bed .
Downtown, Nathan has performed to a version of this song. At the end, he ripped off his pants and bared his glorious backside. I do my best to emulate the moves but fall short.
Instead, I harken to my younger years for choreography. After a few arm thrusts, a pair of glittery antennae head-boppers find their way on my head. Then I do the running man, the robot, the sprinkler, and slide into a combo twerk and dab.
“You hear that, Mini-Wolf? They’re playing your song.” I raise my arms and noodle the air. “You had such moves onstage. Stand up and give me a show!”
I gather Mini-Wolf into a hug and swing him around, peering deep into his bewitching eyes. In a few short but blissful hours, he’s become the mini-Nathan of my sexual dreams.
For the song’s finale, I leap onto the mattress and seat Mini-Wolf on a throne of pillows. With the end of the song closing in fast, I grip the headboard and perform my best sexy lap dance.
Right hip, left hip, thrust and push, drop the booty down low, rise and undulate, undulate, hair flip, and shake those sweet potatoes like it’s your last meal on carbs, baby.
Swept into the moment, I kiss his pouty fake lips in a naughty, back-seat-worthy make-out session. If Nathan showed up right now, I’d jump him and do the same. And because I’m living a life of no regrets, I might let him do dirty things to me, for one more night.
One. More. Night.
“Jeanie?” someone says from behind me.