17. Elizabeth
Seventeen
Elizabeth
I touch my lips with the pads of my fingers. I can still feel him, still taste him. The thrill of making out with Kellen is overwhelming, and when I get inside, I can’t even manage to say goodnight to my son. He doesn’t notice anyway, thankfully. Just grunts as I walk past on the way to my bedroom.
I can’t remember the last time I felt this alive. Between Kellen happily conversing with my son, just bantering with him about Star Wars like it was a regular Friday night…and the whiskey. And the feel of his body pressed against mine. I might swoon.
I sit on the edge of my bed, vibrating. No, wait. My phone is vibrating.
“Lisa,” I hiss into the phone. “Holy shit!”
“You better tell me everything. Are you naked right now? Oh my god why are you answering the phone?”
“Todd didn’t show up. Obviously.” I hear her hurl profanity and it sounds like she’s throwing something. She’s probably doing dishes while we talk. Lisa only buys plastic plates and bowls so she can slam them around for emphasis when she fights with Ashish. “But we kissed,” I blurt out.
She squeals. “Oh, Liz. I’m so stinking happy for you. Was it awesome?”
I flop back on the sheets, the muscles of my cheeks straining from all the smiling I’m doing. “Unreal,” I tell her. I describe how Kellen was so awesome with Jake, so friendly.
“Good men being good with kids is like the ultimate turn-on,” Lisa says, and I know she’s doing dishes now because I hear her bang the counter.
“It really is.” I feel a bubble of shame, not for the first time, at not seeing Todd for a dirtbag sooner. What kind of man can’t be bothered to get to know his son? “I haven’t even had to explain Jake to Kellen, Lisa. He just seems to understand how to talk to him.”
“Well,” she says, “I feel like there’s a stereotype about engineers being on the spectrum anyway. He’s probably used to it.”
“But also, he’s charming. He makes my kid smile. And I know Jake feels comfortable with him, which makes me feel comfortable…” I drift off, not sure if I should tell her just how comfortable I was getting tonight. I was so close to orgasm, just from rubbing my chest against his.
I’ve been using my facial massager almost every day since I got it and it’s like I uncorked a river of sexual energy.
“We need to go get you lingerie,” Lisa says, matter of factly. “I’m taking Jake overnight next weekend and you’re wearing black lace panties and doing all kinds of things in and out of them.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m not going to the mall again,” I tell her, and then wonder if I can maybe order a few things online. It can’t hurt to try, right?
“Also? Don’t be upset because I didn’t use names, although I’m sure he knew who I was talking about. Anyway! I was talking to Ashish about sex.”
“I’m sure you were.”
“No, I mean I was talking to him about ladies having sex after menopause. Which gave him quite a start, because I’m not quite at that phase yet.”
“Quit rubbing it in how young you are.”
“I have an old soul,” she says. It’s true. I’ve never felt like she was an entire decade younger than me when we have so much in common otherwise. “So. Ashish says the physical therapists at work talk about this all the time. They actually see a ton of women for pelvic floor therapy.”
I sit back up in bed. “You know I had that for a long time after my hysterectomy. After Jake’s birth.” It was the only contact another human made with my nether regions since his conception.
“I remember.” She makes a sound of compassion. “And anyway apparently women of a certain age who have gone a long time without visiting pound-town get, like, thin vagina walls.”
“Thin walls?” It’s hard for me to quantify if this should feel as scary as it sounds.
“Thin walls. Basically, your pussy is like a muscle? And you need to work up to inviting his sausage into your bun.”
I snort-cough. She’s so crass when her kids aren’t around. I love how open she is, how open I feel when I’m around that freedom of expression. “Oh my god, Lisa. You’re killing me.”
“I’m serious. This is a real thing. You should also call your OB because there’s a cream you can use to help things along.”
I groan. The last thing I want to do right now is talk to another human being face-to-face about how long it’s been since I’ve had sex.
But then I remember the feel of Kellen’s erection near my fingertips when I shoved the burrito money in his pants pocket.
I remember the hard length of his body pressed against me on my doorstep after our date.
I definitely want to explore this type of behavior with Kellen, and it sounds like I need to do some homework to get my body ready for that. I look down at my secret ivy tattoo and remember: I persevere.
I hang up with Lisa and promise to call my doctor about the cream. But first I grab my laptop and order some lingerie online. Just a few things. Just a few dozen pairs of lace panties in different styles because I have no idea what will feel comfortable or what Kellen will like.
Looking around, as if someone could see what I’m doing, I pull up the search engine and start looking into the estrogen cream Lisa mentioned.
The results make me cringe, referring to a woman’s “intimate area” and “the change of life.” But the overall message is clear: I need to approach this slowly and use some sort of product or else my best case scenario is a raging yeast infection.
“Well that’s a sexy conversation to have,” I mutter, trying to imagine sitting Kellen down and explaining that, due to my old crone situation, my honey pot has literally dried up and might rip if we try anything physical too soon.
I toss the laptop across the bed, wondering what comes next.
I felt how eagerly he was touching me tonight, how he was yearning for more.
How can I tell him we need to go slow? I take a deep breath and try to remember that it’s been awhile for him, too.
“He hasn’t been with anyone since his wife,” I remind myself. “This is new for him, too.”
I toss and turn for awhile, fretting. I can’t stop my thoughts from churning out mean ideas.
Like I brought this all on myself by not doing something about my sex life a decade a go.
My cruel inner voice tells me I drove Todd into the arms of all those women he apparently was sleeping with for years.
And then my rational mind sets in again and I remember how hard I was focused on other things, how many other amazing things I did, like helping Jake navigate a world that’s not quite ready for him, or forging this fantastic friendship with Lisa.
“You got out when you were able,” I mumble, quoting the therapist I visited when I was starting the divorce proceedings with Todd.
“I’m like the explorer moon,” I repeat and touch the healed tattoo.
In the grand scheme of things, telling a man we need to go slow and use lube shouldn’t be nearly as hard as, say, getting an autistic child to agree to his flu shot.
So why does this feel so much scarier?