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HERE’S THE THING ABOUT great sex. It can re-wire your mind. I know it just did that for me. but as I look over at the mildly snoring Adonis snuggled up against me on the TV room couch, I begin to wonder if it did anything to re-wire his. In fact, given his usual modus operandi, I have just a teeny weeny bit of wondering – was it great sex for him, too?
It’s not a matter simple insecurity. The fact is, I’m not insecure about much of anything. For one thing, in my range of carnal experience, which is perhaps a bit above average, but well within normal limits (no, I am not going to quote any exact figures). You’ll just have to trust me that it’s well within the range of standard deviation on that spectrum. Distinctly a part of the hump of the bell curve, no pun intended. Now, I don’t require the lovers I have taken to fill out any satisfaction surveys, but I’ve never gotten any negative feedback. Honest, you can check Yelp. (Yes, that’s a joke.)
On the other hand, I’ve had more than half of those few, those happy few, pronounce voluntary reviews. And not to brag, but I’ve gotten more than my share of raves. So often these rankings are laudatory; occasionally even pure astonishment. Basically, for you handicappers, if I don’t win, I place. Once in a while I merely show, but the only times I run out of the money, I’d have to blame bad track conditions, or the jockey.
Nevertheless, compared to the dozing stallion next to me, I’m practically a novice. This man has been on more National Enquirer covers than anyone except Donald Trump. Even if we only consider the “public record”, his stats are of Ruthian dimension. Enough Rock Divas to hold their own Woodstock. Stars and starlets enough to fill an entire constellation. More models than a Vanity Fair v. Vogue rap challenge. News anchors. Authors. Even one Senator, if rumors are true.
And that’s just declared income; how much is there ‘off the books’? Anybody’s guess. Like with a renowned gunfighter, anyone who is up and coming wants to see how they match up to the top dog. He has more groupies chasing after his world-class shlong than a Platinum selling band. From barmaids to bloggers, waitresses to heiresses; Blake Okoye has done them all. Doctors, lawyers, C.E.O.s, ballerinas, Uber drivers, beach bunnies, truckers, cashiers, stunt women, realtors, engineers, professors, and now, a dizzy event planner with a fucking trash compactor of a crush.
Even if I make the top one percent on his great sex roster, I’ll bet there are dozens of strong contenders. And I don’t even know if I make that team. I mean, take a look at the competition. More eye candy than a Halloween carnival.
Oh, wait. We forgot what might be the deepest bench in the league. The Gold Diggers. The ones who aren’t even after his magnificent dick. They’re on the ride strictly for the brass ring. They’re chasing the White Whale of high net worth individuals. God knows what they’d do to achieve a Great Sex sobriquet. Or to get adhesively pregnant.
And me? Let’s just say I look less like a Barbie doll, and more like a Sumerian fertility goddess fetish. You know. Plenty of everything.
So, although I’ve certainly studied more than my share of Cosmo articles on how to drive your man into a blithering, mindless sex machine, I have to wonder – where do I stand with this guy? What’s my class rank? Am I a Merit Scholar? Valedictorian? Or the dolt who flunked woodshop.
And do you want to know the real skinny? I don’t think I have ever wondered about this before. Why? Because I never cared before. And now... I care very much. I am treading brand new ground here. And it feels a lot like quicksand. Something unseen and overwhelming has latched on to me. And it makes me feel powerless and out of control.
Now, he stirs.
My face is near his, as those deep pools of beauty beyond his eyelids are revealed. I feel hypnotized. Drunk on pheromones.
“Whoah,” he murmurs. “Wow.”
“Which is it? Whoah, or wow?”
“Both. Definitely.” He grins. He looks at the window, sees it is dark outside now. “Jeez. What time is it?”
I reach over and lift his left arm. The Rolex says 8:45, I tell him. He sits up, stretches, squeezes his eyes shut, opens them again. Rubs a finger in the corner of one, removing an imaginary crust. “I can’t believe I fell asleep.”
“Oh, I think you earned a little rest.” I sit up too, now. Turn to him. Plant a small kiss on his cheek. “You just about wore me out.”
“Only just about?” There’s a wicked glint in his eyes now. Or is that just a smug look?
“Are you fishing for compliments?” I stand up, walk over to where our tangled briefs are lying together on the floor.
As I reach down to pick up my panties, he says “You’re not leaving already? Are you?”
“Don’t you think it’s about time I take my mother home?”
“Oh, shit.” He says, as this thought just occurs to him now. “I... uh... What’s she going to think?” And he almost blushes. Which is cute.
“Well. We could always tell them we were really hungry, and the leftovers were great. Speaking of which... are you hungry?”
Then that wicked gleam returns, as he says “In a way...” And I take note that his private is standing at attention again.
“In that case, we’re going to need to come up with a better story.” And I drop my panties back on the floor...
At around nine thirty, we slink back into the living room/airplane hanger where we last left the bonding Moms, but we don’t need to bother making up weak excuses, or hiding sheepish looks. Both of them are grabbing a nap as well. If you can call what Rip Van Winkle was up to a “nap”. From the looks of the spread laid out on the coffee table, we won’t need to worry much about those leftovers, either. Which probably explains why they are both in the kind of coma you would usually only see after Thanksgiving dinner.
I smile at the sight of them. “Besties,” I say.
“They even snore alike,” Blake observes. He walks over to Cici, and gives her a gentle kiss on the forehead. Her eyes flutter open. “Oh. My. I must have dozed off.” She looks at him. She looks at me. She says nothing. She knows. Oh, God, she so knows.
And the thing is, she looks... happy.
“It was very nice of you two to leave some of those leftovers for us,” says my Mom, sitting up on her couch. Oh, Christ. She obviously knows too. And she exchanges a little smile with Cici. The both of them happy as a dog with two peckers. They couldn’t be more thrilled if it had been their idea.
Was it?
Oh, pish-posh.
They both have the tact to play dumb, of course. The last thing they want to do is jinx their obvious plans for a joint dynasty. They twitter innocuously about their schedule for tomorrow. They already have a list of roach coach raids laid out. I better get Jimmy on this. When you’re planning for about a thousand wedding guests, give or take, dealing with one caterer is a nightmare; but thanks to Cici and mom, we’re going to have a couple dozen to worry about. This is going to be almost as much fun as being the reptile wrangler for Snakes On A Plane.
But as I head for my car with Mom, I’m not worrying about an armada of food trucks. I’m not worried about anything, because as we walked to the door, with Mom and Cici still jabbering away to each other, Blake leans in to me. His lips barely brush my ear (which nearly sets me on fire again) as he whispers to me “That was the best sex I’ve ever had.”
“For now,” I purr. “Wait ‘til we get to know each other...”
So as we drive over the Coronado Bridge again, the thousands of twinkling lights before us seem to have a more intense sparkle than I’ve ever seen before. And so do I.
Mom’s been uncharacteristically quiet. So far.
I know that’s too good to last.
“So,” she says finally. “Are you seeing anyone special?”
I don’t answer.
I don’t have to, she can always read me like a book.