THE LIBRARIAN AT UT handed me the Glamourpuss article as if she were passing me porn, tucked in a brown paper bag. “I saved this for you,” Betty said with a wink. “For your dissertation. I presume you'll have a section in there on sex, right?”
I nodded, taking the magazine from her. A women's magazine? Was she kidding? What could possibly be kinky about this?
“And one more thing,” Betty said, pushing her wire frames up on her nose. “Can I read your paper when you're through? I've always been fascinated with love. I never married, but I've been in love at least two dozen times. You might say I'm more in love with love than with any of the blokes I dated. Fortunately, I realized it at exactly the moment each of them asked me to marry them.”
After thanking the octogenarian love-adrenaline junkie, I retreated to my favorite corner of the library, where the morning sun warmed the carpet and the brown leather chair. I curled into it like a cat and read the article Betty thought was so risqué: Hindu love voodoo and Indonesian spousal swapping? What did she think this was, a dissertation for Playboy University? Instead, I gathered my notes on the linguistic origin of the most common sex words and plugged in my laptop so I could get my thoughts down before they dissipated.
“Sex is emotion in motion.” -Mae West
“Is sex dirty? Only if it's done right.” -Woody Allen
One cannot write about the language of love without at least acknowledging the language of sex. Contrary to popular belief, the term “French kiss” did not originate in France, but entered the English language in 1923 as a slur on the French, who to this day are deemed highly sexualized. The French don't call it a French kiss at all, but a “tongue kiss,” or “soul kissing.”
The slang expression “petting” is an American word, originally meant “to stroke or caress.” The word was used worldwide during the twentieth century, but has now become old fashioned. In the UK, it is more common to use, “touching someone up,” “frigging someone,” “rubbing someone up,” “bringing someone off.” Petting is now often referred to as “foreplay.”
Once the sex act commences, lovers hope for climax, called “orgasm,” from Greek orgasmos, “to swell up, be excited,” tracing back to 1684.
My cell phone blared “Bootylicious,” but it took me a moment to get my head out of my research before I could answer. It wasn't often homework could turn me on. “What are you doing?” Cortland asked.
I closed my laptop. I hadn't heard from him in three days. Not that I was keeping track. With my own hormones activated from all those sex definitions, he couldn't have picked a worse time to call. I didn't want to think of him in that way. “Writing about sex. You?”
“Not writing about sex I'm afraid,” he said smoothly.
“And people think linguists are boring intellectuals.” I tried to calm the flirt in my tone. My voice was lilted, thick with lust.
“Depends on if they only write about it.”
“ Touché. ”
“French origin, I presume?”
“That pesky accent gives it away every time. Literally it means ‘you touched me, you got me.‘ Originally it came from fencing and sword fighting. A fencer says it when his opponent scores a point by making contact to alert his opponent he's got him. It's used as an insult or to devalue what the other person is saying.”
“So you're insulting me, then? Funny, I don't feel insulted. Turned on, perhaps.”
“Maybe I just don't want to talk about my sex life with you, not that it doesn't warrant it,” I said playfully.
“Well, you're the one that brought it up.”
“Not so. I brought up my dissertation,” I corrected.
“Most dissertations aren't this exciting to discuss. Tell me more.”
“Funny, I thought doctors knew everything.”
“ Touché. ”
“Fine, then. Speaking of the French, what do you know about the origin of the term 'French kiss'?”
“I know I'm strongly in favor of it. What about it?”
“Not French at all. American term. Seems the French/American wars have their linguistic side, too.”
“Interesting. So what do the French call it?”
“Soul kissing, for one.”
“Goldilocks, you're always full of information.”
“I'm always good for useless sex trivia,” I said, packing up my bag. I spotted one of da Vinci's friends at the checkout counter-the one who'd said “cool” when da Vinci had introduced me as his girlfriend. He wore Greek letters on his sweatshirt, from the same frat that da Vinci had joined. I slunk in my seat, hoping he wouldn't recognize me. I turned my attention back to Cortland, trying not to show that I cared he'd called. “So to what do I owe the pleasure, anyway?”
“Wanted to see how you liked your bed. Good enough for Goldilocks?”
“Quite,” I said, thinking how nice it was to not wake up without a backache and to have da Vinci's strong frame beside me all night long. I'd hated to admit to myself how much I'd missed a sleeping companion. The bed seemed just the thing to keep my frat boy at home, at least in the wee hours of the night, but there were some things I wouldn't share with Cortland, friend or not.
“Glad to hear it,” he said. “I also called to thank you for the recommendation on the comforter. My daughter loved it. Said it was her favorite birthday gift. And anytime I can one-up my ex-wife is a good day.”
“Glad to see you're not above tacky one-upping,” I said, turning back around to find da Vinci's friend standing in front of me, apparently waiting for me to get off of my call.
“I'm gonna have to let you go,” I said, really not wanting to. It wasn't fair that the one male I felt I could really talk to was my sister's beau.
“Before you do, what do you say we take Bellezza on her first jaunt at the dog park?”
Not a date, I told myself. Safe enough to tell my sister. A boring old dog park is all. In fact, my sister should come along. “Do you think she's ready? I mean, that's sort of like taking your daughter to the first day at kindergarten. What if the other doggies are mean to her?”
“That's why I thought we should go together. She'll have Liebe there to protect her.”
After we'd made plans to meet after da Vinci's taping at Rachel's studio, I instantly regretted it. Taping, dog park, double dating. It would be worse than water torture. I'd have to listen to my sister brag about herself all night and deal with da Vinci's jealousy of Cortland.
First things first, like getting rid of da Vinci's young, grungy playmate. “Todd, right?” I asked, nearly sticking my hand out before remembering what had happened the last time I'd made that mistake, my hand just hanging there in mid-air while his friends had looked at me like a weird old person.
“Wassup?” Todd asked. “I forgot Leo said you're a student here. English or something?”
“Linguistics.”
“Yeah. Same thing,” he said, but-not wanting to look like a superior, which I so clearly was-I didn't argue with him.
“So, you coming to the party with Leo tonight?”
I shook my head, pretending I knew what the hell he was talking about. It didn't matter. I had told da Vinci- Leo as the young 'uns called him-that I would not be partying with kids half my age, or even two-thirds my age. I really needed to get out with people my own age. Like the double date with Cortland and my sister. “I've got a thing,” I said, wanting to add, “a grownup thing, like two boys and a real life. ”
“Too bad. Gonna be rockin'. The Grey Pincers are gonna play.”
“Really?” I said, feigning being impressed, whoever they were. “Well, take good care of Leo for me.”
I stood and felt Todd give me the up down. “Oh, he doesn't flirt with the girls, if that's what you mean. Not that he couldn't jump on that if he wanted. He's the talk on campus. That's why we wanted to pledge him so bad. With Leo around, the rest of us can be his wing-man and get all the girls, you know? Of course, if I were him, I would probably stay in if I had you to keep me warm. You know what they say about older women lovers-experience and all that? No wonder Leo's hot for teacher.” He flashed a lopsided grin and turned on his heels, not bothering to say goodbye.
I resisted the urge to kick him in those saggy, overpriced jeans and pull him by the ear into the ladies' room, where I would wash his mouth out with dispenser soap.
On second thought, if da Vinci's friends believed he was with me because I was an incredible lover, I could live with that.
The next morning, da Vinci woke up with a hangover the size of Texas. I know because after we'd made love (which had begun feeling more like a booty call after his late-night partying at the frat house), he had thrown up, brushed his teeth, and passed out in the bed.
I'd lain there until 4 a.m. wondering how I'd arrived at this point. For all intents and purposes, da Vinci had moved in. Just as getting rid of my marital bed had marked another step forward in my journey to Normalhood, the new bed had lured da Vinci to my side like bait: comfortable, supportive, high-thread-count bed bait. Anything was better than his old pullout couch and Lumpy. We were both the winners, really. I got a warm bedmate who happened to still be a great lover (and strangely better at certain sex acts when inebriated) and we both got a good night's sleep.
Until he wet the bed. My new, amazing, waited-fifteen-years-for-this miracle bed. Peed on like a cardboard box in a downtown alley.
I wouldn't have even minded if it had been Bellezza that did the bedwetting, but my twenty-five-year-old boyfriend?
“You have got to be kidding me,” I said, as I stared at the huge wet spot in disgust.
“Those fucking Jäger shots,” he said.
“Excuse me? Since when do you say the F-word? You join a fraternity and suddenly you've got a potty mouth and you start using my bed as one?”
“Get off the back,” he said, holding his head. “Going to take shower now.”
“And don't think I don't know you pee in there, too,” I said, standing on the bed. “From now on, if you think you can hold it until you hit the shower, my awesome bed and I would sure appreciate it.”
Da Vinci turned back to me and winced in the sunlight. “You going to complain all day or come in and make love to me in shower?”
“And another thing,” I said, wagging my finger at him. “I don't want you telling your frat buddies about our sex life.”
Stepping out of his boxers, he revealed an erection I could've hung a dozen suit jackets on. I tried not to look at it, but it was a beacon in the morning sun. A thing of beauty, work of art. “You take shower with me or what? I'm horny. And I only tell them you are very good at blow job. Most girls terrible at this.”
I dropped to my knees. I'd never been complimented on sex before. Joel had told me I was a good lover, but when he'd said it I felt like I was good as in average, not good as in good enough to brag about to all your buddies. “I am? Wait a minute, you did? How am I ever going to get a teaching job at the university if you're talking about our sex life? I'll be the laughingstock on campus. Professor Blow Job! I'll be forced to work at a community college the rest of my life.”
“Don't get panties in a twist,” he said, which was another terrible catchphrase he'd learned from college. He'd be Americanized in no time and ruined beyond repair. “Speaking of, I like your new panties very much. Black very sexy.” Da Vinci rubbed his belly and scratched his balls. I should've been terribly turned off by this, especially after what he'd done, but I was strangely turned on. There was something terribly wrong with me. He was no good for me, but all I could think about was having sex with him in the shower. Which I did. Twice. And we still made it to Rachel's studio in time for the taping.
After two Tylenol and two pieces of dry toast, da Vinci began feeling better and turned on the charm for the camera. I loved watching him work out, and he followed direction from my sister very well. He made the other four people on stage with him look like amateurs. You couldn't help but stare at him the whole time, and I heard the producer tell camera 2 to stay on him. I could see it now: Get Up and Move It with da Vinci, Texas! in big, neon lights. I silently wished he would kick my sister out of her time slot. See what that did to her precious ego.
Yet as I watched, I wondered if this was when the countdown to his leaving began. I couldn't imagine after 25,000 households saw the show that he would stay with me much longer, expert fellatio or no. I needed to have a grown-up conversation with him before things got out of hand, before the boys got too attached, and then there was my own attachment to consider.
Rachel beamed with pride as if she had discovered him. “Come on. Squeeze that tush or no one else will,” she said, which I'd only heard at least a hundred times on her show. She called it a “Rachelism.” Ugh.
When they wrapped, I picked up the boys at my mom and dad's and met Cortland at the dog park, where I'd hoped he would show up looking disheveled and unattractive, but there he was, dressed sharply in a brown wool sweater and tan corduroy jeans, looking handsome and approachable. So approachable, in fact, three women were talking to him.
When I walked up, they must've thought I was the wife or girlfriend, because they quickly dispersed with disappointment in their eyes. No wedding ring, but obviously taken. I'm surprised Rachel didn't force him to wear a neon necklace that read, “Back off. I'm dating Fitness Star Rachel Taylor.”
“Hey, you,” he said coolly. Bellezza took off, leading the boys around the park, eager to run and play with the other dogs. It was William who seemed to be on the leash and not the puppy. I had been a worried parent for no reason.
“Bet you've picked up a lot of women at the dog park,” I said, noting the women who had left and eyed me with envy.
He shrugged. “I don't date women I meet at the dog park anymore. It's where I met my ex-wife.”
“Fair enough. Where's Rach and Princess?” Princess was Rachel's Chihuahua, an obnoxious little lapdog she had bought the day after Cortland and I had picked up Bellezza. She hated to be left out. Cortland and I had gotten a good laugh out of the fact that she was the type to want a toy dog, but I knew it was more than that.
My whole life Rachel had wanted whatever I had. The week after I'd announced that Joel and I were getting married and planning a summer wedding, she and Michael announced their engagement and spring wedding. When I told her Joel and I were trying to get pregnant, she said she and Michael were also trying. It took her three years to get pregnant with Zoe, and knowing what she puts Zoe through, I was thankful she never reproduced again. I wondered if she and Cortland were going anywhere. Were they a fling? Getting serious? Would they have babies together? God, they'd be obnoxiously cute.
Like a punch to the gut, I realized this was the first time I wanted something my sister had. “The taping went so well that they decided to do another. I left so I wouldn't be late.”
“I appreciate that. Your sister always makes me wait. I can't stand that.”
“No wonder my dad likes you. He's a stickler for time, too.”
“Don't I know it? A surgery ran over a couple weeks ago and I was five minutes late for our tee time and he let me know about it. I felt like a kid in the principal's office.”
“It's best to know how crazy we are before you join our family.”
Cortland raised his left brow. “Why? You think I should marry your sister?”
I began feeling flustered and couldn't think straight. “Of course not. Or of course. I mean, what do I know? Or care? Of course, you should do what you want to do.”
“You still don't like your sister very much.”
“I love her. I'm just glad I don't have to live with her. It's you that has to make that decision.”
“Well, I did give her my house key,” he said, sticking his hands into his pocket.
“Oh,” I said, feeling my throat close up. “Well, looks like you're moving in that direction then.”
“Not necessarily. I don't know why I did it, truthfully. I guess I was feeling some pressure that she wanted our relationship to be going somewhere, so instead of saying anything, I handed her a key. Dopey caveman sort of move, I know. At least she can come and go as she pleases.”
“Right,” I said. “Like a maid.”
Cortland began to laugh and it was contagious, an icebreaker, demolishing something-sexual tension or jealousy or I don't know what, but it felt good. A house key meant they'd be having sex soon. Again, not that I cared.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement among the upper-class women wearing their cashmere jackets and designer jeans and boots that I half-hoped would get covered in dog poo. Were they talking about me? One woman stepped apart from the pack and I recognized her, even thirty feet away. Monica.
I couldn't run. Couldn't hide. She was coming toward me and I would have to think of something to say. My day that began with da Vinci peeing in my bed followed by great sex followed by meeting Cruella Fiancée. Life was one wicked roller coaster ride.
“You know Monica, right?” Cortland said as he wrapped Monica's lithe, tight body in a side hug.
“Not officially,” I said, nearly forgetting to stick my hand out for her to shake, but of course she would know what to do with it and she did. Very lawyery, firm handshake.
“Nice to meet you, Ramona,” she said, her white teeth shining even in the overcast afternoon.
“You, too,” I said stammering and wishing Cortland would go away.
“Sorry I haven't called you back yet,” Monica said. “It's been a crazy week.”
“Oh, same here,” I said. “We can get together another time.”
Monica pulled her Blackberry out of her jacket pocket and clicked a few times before looking back up at me. “What about Tuesday morning then? Same place?”
I-of the no-PDA, no-calendar, no-big life-stammered some more. “Perfect, fine, sure. That works. See you then.”
Monica turned her attention to Cortland. “You and Rachel still on for dinner at my place Sunday night?”
I could feel my jaw dropping. My sister dining with my pseudo-archenemy? No way.
“Rachel moved some stuff around so she can make it,” Cortland said. “We'll see you then.”
“We'll eat light,” Monica said. “Maybe Rachel can show me some exercises for my little baby gut here.” She patted her flatter than flat tummy. Her “baby” was two, and if a person's stomach could get any flatter, it would be concave.
“Oh, she loves personal lessons,” I said dryly.
Monica shook her head, puzzled.
“I'm sorry. I thought you knew,” Cortland said. “Rachel is Ramona's sister.”
“I didn't connect the dots,” Monica said.
But why would she? We didn't look a thing alike. If it weren't for inheriting the weird earlobe shape from my father, I would've sworn I belonged to the mailman. Mom always said she was a bored housewife before she found the Lord. I wouldn't have put an affair past her, back in what she called her “sinning days.”
As Monica left, her firm buttocks rocking to and fro in her jeans, we both watched her, and then I watched Cortland watching her, obviously liking what he saw, and I hated that I had to be jealous of him liking her, too.
“She's something else,” Cortland said, diverting his eyes from her finally. “I mean her success. And she's a nice person, too.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” I said, willing my voice not to give out on me. Nice I wasn't so sure about, but she was something else, something irresistible. Clearly every man admired her.
By the time Cortland and I had left in separate cars, we'd both gotten calls from our respective other halves, telling us that they were on such a roll, they wanted to record just one more show and to go ahead and start without them at the restaurant. No arguments here.
“Story of my life,” Cortland said, as we ordered our second bottle of wine. “Women always keep me waiting.”
“Look,” I said, feeling drunk-happy. “You told me I deserved a worthy bed, and I'm telling you that you deserve a worthy mate. Not one that keeps you waiting every time you turn around.”
“Is that so?” He refilled my glass of wine, though I certainly didn't need it. “You think I should dump your sister, then?”
“If I wouldn't miss you coming around, I'd say ‘Hell, yes‘ to that,” I said, clinking my glass with his.
“You think I call and come around because you're Rachel's sister?”
I snorted, an unattractive result of having drunk too much. “Um, duh? Why else would you call and come over all the time? Look, it's fine. Widow sympathy is a natural human phenomenon.”
Cortland reached his hand across the table and placed it over mine. “And here I thought you were the smart one in the family.”
Our eyes locked and I pulled away, excusing myself to go to the restroom and vowing to myself not to return until I knew da Vinci and Rachel had arrived. In the bathroom, I splashed water in my face, drank water out of my hand from the sink to try to sober up and stared at my raccoon eyes in the mirror. “What are you doing, Ramona Griffen?”
I freshened up my makeup and eventually felt clear-headed enough to return. I was an adult. I could tell Cortland that while I appreciated that he wanted to be friends, perhaps our flirtation had gone a little far, and it wasn't fair to either of our mates to ever be alone with each other again. Ever. After all, hadn't da Vinci said something about Cortland seeming fishy?
When I swung open the swanky bathroom door into the darkly lit hallway, arms reached around my waist, pulling me into the even darker corner. Cortland's face was inches from mine, his hot breath on my cheek. “Do you think I wanted this to happen? Because, believe me, the last few times we've been together have been sheer torture for me. I've felt something since the first time I saw you. I wanted to kiss you in my office and on the patio next to the pool and at the Starbucks and on that country road with the puppy asleep in the back and outside in the rain. How do you think it made me feel to lie on that bed with you in the department store with that lingerie you would wear for another guy? Or how just talking to you on the phone makes me feel weak inside, especially when you're talking about French kissing when I've wanted to know what it's like to kiss you for so long? I'm sorry, Goldilocks, but I just can't wait another minute.”
He pressed his lips against mine, and I let my body take over, my mouth on autopilot. The kiss became a French kiss. A soul kiss. A kiss that muddied my normally logical brain, and when he finally stopped, I pulled him into me, our bodies touching in the darkness, and I wanted to tell him that I had felt something, too, especially in the rain, when I could smell his aftershave in the car and on the bed when I secretly wished he could see me in that lingerie, and all the times I had pretended the tone in his voice wasn't tinged with wanting something more.
“Oh, my God,” I said when we broke apart. I wasn't sure if I wanted to run away or run away with him.
Cortland held my gaze. “I won't apologize.”
“Me neither,” I said, straightening my blouse.
“But I don't know where we go from here.”
Da Vinci. Rachel. Of course. I had selfishly forgotten them. “We do nothing,” I said. “Look, we got that kiss out of our system, right? We'll just play it cool. I'll just tell da Vinci I'm not feeling well, and you can have a nice dinner with Rachel.”
“You're feeling fine,” he said, his finger brushing against my cheek. “In fact, I want to feel more of you.”
I held his hand and pressed it against my chest, between my breasts. “You're wrong. I'm not feeling well at all. I need some time to think about this.”
He nodded, his eyes full of yearning. “I have to see you again. Soon. Tonight. Even that's not soon enough. Let's leave right now.”
If I looked at him too long, I'd be lost and we'd do something I'd truly regret. I could feel tears well in my eyes. “I'll call you in a few days.”
The yearning turned to disappointment. “I'll wait.”
Just minutes after I'd told him he deserved a woman that didn't make him wait, I was doing it to him, too, but what choice did I have? He was my sister's boyfriend, for God's sake. And da Vinci, Leonardo da Vinci, was mine.