The drapes are pulled against the midday sun, the room clean and peaceful. Some days I’m naked between the white sheets, other days tarted up with a satin bra and thong I’d never wear otherwise. If he’s in bed first, I might throw on high heels and saunter over to his side, like the cheap whore we both wish I could be. The thought is laughable when you know our history.
Right now, though, our history isn’t the point. And the costumes might work in the screenplay I’m writing in my head, the one where it’s all new and a little bit nasty, like when we first met almost four decades ago—me not long into college, he older, much more experienced. I counted on him to show me the ways of my body, and for a long time he did. But then something stopped working for me. And that’s when our problems started.
Whoops! Want to read more?
Become a member to get these perks:
-
-
-
-
-
-
- Read all our bold, bodacious articles by top writers.
- Get discounts on trips and events, including Paris, Italy, Scotland, New York City.
- Join our members-only "Tribe" community to connect with like-minded women.
-
-
-
-
-