Vicki Marie’s Sexy Summer Reading Series: One Chapter A Day
THE BACHELOR CHAPTERS: A THINKING WOMAN’S ROMANCE
I had dressed for sex—for staying in, not going out. The red Jimmy Choos crunched on the gravel drive, the heels of the stilettos wobbled between the stones. Christ, Vicki Marie, don’t you dare turn your ankle! The winds whipped open the long coat at my knees. A sharp blast slapped my legs, which were next to naked in my lace stockings. Fuck, this town was cold! Behind the wheel, I adjusted my hair, and then the seat, finding the right distance to the pedals in the tall shoes.
I was running late due to wardrobe changes, but I was finally satisfied with the saucy ensemble that I had improvised from my dresser drawers. Aside from the red Jimmy’s, my body was sealed in form-fitting black lace. Open weave stockings covered my legs, a filigreed blouse in long sleeves held my torso, with the lace of the padded bra peeking through. No pants, no skirt, no shorts—no—this time I wore only transparent, mesh panties, which created a veiled window to the pattern of black hose and white skin underneath. This was a costume, not an outfit, and with my teased blonde hair and pale pink lip-gloss, I looked like I was dressed for a chorus line, not like a divorcee pushing fifty.
Lamar was the audience of the evening, my capable second mentor. He had earned that title, in more ways than one. In the beginning, like Dion, he provided a scrupulous example that it was possible to design honest, ongoing bachelor relationships, with minimal negotiation. Once the boundaries were laid down, either it worked, or it wasn’t a match. He knew what he wanted and what he was willing to give. I’d never met anyone so consistently forthright. Lamar believed that expectations should be spoken out loud, and in simple language. “I’m a grown man,” he was fond of saying, “I keep it simple. I do what I want, I do it my way, and I tell everyone what I’m doing. Life is too short for games and lies.”
When I rang the bell he answered the door shirtless, in designer sweats with that big smile. I stepped in to a hug and quick kiss.
“Que pasa?” he asked. “Good, baby, and glad to be here. My stress level needs adjustment!”
“I think I can help you with that, Miss Vicki Marie, in every way you need it. Can I start by pouring you some wine?” I saw the candles illuminating the decanted wine on the kitchen island, and heard the soundtrack of R&B.
“Thanks, baby, but first—I brought the appetizers you like.” I walked away from him, letting my coat drop to the floor as I crossed the room.
“Girrrrrr-llll—you got it all-llll! I like it, I l-i-i-ike it!” he howled. I turned around to face him, and sashayed a few runway maneuvers, giving him all the angles.
“I clawed through my closet before I came over, improvised this sharp little showgirl ensemble—but then I almost lost my nerve!”
His smile was practically nuclear as he ate me up with his eyes. I put a hand on each hip, emphasizing my next point with ironic pride, “Lamar Taylor—I have a reputation as a classy professional—a business executive—and I just drove across town dressed like a slut!” I surprised myself with the confession, but then, Lamar and I were inclined to talk about everything that mattered.
“Oooo-weeee. You are wrong about that! You’re a hot, sexy woman, and you own it—with style!” He mirrored my stance, with his hands on his hips, and dramatically dropped his eyes to the bulge between his legs. I’d be lying if I said that didn’t make me proud. “There’s your answer, woman—there ain’t nothing close to slutty about a woman on her game.”
Over time, Lamar and I developed a signature style of adult entertainment. Our brand of connection was rooted in the hyper-mythic roles of heterosexuality. He dominated as predator and spectator; I submitted as prey and object. I called it gender play because it reminded me of Toni, and how she and I had molded masculine and feminine into our own unique design. With as many lovers as I managed, there were bound to be ratings, and Lamar always nailed five stars. Our chemistry was inspired, and I grew to trust that energy as a guide in my sexual expansion. Contrary to my young feminist indoctrination, the polarized roles we played were the arch opposite of oppressive. For me, the experience was nothing less than liberating.
Unbelievably, even with my ambitious and sexually permissive track record, I had to shed regulations and judgments. There I was, almost fifty, and still punching holes through the sexual glass ceiling. With Lamar, I moved right through the roof. It didn’t happen overnight, but over time, I came to perfect a literal theatre of sexual expression. He became my partner and my fan. I mastered my own brand of foreplay, casting out sexual inhibitions with costumes and striptease and improvisational dance.
I was welcome and adored in Lamar’s exclusive space, but he hadn’t invited me into his home until we had dated for more than a year. He was private, and no one crossed that threshold until he was convinced they were trustworthy. He told me on more than one occasion that he trusted no one but Jesus. “People will let you down. You can count on it. But the Lord will be with you. That’s all I need.”
His belief that he was in this life alone was tempered by faith; it neither bothered nor disappointed him. It just was. And in a world full of judgment—not to mention racism—he could not be concerned if anyone agreed with him, on anything. I don’t think self-doubt had ever invaded the man’s psyche. I wanted that level of confidence. I wanted to be above the influence of the haters and my own self-questioning. Forty years of overcoming my culture’s presumptuous prescriptions was enough.
TOMORROW: Chapter 50
Copyright Vicki Marie Stolsen, 2014, Forever Forty-Four Publications, Publicity Rare Bird Lit, Tyson Cornell, Tyson@rarebirdlit.com, Distribution by Ingram, Available online and in bookstores in paperback, eBook, and audio format.