Fuck, I really need to get laid. You know what I’m talking about: sex that leaves you with weak knees. I’m aching to feel the grip of a man’s strong fingers on my sensitive nipples, my face raw from rubbing against his stubble as we kiss. I really need to experience the kind of orgasm that triggers profanities to roll off my tongue with the ease of a drunken sailor.
However, pouring myself a drink, I’m painfully aware my battery operated boyfriend — otherwise known as Bob — would be the only one I’d be riding tonight. Bob has been my partner in sexual escapades for way too long, although I have experienced a few upgrades over time. I enjoy trying out the latest models, a few of which have looked like objects from the future.
I’ve used Bob so much over the years, I should have invested in Duracell stock or even in the ridiculous bunny banging a drum. Hindsight is often full of irony.
Sipping my drink, I’m trying to corral my racing hormones — but to no avail. Don’t get me wrong, Bob has plenty of positive attributes. He doesn't care if I shave my legs, doesn’t orgasm first leaving me hanging, nor does he steal my bed covers. I don't need a man to make me happy.
Oh, who the hell am I trying to convince?
My vibrator isn’t going to grip my ass and pull me close; it isn't going to pull my hair and ravish my neck. It definitely isn't buying dinner and it’s a horrible conversationalist. But, tonight, I might need Bob more than ever…. damn letter.
Sorry, let me back up a little bit…
~~~~
I’m Lizzy, just plain Lizzy, not really different from anyone else. Nope, can't think of anything really special about me. Unless you count my expertise in sex toys.
I followed the grand blueprint of life according to the Cosmo experts. In retrospect, I may have missed a few essential details. High school prom queen, check. College degree, check. Losing my virginity, check. Successful career, check. Not necessarily in that order, of course.
I developed a plan for my future but, by the time I saw the light at the end of the tunnel, I’d missed out on so much. God, I missed fucking.
My check list was devoid of anything that made me feel extraordinary. There’s no marriage nor children. Those I’d intended to check off after the successful career was achieved. I think I ran out of time or simply misplaced the damn list.
Don't get me wrong, I’m happy enough. I love people, I even shaped my career around helping others. I went to school to be a nurse, choosing a second degree in social work. I thought maybe if I helped enough people, just maybe I would feel special, feel needed. Looking back, I think I was trying to stay busy so I didn't dwell on all the missing things in my life. The unchecked items on my ‘to do’ list seemed to be from another lifetime.
My relationship with my college sweetheart, Stone was the only time I remember feeling special. During our romance, I felt desirable, sexy and even craved. I’ve often thought of that time. It’s impossible to ignore the difference in my life between then and now. With his love, I felt invincible. He enjoyed every minute of life and it was contagious. He saw beauty in everything, especially me.
We had unbelievable sex and I can still remember every detail. He had a sexual appetite that was never quenched, always hungry for more. He fucked me in an uninhibited, all-consuming way — the same way he loved me. He taught me to trust myself sexually and to let go and truly enjoy sex, whether fucking or making love.
Until Stone, I’d never allowed myself to be so free. I worried about every little detail. I was too worried to let go and enjoy life. He changed that. With him, I noticed the beauty in the smallest of things.
Fast forward twenty years. I’d spent time in some of the world's ugliest, most depressing places. All my humanitarian travels were an attempt to find the beauty in my life again. I was trying to give my life meaning and purpose and, with each trip, it seemed like those targets were even more elusive.
Finishing a trip to Africa, I had time to ponder my life on the twenty-two-hour flight back home to the US. I’d tried to pinpoint when life became so mechanical, so methodical. When had the thrill of being alive left my soul? When had I stopped smelling the roses?
Fourteen people had gone together to Africa, not counting Bob. We’d traveled to various villages and orphanages. It was a gut-wrenching, sad experience, the kind that cleanses your soul. I would be lying if I didn’t admit I’d signed up in a vain attempt to feel needed and aiming to find my life’s meaning.
The trip made me realize I needed to create meaning for myself. It made me more determined not to keep letting life pass me by.
Now exhausted, I closed my eyes to rest during the flight home and pondered my incomplete check list. Strangely, no matter how deep I was in thought, I couldn’t ignore the horrific smell that passengers were having to endure, courtesy of my group. It was the musky, dirty smell of people who’d not experienced the luxury of running water for fourteen days. It seemed almost cruel to inflict it on innocent travelers sitting close to us.
Safely on the ground, I hurried embarrassedly through the airport to get my luggage and hail a taxi. Poor taxi driver. Eventually, we arrived at my apartment and I handed the driver a generous tip while profusely apologizing for the stench.
Out of habit, I grabbed my mail on the way through the lobby and casually tossed it onto the foyer table. No time to sort it, I needed to shower. Shedding my clothes, I left a haphazard trail of luggage and clothing from the foyer to the bathroom.
The shower was pure heaven. Steam rising in billowy clouds of warmth, the flow of hot water seemed to rejuvenate both my outer body and my weary soul. The smell and the filth were cleansed by my favorite body wash, an amazing summer scent of citrus, fragrant flowers and a hint of coconut.
I swear if I closed my eyes while using it, I could see a beach, feel the sun, and hear waves. That night I was too tired. Standing under the hot water, I closed my eyes, only envisioning the filth being washed away.
Between the fragrance and the hot water, I began to feel refreshed. I traced the path of the hot water with my hands, caressing my body. Absent-mindedly, I tweaked my hardened nipples, inciting a quiet but audible gasp. Relaxing, I widened my stance and put one hand on my swollen clit. Rubbing the nub in tight firm circles, I moved my hips against the pads of my fingers.
I was on autopilot but, damn, I really needed a release. Tighter, faster, harder... it took only a few minutes for my body to succumb to the pleasure. The orgasm was perfect, gripping and strong. My body jerked and quivered, my fingers dripped with warm nectar.
The hot water turning cold jerked me back to reality. In the same moment. I felt exhaustion taking hold again. It was overpowering. I needed sleep. Reluctantly, I realized I could not stay in the shower forever, so I climbed out on wobbly legs and towel dried. I lathered myself in lotion, intending to head straight to bed.
On my way, I saw the imposing stack of mail on the small table in the foyer. I almost stopped to sort it but the letters and messages could wait until after I’d had a night’s sleep.
Suddenly, it caught my attention and time froze. It was a strangely familiar deep tan envelope, almost hauntingly familiar. I couldn’t breathe, couldn't form a sensible thought. I was awestruck by the resemblance to envelopes my college sweetheart would send me almost daily after I’d first left town.
Impossible. It had to be an unlikely coincidence.
I tried not to imagine, or hope, it was from him. That would open up my heart to all kinds of memories, longings — and mostly regrets. Yet… I couldn’t wait till morning to find out. I tentatively reached out with a trembling hand.
I nearly dropped the envelope when I saw the writing. Calligraphy so delicate, so purposeful, and so unique had been the ace up his sleeve. No girl could reject such beauty. I knew the letter must be from Stone.
But why would he contact me now? Why, after twenty years?
I ran fingers over the smooth envelope, tracing the grooves of the writing, frustrated by the lack of a return address. Memories of him came flooding back. I could just throw it away, avoid opening the possible Pandora's box of its contents. But, I didn’t need further ‘what ifs’ in my life. It had to be opened.
I sat on the couch, legs drawn up under me, trying to find the courage to open the envelope. My hands were trembling, the beat of my heart palpable.
We’d been so in love, so inseparable, until I’d left town with a scholarship to graduate school.
