She had to get ahold of herself.
Breathing a sigh of relief that the women hadn’t shrieked and notified the authorities about the restroom masturbator, Libby adjusted her yoga capris as the bubbly blonde and giddy brunette continued their conversation.
“There was kissing, Laney. So much kissing. Then we went back to his place,” the blonde replied with a dirty twinkle in her eye. And sweet karma pie, something in Libby’s belly, or possibly lower, twinged. But it wasn’t a rev-your-sexy-engine twinge. It was more of a sad, lethargic putter. Not to mention, it had been weeks, weeks, since she’d sported a dirty glimmer in her eyes.
What she wouldn’t give for a slightly untidy flicker of lust.
“And? Don’t hold back, Cleo,” the brunette, Laney, coaxed.
The blonde, Cleo, pulled a tube of lip gloss from her purse. “We did it on the kitchen table, in his bathroom, and on the living room floor,” she answered, counting off the sex spots on her fingers with the tiny tube.
Libby swallowed hard as her heart thrust into jackhammer mode.
“Cleo, you are a naughty, naughty girl. What about his bed?” the brunette probed as she smoothed one of her brown curls.
No, no, no!
Libby steadied herself. She needed cold, cold water, Arctic water to tamp down her cockeyed libido.
Here’s the thing.
Her body remembered the bliss of ramping up—emotions swirling and sensual energy churning. The gasps, the caresses, the grind. But like a stranger in a strange land, she’d lost the way to Orgasm Town. That precarious position had left her in a sexual purgatory without any relief in sight. The last thing she needed was to walk into the meeting of a lifetime with the lady equivalent of blue balls. She fumbled with the faucet and splashed a bit of cool water on her cheeks, focusing on the sound of the spray.
“We made it to the bed at some point,” the blonde continued, applying the gloss, “because we broke the headboard banging it against the wall over and over again. By that time, I’d lost track of how many orgasms I’d had.”
“And did you let him use the prototype on you?” Laney pressed.
Cleo fanned herself. “Oh yeah, the vibration on that sucker had me screaming in minutes.”
Wild-eyed, Libby didn’t know what type of prototype they were talking about, but sweet Buddha, she required a ticket to O Central—and she needed it pronto. She assaulted the soap dispenser, and the creamy white substance splattered across her hand. She stared at the thick material that resembled—
Stop. Do not go there.
“Cleo, you truly look like a woman who’s been ravished within an inch of her life. You’re luminous. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Libby froze as the brunette turned from the blonde and pegged her with her gaze. “Isn’t my friend shimmering with post-orgasmic bliss?” the brunette continued.
Libby vibrated—and not in the sexy, luminously orgasmic way. In terms of vibration, she was rocking more of a weed whacker meets chainsaw cadence.
Get it together!
She plastered on a grin, then took in the blonde. “Yes, you do have a glow to your skin.”
“A glow?” the brunette crowed. “She’s a sexed-up beacon of screw-your-brains-out light.”
“Oh, stop, Laney,” the blonde woman cooed.
And yes, for the love of unbalanced psychic energy, Laney, please stop!
“I’m not the only one here who spent the night clawing their fingernails down the back of a ripped, handsome man,” Cleo tossed back. “I saw you and Grant together. You couldn’t keep your hands off each other.”
Laney slipped a compact from her bag, then applied a fresh dusting of powder to the apples of her cheeks. “That’s what happens when you knock out a quickie in the car. It leaves you wanting more.”
Quickies in the car?
Nails clawing muscled backs in bouts of reckless abandon?
This was too much. Her off-kilter chi couldn’t handle another blow.
“Um…miss?” the blonde said, concern marring, but not erasing, her glimmering sex eyes.
“Yes?” Libby eked out.
“The sink.”
“The sink?” Libby looked down as a cascade of water gushed over the edge of the counter. When had she pulled that plunger thing in the sink that kept it from draining? Her addled mind had no idea. She gasped, reaching for the lever to turn off the water, but in her discombobulated state, she grazed her hand across the sink and sent a cold spray of liquid straight to her exposed abdomen. The water hit with a shock, then dripped down her yoga pants, soaking the white material. She banged the plunger with her fist to drain the sink, shut off the tap, then caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She looked like a sparkly gold woman in desperate need of an adult diaper. And holy Buddha balls, she had to get out of there. She checked her watch. She only had five minutes before her appointment with destiny.
“Here you go,” the brunette said, handing her a paper towel. “Sorry we bombarded you with our girl talk. But you know what it’s like when you start seeing someone. The butterflies. The tingles. And all the new relationship orgasms.”
“So many orgasms,” the blonde added, leaning against the wall, her voice sounding far-off as if she’d fallen back in time to the night of a thousand climaxes.
Libby did her best to sop up the water, but the flimsy paper napkin was no match for soaked, sustainably-sourced stretchy pants. She gave Laney a weak grin and thanked her for the paper towel. Once upon a time, she would have welcomed a conversation like this. The version of Libby Lamb with her chi and O intact would have adored this exchange. These women had great energy. And who didn’t like a bit of spicy talk in the girls’ bathroom? From their days in Ms. Miliken’s kindergarten class, back in elementary school, to the present day, she, Harper, Charlotte, and Penny were the queens of ladies’ room countertop gab sessions.
And she didn’t limit her girl-talk gatherings to her besties.
Over the years, she’d found herself chatting up total strangers on the street, on the bus, in the market. Wherever life had taken her, she’d connected. She vibed with her surroundings. Her blissful chi had flirted and mingled among the masses like a butterfly bobbing and weaving through a lush garden. And this little butterfly, whether she was with a man or cuddled up in bed with her battery-powered boyfriend, used to be able to knock out a cosmic climax like nobody’s business. Before the sexual Sahara set in, she could knock out an O faster than you could say…
Beefcake.
The minute she laid eyes on the juiced-up jock, she’d whispered the word like an ominous incantation. Unable to stop herself, the two stupid syllables had unleashed some straight-up Voldemort black magic, chi stomping, O crushing energy.
Beefcake.
And that was it. After one exchange, where he’d flashed a smirk and zapped her with his cocky, arrogant vibe, she was a changed woman. Not only had he screwed with her chi, but his beefcake energy had also jacked with her sacral chakra—the spiritual core of her sexuality. And in that cosmic event rivaling the big bang, the shelf of her sexual stability had collapsed in a beefcake-laden blowout. He’d jolted her once unwavering chi and sent her O packing. He’d left her percolating with the pops and pings of grating irritability while teetering precariously on the edge of spiritual volatility.