David arranged my, well, "initiation" is a good word I suppose, and told me a month before my debut. I thought I was mentally prepared. I understood that what David and I had was temporary. I understood what Doctor Bob and I had talked about and accepted my
Placiosexuality
, even accepting the ugly word for such a wonderful thing. I knew, logically and intellectually that my need to give a man pleasure was, if not normal, a fairly common condition among women of a certain age and background.
I knew all of those things and yet, from the instant I woke up on Friday morning, I was nervous.
After I kissed him goodbye and sent him off to class I had an extended conversation with myself.
"Marie," I started, "this is crazy."
"But you watched that video," I said back to the crazy woman in the mirror, "and you know how much it got to you."
"But this is real life," I told her, "and I'm not a porn star."
"Oh, aren't you?" she asked, a smirk on her face.
"Oh, God," I moaned.
The conversation went on like that. I won't bore you.
In the end, as I had known it would, the conversation ended with me telling the woman in the mirror, my conscience perhaps, to just shut the fuck up and leave me alone.
I think I did my normal stuff. Anyway, the dishes weren't piled up in the sink the next day. I watched TV, but couldn't tell you what I watched. I read some of my latest Space Opera, but had to reread it a few days later.
I took a long, hot bath, not really washing, just relaxing, letting the hot water support me with its buoyancy and relax me with its heat.
Then I stood for a half hour with my tweezers in my hand. I had come to terms with him throwing away my razor and accepted the tufts of coarse black hair in my armpits and the incipient mustache along with the hair on my legs. But I WAS getting older and part of that process is that hair will pop out in the weirdest places. It was like I'd go to bed and when I woke there would be a single new hair sprouting from my earlobe, or an eyebrow, or right in the middle of my chin. Those, I carefully plucked.
I showered, carefully washing between my legs although even as I did that I realized it was silly. What we had planned wouldn't change whether I was clean and sweet smellin' with perfect makeup or just wandered in off the street.
But I'm a vain old woman on some level, so I inspected and plucked hairs from my ears, eyebrows, chin, and one that had popped up on the ball of my shoulder.
Satisfied with that, I read my book for a while, waiting for him to get home.
I was naked on the couch, coffee on the little table, the news in the background, and my book in my hand when he walked in.
He came to the couch and sat beside me. Then he did that two-fingers-under-the-chin thing all men seem to know instinctively, and turned my head until our eyes met.
"Marie," he said, "I hope you won't but I want to give you the chance. You can still say 'no' if you are having second thoughts."
I smiled.
"David," I said, "I'm so nervous I think I might literally die, but I damn sure ain't sayin' 'no.'"
"All right, then," he said, "let me grab a quick shower and we'll get you ready."
I joined him in the shower, not that I needed it but that I enjoyed it.
Clean and dry, I watched him dress in what I thought of as his date-night outfit. He put on a T-shirt, one of his collection of about 50, this one with a silhouette of a handgun and the words "Molon Labe" under it, his jeans, his white socks, and his tennis shoes.
"Okay," he said, taking my hand and leading me to my little makeup desk, "let's get you fixed up."
I love it when he does my makeup. And he's good at it. By the time he was done, when he told me I was beautiful I still didn't believe him but I thought I might accept "pretty."
"And this," he said, laying out one of those outfits we had bought. This one was bright blue with a halter top and a short skirt.
"Underwear?" I asked although I knew the answer. Who says there are no stupid questions?
"Hardly necessary," he said, flashing that grin of his.
So I put on the halter top, more a titsack because I didn't have a bra on, and the short skirt barely covering my ass.
"And these," he said.
I sat while he put the blue shoes on me and did the ankle straps. These were what he always called "fuck me" shoes, and I was always nervous wearing them. Oh, I thought they did pretty good things for my legs, but I was afraid I'd break an ankle.
He walked me to the full-length mirror that hung on the back of the bedroom door.
"You look terrific," he said.
"Oh God," I moaned, "I look like an over-the-hill whore."
