Breathe, Becky. You can do this. I brace my hands on either side of my bathroom sink, staring myself down in the mirror. Jeremiah is waiting for you in that bedroom and this time, he took his little blue pill. He isn’t going to fall asleep on you. Stop. Worrying.
I give the door a glance and take a deep breath. I’ve been muttering to myself for at least ten solid minutes, psyching myself up for what I’m about to do.
Janine and I have been taking that damn stripper class for a few weeks now, and after several sessions, she assures me I’m ready to use my newfound moves on my husband.
It’s been a while since we had our heart-to-heart about his “issues,” and nothing has really changed. Things are still just kind of blah in the bedroom, and I’ll be damned if it’s going to stay that way. So here I am, preparing to release my inner slut.
What’s the worst that can happen? I mean, besides making a fool out of myself? And so what if I do? It’s Jeremiah, for goodness’ sake.
Inhale. Exhale.
His idea of a good time is watching a movie in bed and dutch-ovening me when it gets to a sappy part. No man is easier to impress. What’s the worst thing that could happen? Besides tripping on my heel, falling down, and slamming my head into the corner of the dresser?
Oh, god.
What if I actually fall and slam my head on the dresser?
“Are you ready yet, babe?” Jeremiah’s voice calls gently through the door, snapping me out of the downward spiral my thoughts were beginning to take. “Come on, Becks, stop overthinking this.”
I snort. He has no idea just how much I’m overthinking. Then again, he also has no idea what’s in store for him when I walk through this bathroom door.
“Alright, Becky. Here goes nothing,” I whisper to myself and wobble precariously on four-inch hooker heels towards my master bathroom door.
Janine and I agreed the French maid outfit not only wouldn’t work well for a strip tease because it’s, well, it’s a maid’s outfit—but also because Jeremiah has already seen it.
So tonight’s outfit of choice is a hot little number Janine talked me into: a sleek and skintight bandage dress. It’s fire engine red with a plunging neckline and a gold zipper running from the top of my cleavage, down to the floor. Kind of like those pants male strippers wear that rip off…
It also reminds me of an outfit Britney Spears wore in one of her videos, back before she went crazy, shaved all her hair off, and got a nose job.
Except, unlike Britney Spears, my red dress will feature way more ass.
And belly.
And thigh.
But I feel somewhat confident in it, it doesn’t require Spanx, and I can breathe when I walk. I can’t walk in these shoes, but I can move my body freely in the dress. So that’s a plus.
With one more deep breath, I swing the door open wide and step over the threshold into the bedroom, striking a sexy pose we learned in stripper class.
Everyone knows the pose: the one where your arm reaches over your head, resting on the doorjamb while your other arm is propped on your hip, which is jutted to the side. Except, unlike a professional stripper, I’m wobbling. I forgot four-inch heels will sink into carpet and throw you off kilter.
Jeremiah waits for me at the head of our bed, relaxing against a pile of pillows I had hastily tossed there, giving off the appearance that I had actually made it today. He knows that’s the chore I never do, so I’m not sure why I was trying to impress him. Jeremiah’s wearing his favorite boxer shorts inspired by the movie Elf, and when he sees me, he sits straight up in bed. My Will Ferrell look-alike husband is staring at me with a bare chest, wide eyes, and dropped jaw.
I give a little wiggle and shake.
“Holy shit, Becks. Are you gonna…” He gulps. “Are you gonna dance for me?”
His obvious excitement in this moment gives me the confidence boost I need to continue on.
I give him what I hope is a sexy smile and say, “Well, I’m gonna try.”
Then I saunter, er, wobble to the dresser and press a couple of buttons on the iPod. When Beyoncé’s voice fills the room, I start to feel sexy and let my hips move. I’m trying to channel my inner goddess, minus the unshaved thighs and horrible bangs.
As I back away from the dresser and look over my shoulder sexily, I let my hips move a little too much and I stumble a bit, but I regain my balance quickly.
And Jeremiah doesn’t seem to mind.
My husband’s boxers start to strain and tighten, making the printed pictures of Will Ferrell’s actual face so taut, it looks like he had a botched facelift. I’ll take it that’s a good sign.
I make my way to the middle of the room and continue moving to the beat. Swaying my hips, bending my knees, hands in my hair, chest popped out… am I forgetting a move? Oh, it doesn’t matter.
I just keep dancing.
As the song starts to come to the climax, I know it’s time for my grand finale. Even Janine hasn’t seen this part.
I turn so my back is to Jeremiah, who now sits on the edge of the bed looking like he’s ready to pounce on me. I peek slyly over my shoulder and start to unzip the dress so it will slide off my shoulders and pool at my feet, revealing the sexy lace boy shorts I bought just for this.
I quickly find out bandage dresses don’t slide anywhere. They… stick.
Dammit!
A very un-sexy ripping sound comes from under the dress as I peel it away from my sweaty skin. So much for that part. Now if the damn thing would slide off my arms…
I push. I pull. I feel like a used car being pushed, pulled, and dragged into an old car lot.
One more last tug. No. Nope. No such luck.
Instead, I’m…
“Dammit,” I sputter under my breath as I try to wriggle and worm my arms out of the damn long sleeves. Jeremiah chuckles quietly behind me, which pisses me off and makes me wave my arms around even more in frustration. This, however, throws me off balance in my hooker heels and….
Down.
I.
Go.
Falling flat on my ass in the middle of my bedroom floor with Beyoncé crooning in her magical voice about all the sexy, sexy times I obviously am not about to have. But at least I didn’t bang my head on the dresser.
Jeremiah is on me in a flash—still laughing—but to his credit, trying very hard not to. “Are you okay, babe?” More laughter. “Did you hurt yourself?”
“No, I’m fine,” I mumble, irritated that I ruined a perfectly good strip tease and two weeks’ worth of practice and choreography. “I just can’t get out of this fucking dress.”
In hindsight, I probably should have done a practice run.
My husband laughs again and helps me pull the offending sleeves down off my arms. I didn’t realize how hot the dang thing was until it wasn’t suction cupped to my skin anymore.
“For what it’s worth,” he says as he tenderly slides my heels off, “it was a really good dance.”
I smile affectionately at him, still frustrated, but not as much now that he’s not laughing at me anymore. “Up until the end, anyway.”
“Eh.” He shrugs. “So it needs a little work. Not everyone can be a dancer like me.”
“Oh really?” My jaw drops and now I’m the one laughing. “A dancer like you? Since when are you a dancer?”
“Since always,” he says matter-of-factly, helping me to my feet and leading me to the bed. “You just hate going out to clubs, so you’ve never seen me in action.”
I snort at his pronouncement. “I don’t believe you.”
He puts his hands on his hips. “Well, since you don’t believe me, and I owe you a strip tease since you just gave me one, maybe I’ll prove it to you. Right here. Right now.”
My head drops back and I laugh out loud. “Oh, okay, Magic Mike,” I say when I finally compose myself. “Show me what you’ve got.”
He walks over to the iPod, scrolling through until he finds what he’s looking for. A click of a button later and his head starts to bob when the sound of Robin Thicke’s “Blurred Lines” starts filling the room. “Blurred Lines”? I’m already shocked, and for a second all I can think is, How is that even on the iPod?
Jeremiah’s hips sway and he backs up smoothly, not once bothering to glance over his shoulder. Of course, he doesn’t run into any furniture.
Show off.
He does one really sexy spin on his heel, snaps the waistband of his Elf shorts, and suddenly he’s going all out, dancing in front of me.
Like an actual lap dance. Where the heck… did this come from?
I’m shocked and I have to admit, I may have been hasty about his dancing skills. Jeremiah seems to know his stuff pretty well.
Half a second later, he’s doing another crazy spin thing before going down on his knees—and holy crap, now he’s humping the floor Channing Tatum style.
Ohmygod, ohmygod ohmygod, my husband is freaking HOT!
Who is this sexy man and where did my sweet, laid back Jeremiah go?
And is he…? Is that…? Is he twerking?
“That’s it!” I yell, crossing my arms referee style. “Show’s over. Get up here and make love to your wife!”
He hesitates long enough to strip off his boxers while I kick my panties off. Then, with a predatory smile, he’s on me and in me. No foreplay, no sweet talk, just hot, steamy, sexy sex. But I don’t care. As far as I’m concerned, that hot dance he just did was foreplay enough for me. And holy shit, that little blue pill is making him seem larger than normal, too.
“Oh shit,” he says after just a couple of minutes of passionate making out, intimate touching, and lots of swiveling hip action. “Oh shit, Becky, I’m already about to come.”
“No!” I’m feeling my own orgasm build but know I’m not going to make it in time. “No, please, Jeremiah, don’t come yet!”
I’m begging, but it’s already too late.
“I’m sorry,” he groans into my neck as he comes. And comes. And comes. When his body stops trembling and the man can finally pry his euphoric eyes open, he looks down at me, guilt and apology written all over his handsome face. “I’m so sorry, baby. That’s the first orgasm I’ve had in a year. It felt so good. You felt so good. I kind of feel seventeen again.”
I would like to be upset in this moment—upset that my chance at amazing sex has ended without the big O. But how can I be, considering he has been giving me orgasms for a year and getting nothing in return? All I can do is feel happy that, after this long, my husband has finally gotten his rocks off.
We clean up together in the bathroom, Jeremiah more lighthearted and content than I’ve seen him in a long time. When he climbs into bed, he falls asleep before his head even hits the pillow.
But me, well, I’m still wide-awake and keyed up.
I glance at my laptop sitting on my bedside table and nibble at my bottom lip.
Janine’s words about porn sites and getting myself loosened up repeat in my mind. “Check out Don Dean… He’s only the king of modern-day porn… He’s like Jeremy James… Just do it.”
Should I do it? I think to myself. Now that we’re getting our sex life back, should I look up some things for us to try? Some things to get us hot and bothered? The thought makes me blush, but I look down at a sleeping Jeremiah and at the clock: nine thirty.
Ah, screw it.
I scramble out of bed, grab my laptop, power it up, and do a Google search of Don Dean when it finally boots up. Sure enough, there he is, the king of porn, and he even has a website I can browse through as long as I’m eighteen.
Wow. That sure is a lot of pictures. Lots of pictures of… What the fuck? What am I… Holy—what the…?
Two hours later, I’m still on Don Dean’s website. Cursing Janine and her horrible ideas, I check and see she’s still online. I send her a message.
Me: I fucking hate you.
Janine: You say that every time I have a good idea that freaks you out. What’s the problem THIS time?
Me: I just got done looking at Don Dean’s blog. I can never un-see the things I’ve seen.
Janine: Oh, NICE! So I have to ask: Did you watch the professional videos or the amateur ones?
Me: There are videos??? I only saw pictures! Of buttholes!! Buttholes aren’t supposed to look like that!!
Me: And why does he keep sticking his hand down these women’s throats?? Who does that during sex?? And takes pictures of it??
Janine: Okay, first of all—how do YOU know buttholes aren’t supposed to look like that? And secondly, leave that hand gag shit to the professionals. Me? I prefer the amateur videos myself. Go look at that stuff. Way more entertaining.
Me: How did I not know you were such a closet perv?
Janine: Why are you saying it like it’s a bad thing? I’m starting to think you don’t know me at all. It makes me sad. L
Me: facepalm How did we ever become best friends?
Janine: Because back in the day, before you had a litter of kittens, you were just as perverted as me. Probably even more so. Maybe you could start talking dirty to Jeremiah—I bet he’d like that. Try sexting his fine ass.
Me: Point taken. And… you want me to SEXT my husband? Um.
Janine: Maybe the porn site will give you some sexy thoughts.
Me: Well, the sound of him snoring next to me sure isn’t inspiring.
Janine: Right. So go sign up for a two-day porn membership.
Me: I think I’ll pass.
Janine: It’s one buck. One dollar. Four quarters, you cheapskate. The videos will give you some great ideas for things to try with Jeremiah!
A few minutes after we say good-bye, I’m still thinking about that stupid porn website. Damn her. How can I resist a membership like that?