The Sun and the Moon (Giving You ... #1) (2 page)

And anal didn’t even need to be on the list because it wasn’t even a consideration. Not in my world.

Yeah. I really am a princess with a stick up my ass, and yeah, I know that sometimes I say one thing and then do another. Deal with it.

Paul maneuvered faster now. Bless him. He was trying. But nope. Television was better. The stars weren’t aligning. I wasn’t going to come. The Prozac still messed with me and apparently, it had stolen my orgasm.

I noted yet another pattern on the plastered ceiling, now barely visible in the fully darkened room.

And he was really moving. It wasn’t painful or anything. I liked the guy. But he just wasn’t doing it for me. Nope. So …

What was on TV?

Focus, girl, focus.

Better fake it to get it over with.

"Oh God.
Oh God
. Paul.
Paul
!" I clenched my vaginal muscles, took a big breath, and then let the air noisily out.

He thrusted, sped up, and then stilled, pumping a release into the too-big condom. After a bit, he hugged me, kissed my forehead and rolled over, tracing my arm with his fingertip.

Maybe he’d leave soon, and I could rewatch
Order of the Phoenix
.

Thank God that was over.  He looked pleased, though.  I'd have to let him down easy.  Tomorrow.

THE NEXT AFTERNOON I
made it to my weekly appointment.

"When do you feel sexy?" my therapist asked.

"Never."

"Never?"

I nodded. "I'm not supposed to feel sexy. I want to feel pretty. Or hot. But not sexy. And most of the time I just feel fat. There's this lump here, on my belly, that's just not going away." She ignored my attempt to body shame myself, and went straight to the point.

"We'll set aside the issue of whether you are 'supposed to' do anything or not do anything for now. But using your words, why do you think you're not supposed to feel sexy?"

"I don't know what I'm supposed to feel or not feel anymore," I snapped. "But yes, I'm not supposed to feel sexy."

Yes, I’m weird.  My belief is completely at odds with marketing today. Nowadays, everything’s sex; I’m supposed go around feeling sexy since I’m a modern, enlightened woman. And it’s true: I’m no virgin.  I want my orgasm.

But somehow along the way, like a lot of us, I'd come to believe that sex, pleasure, and feeling good were all wrong. I felt guilty about sex, even though that was embarrassing to admit at my age. I was raised Irish-Catholic and taught to believe that anything pleasurable was bad.  I had also learned that a woman was not supposed to be openly sexual. When that belief was ingrained in you, it was hard to believe anything else. If it felt good, it must be bad.

Really, it’s part of the stern, cultural tradition of prudish sexual morality in America.  I could blame it on the Puritans. But since they've been fucking gone for centuries—at least the kind with buckled shoes—I wasn’t sure who to blame for my personal pathological repression.

How do you reconcile the fact that we’re sexual beings with our mixed up cultural norms?  And how do you do it on a personal level?

I did it by establishing my Rules.  I gave my body sex but only on limited conditions.  It worked.

Sort of.

Okay, it didn’t.

After my experiences the past year, I was seriously considering revising these Rules.  Indeed, after my sessions with my therapist, I now thought that this was a key part of the cause of my depression: denying myself pleasure.  The thing was, when I really thought about it, what was wrong with sex? It's natural, biological. I didn't want to get a disease, or get physically or emotionally hurt. But after wanting to have sex, but only under certain conditions, for so long, I couldn’t help but feel that I needed to change something.

"It's okay to have that feeling, you know?" said my therapist with a smile. "You don't have to like sex."

"But I think I want to," I said in a quiet voice.

"Then let's try something. I'm going to give you some homework. Do a few things to make yourself feel sexy. Make a list and do it. Buy some incredible lingerie. Get a Brazilian. Buy a vibrator. Read a romance novel."

"I don't read trash."

"
The greatest way to turn on a woman is through her mind
," my therapist said firmly. "I'll give you a list of books to check out. That's what e-readers are for—so you don't have to go to the store and deal with walking to the register holding a book with a half-naked man or woman on the cover. Look, I understand you may feel uncomfortable about this, but I can assure you that it's part of healthy sexuality. Just try it and be open."

Healthy sexuality. Now there was a concept. I was almost giggling with glee. What would happen if I tried it?  After so much therapy, I had broken through so many barriers and allowed myself to get out of a very bad place.  But this was the final frontier.  Giving myself permission to enjoy sex, huh? That could be good.

It was funny how quickly I dropped my defenses about this. Thirty-one years old now, I had lost my virginity when I was eighteen. That was a long time of simultaneously wanting to have sex and feeling bad about it. But now that I’d thought about it logically, I really wanted to engage in pleasure. I bet my brain would feel so good with an orgasm. I was ready to dial in.

"
I'll do it
," I pledged.

Green Eyes and Blue

THE PACIFIC OCEAN SPARKLED
to my right in the September morning sunlight as I drove south from Santa Barbara, my home, to Ventura, where I was to be in court later that day. Not knowing traffic, I’d left early, brought a laptop and some files, and intended to work at a coffee shop until I needed to be in court. I’d checked Yelp, and planned on trying Southwinds Coffee, an indie shop that was highly recommended, and close to the courthouse. Frankly, with an ocean-side drive almost the whole way, this was one of the best commutes in the world, and I was glad to be out of the office and on to court for a pretrial hearing. My big trial was scheduled in a week; this was some procedural garbage that I had to get rid of before the first day of the proceedings.

I tried to keep my eyes on the road as I drove my black Mercedes convertible down Highway 101, but the ocean was really distracting. Chamber of Commerce weather, I called it—clear, blue sky, murky, but silvery, green-blue water, and the crash of waves. No fog. You could see the Channel Islands in the distance and pelicans flying low along the shore. I bet if you stopped and watched, you could see dolphins. With the window open a crack, I could smell the ocean salt and stink. I still loved it.

I wanted to put the top down on my car, but that would muss up my hair, and I had to stay put together for court. I wore semi-badass lawyer attire. Full badass meant a navy pinstriped suit, pearls, and heels. Yes, traditional, but you had to play the part, and the clothes were armor. Fucking power suits. They worked. Semi-badass, my uniform today, meant a pale blue suit, with red heels and gold hoop earrings. I still meant business. But I didn't need pinstripes today, not for this type of hearing.

My hair fell down past my shoulders, and was very dark brown, almost black, with a lot of wave. I knew that I was lucky that it didn't get frizzy, it just curled more the closer I got to the beach. Driving alongside the beach didn't count. I'd be fine today.

Not that you could tell that I ever went to the beach. I didn't look like a California beachy girl even though I was a native Californian. I didn't match the type. My skin appeared so pale, naturally, and I spent so much time inside writing on the computer, and reading law books—and Harry Potter—that you really couldn't tell that I ever went outside. I loved the beach, but I usually went there in the evening, walking along the shore, barefoot, picking up shells and sea glass. That wasn't the way to get your skin tan. Still, I’d accepted my pale skin and learned to endure the comments from people who couldn't understand that I grew up here.

My favorite body part, hands down, were my unusual eyes—they were almost violet they were so blue. If you squinted and dressed me up right, I sort of looked like Elizabeth Taylor—pale skin, violet eyes, and dark hair. I knew that I looked alright. Too bad it was just a package. I knew that the insides were still fucked up.

As I drove, I thought about the past year. It was amazing that I was noticing things like the ocean sparkle and stink, the pelicans, the crash of the waves, and the islands. Depression made you not notice things like that. It closed your world down and you didn’t enjoy anything at all. It was just too hard to do anything. Think. Move. Appreciate. Breathe. Too hard to do any of that.

Not that long ago, I had been suicidal.  Panicked, I had called my best friend when I realized that I was driving around trying to find a good railroad track to stop on. This scared me badly—an understatement—and, in tears, I admitted my dark thoughts to Marie. She helped me to get professional help, and the professional help made me realize that I suffered from depression, and that this was something that was treatable, but I needed to work on it.

So, for the past year, I worked on it. I took medicine and went to therapy and exercised and
tried hard
. I felt stable, but I still felt empty most of the time. It was like something massive was missing. I could drag my sorry ass out of bed most days, but I wasn’t sure of the reason why I did so. I was grateful that I was no longer driving around looking for railroad tracks, but I wanted to
feel something
. Depression had robbed me of most feelings. The main thing that I felt these days was numb.  Maybe with my new “healthy sexuality” homework, I’d start to feel more than that.

Looking out at the sparkle of the water and the white of the waves as I drove, I decided to just enjoy that moment of this nearly perfect morning. It was beautiful. I had a whole day ahead of me. It was going to be okay.

Actually, it was going to be better than okay. For the first time in a long time, I noticed my surroundings, not just going around trapped inside my head. Seeing the sunshine and the ocean, I realized that I was truly starting to feel better.

With the help of my friend Google Maps, I found Southwinds Coffee, and parked in the spacious parking lot in Ventura near the courthouse. The coffee shop had big windows with black trim and a nice vibe—comfy, hip, and not too pretentious. Upbeat music played, but not too loudly. Good coffee shop smells. There was also enough space to spread out with a laptop. I noticed a lot of people working in little alcoves, with handy plugs spaced in the baseboards all over the place. A nice touch.

I stepped in line and waited to order, juggling my purse and briefcase with my laptop and files, absorbed with checking my phone. I was trying to look busy and important. I meant, dammit, I
was
busy and important. That was why I needed to check Twitter.

As the line moved steadily forward, I looked up. It was almost my turn. I grabbed a yogurt out of the cold case and shoved my phone into my purse. I put the yogurt down on the counter, looked up to order, and locked eyes with the most stunning set of greens I'd ever seen.

Without meaning to, I held my breath, staring into these sunny, intense eyes. I noticed that the vibrant green was flecked with gold, and the irises were warm and inviting. The eyes smiled, and I could not help but notice that there was apparently a mouth on this face. The most lush, pouty lips that I had ever seen smiled along with the eyes.

"May I help you?" the lips asked in a husky, sexy, low voice. How had I not heard that voice while I was waiting in line?

Help me. Yes, please help me. What was I doing here? I forgot. I was mesmerized.  My mental hard drive was also wiped of any rational thought. My brain shut down. Failed me. Damn brain. Green eyes. Pouty, smiley lips. Husky voice. Help me.

Help me!

My world quieted down and closed up. I couldn't hear the music of the coffee shop or the chatter behind me. I couldn't smell the good morning coffee shop smells. All I could do was stare.

The lips grew into an even bigger grin and I shook myself slightly, grinned reflexively, and noticed the man behind the eyes and lips.