Tryst

Sit there and shut up, honey. One of us is a professional. Now, if I need help making a fucking sandwich or getting a wine stain out of a linen tablecloth, I’ll ask for your opinion. Otherwise, shut those powder-pink lips and look pretty.

That’s all they’re good for—looking pretty. Shopping. Primping. Taking care of disgusting, snotty-nosed spawn.

Stepford wives. Trophies. High-class, well-bred prostitutes.

They seem perfect in every way. Beautiful, intelligent, graceful. The perfect accessory for the man who has it all.

Except for one thing.

They’re as dull as lukewarm dishwater once you get them on their perfectly postured backs.

As they say, looks can be deceiving. Sexy does not equate to good sex. More often than not, this theory holds true. If it didn’t, I wouldn’t be in business. And let me tell you, business is good. Very good.

I take a sip of water as I scan the varied expressions of shock and horror that typically follow my usual first-day speech. This class is larger than the last, but I’m not surprised. It’s the end of the summer—a season when wearing less clothing is socially acceptable. Husbands’ eyes have strayed, and so have their dicks. And in an effort to save their picture-fucking-perfect marriages, some have commissioned me, in hopes that by some miracle, I can make their husbands look at them like they see more than a well-groomed melee of coiffed hair, veneers, and filler. Others weren’t as lucky to be in the know, having been sent here by their loving benefactors like summer camp castaways. They actually thought they were coming to a spa. Silly, clueless girls.

A slender hand goes up, and I nod toward the young, waif-thin brunette who’s shaking like a leaf in her floral Prada frock. It’s ugly as shit, and makes her look like a middle-aged bag lady. She reminds me of one of those half-twit wives from Mad Men. Not the hot secretary—the one that just sat her ass at home, eating bonbons in front of her black-and-white television set while her husband screwed everything that moved.

“So . . . what exactly do you do? Are you, like, a teacher or something?” she asks, just above a whisper.

“More like a consultant. You all share a very serious issue and I hope to . . . guide you toward some techniques that may improve your situation.”

“What situation?”

Holy fuck. Testing, testing. Is this thing on, or has Botox already begun to corrode her brain cells?

I smile tightly through the aggravation. Patience is key in my profession. Most days, I feel more like an overworked, underpaid day-care provider than a . . . lifestyle . . . coach. Same, same.

“I thought I explained the situation, Mrs.”—I squint at the file in front of me, matching her face to the name—“Cosgrove.”

Lorinda Cosgrove. As in Cos-Mart, the place where you can go shopping for honey buns, cheap lingerie, and a nine-millimeter at 3 A.M. while wearing cutoff booty shorts and Crocs. No lie, there are websites dedicated to these train wrecks. Google that shit.

“Yes, I am aware of your assessment, as crude as it is. However, what do you expect to achieve?”

I shake my head marginally. There’s one in every class. One that doesn’t want to accept the ugly truth staring her in the face. Even though she’s read the manual, signed the contracts, and undergone all the necessary briefings before arriving, she still can’t grasp her reality—flashing bright, neon arrows toward her dried-up vagina. Good thing I have no qualms about reminding her.

“You suck at sex,” I deadpan, my expression blank. Audible gasps escape from almost every collagen-plumped lip, yet I continue to drive my point home. “You don’t satisfy your husband sexually, which is why he wants to cheat on you, if he hasn’t already. You may be a fantastic wife, mother, homemaker, whatever, but you are a lousy lover. And that trumps all.”

Lorinda clutches her chest with a shaky, manicured hand. The woman sitting next to her, a heavier-set, forty-something housewife—whose husband’s midlife crisis, and his love of barely legal debutantes, have turned their marriage into a media circus—steadies her with a motherly squeeze on the shoulder. Aw, how sweet.

“And that goes for all of you,” I say, casting my glance around the room. “You’re here because you know you’re about to lose the one thing you’ve worked your pretty little asses off for—your man. You love the lifestyle you live, and instead of licking your wounds and moving on, you’d rather fix your broken marriage. And I’m here to help you.”

“But how?”

A slow, sardonic smile unfurls across my face. “I’m going to teach you how to fuck your husband.”

More gasps. More pearl clutching. Even a few shrieks of My word!

“But that’s not . . .” Lorinda screeches above the flurry of discontent. “Not proper. Not dignified.”

And there it is.

It’s the reason why her husband, Lane Cosgrove, likes to bend his pretty blond secretary over his desk and fuck her senseless while she calls him “Daddy.” He has a thing for anal—giving and taking it. His secretary keeps a strap-on in the locked file cabinet beside her desk for Thursday nights. Lane always works late on Thursdays, leaving Lorinda to her usual book-club meeting, women’s Bible study, wine tasting, etc., etc. Nothing Lane does on Thursdays is “proper.” Letting his secretary probe him with a ten-inch dildo while his mouth is stuffed with her panties to muffle his cries is anything but dignified. And he knows it. That’s why Lorinda can’t satisfy his needs. And letting your very rich and powerful husband leave home sexually unsatisfied is like giving him a loaded gun. Sooner or later, he’s going to pop off a few rounds.

On cue, my head of concierge services, Diane, enters, followed by several members of my staff. Time to move this little welcoming party right along before any more tears are shed.

“Ladies, if you think that you do not need this program and have ended up here by some mistake, please feel free to leave. Our drivers are prepared to take you straight to the airport, and you will be given a full refund. We just ask that you honor the nondisclosure agreements you and your spouses have signed.”

No one makes a move to stand, so I continue. “If you would like to stay and learn how to improve your sex lives and, ultimately, your relationships, our staff will show you to your rooms. You will find that they are fully equipped with en suite facilities and amenities, plus we have a twenty-four-hour chef and staff at your disposal. The property also houses a state-of-the-art fitness center, spa, and salon for all your personal needs. Comfort is key here. Welcome to Oasis, ladies. We want you to consider this your home for the next six weeks of instruction.”

Eleven sets of eyes stare back at me, waiting for the first command. No one wants to be the first to jump out of her seat, arms flailing as she screams, Pick me! Pick me! Teach me, I want to learn! They all want this; they all want to know the secrets of marital bliss. And they know everything I’ve said is true.

Each and every one of these women knows that someone else is fucking their husband because she herself doesn’t know how to do it herself.

And deep down, I feel for them. Hell, I even sympathize with them. They made it their life’s goal to meet and marry someone who would catapult them from their mediocre backgrounds and send them flying to the comforts of wealth and luxury.

It’s a regular Pretty Woman syndrome. They go from lying on their backs for lavish gifts or some inconsequential promise of commitment in the form of a cheap, dime-store diamond ring, to more jewels than they even have limbs to wear them on. But what these ladies fail to realize is that whatever they had to do to nab their Richard Gere, they have to do that—and more—to keep him.