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The only sex.
Which wouldn't have been such a bad thing except that the elusive O came courtesy of a red fluorescent vibrator called the Big Tamale rather than some hot, buff cowboy with a slow hand and an intoxicating smile.
Margaret Evelyn Sweeney, aka Meg, hit the three different Off buttons—vibrate, swivel and aye carumba—and stashed Big in its matching red case. She drew a deep breath, swung her legs over the side of her bed and got to her feet.
Five minutes later, she stood in her kitchen and leaned over a hot-pink three-ring binder—her own personal Pleasure Manual—to document tonight's results. She flipped to page fifty-eight, which included a quick summation of last Tuesday's class entitled Masturbation Mania and a worksheet for homework. She scribbled in the date and tackled the questions.
Intense sensation? Check.
Spontaneous groaning (the good kind)? Check.
Uncontrollable moaning? Check.
A full-blown scream? Check.
Overall level of satisfaction?
She eyed the scale that ranged from one to ten, zip to zowee, and finally circled seven before moving on to the last question.
Did this sexual experience include a partner? She ignored the crazy urge to jot down a big fat yes. This wasn't about soothing her fragile ego and saving face with the other women in the painfully small town of Skull Creek, Texas.
The whole purpose of attending carnal classes with a certified carnal coach was to invest in her future. Sadly enough, she was thirty years old and she could count on one hand the number of romantic entanglements she'd had in her lifetime.
Actually, she could count them on two fingers. Three if she included her encounters with her good buddy and childhood friend, Dillon Cash. While Meg had been a mega tomboy, Dillon had been a major geek. Either way, they'd both never really fit in with the opposite sex—not romantically—and so they'd turned to each other back in the ninth grade when they'd realized that they were the only ones—with the exception of Connie Louise Davenport, Reverend Davenport's daughter—in the entire freshman class who hadn't known how to French kiss.
Okay, so they hadn't known how to kiss, period. No quick pecks. No slow, lingering smooches. No open mouths and plunging tongues. They'd been fifteen and very green, and so it had seemed like a good idea to work out the awkwardness with each other.
Several hours, a bootleg copy of a Nine 1/2 Weeks video, and a dozen clumsy attempts later, they hadn't been any more skilled than when they'd started.
In fact, the entire experience had solidified what she'd known from the get-go—Dillon was and would always be just a good friend. She hadn't liked him like that.
No heart stutters. No tummy tingles. No rip-off-your-panties-and-go-bonkers lust.
Which was why, despite the experimental kissing, she felt inclined to leave him out of the tally when it came to her sexual past.
That left Oren and Walter. She'd lost her virginity to Oren, aka the Orenator, at the ripe old age of eighteen. He'd been the best defensive end the Skull Creek Panthers had ever seen, and he'd taken them to the state championship during his senior year. And he'd actually liked her, enough to ask her out for Homecoming.
They'd gone to the school dance, and then they'd gone parking down by the river.
Ten minutes in the backseat of his daddy's Chevy listening to recaps of the Cowboys vs. Redskins game, and she'd had enough. She'd thrown her arms around him, pressed her body up against his and offered herself shamelessly. Other than a few initial moments of shock and a frantic "What are you doing?", he'd finally given in to her persistent lips. She'd lost her innocence along with one of her new hoop earrings and her undies.
Yes!
Not that the experience itself had been all that great. While he'd given in, he hadn't taken the initiative and swept her off her feet. Rather, she'd taken the lead, pushing and urging and giving a whole new meaning to her nickname Manhandler Meg.
Still, it had been the principle of the thing. It had been the beginning of a new chapter in her life. A chance to start over. To completely forget the tomboy she'd once been and embrace all that was feminine.
Change.
That's what it had all been about. Meg had grown up being a carbon copy of her father. He'd been a single parent—her mother, a diabetic, had died of renal failure shortly after Meg's birth—and an athletics coach at the local high school. Growing up, Meg had been determined to follow in his footsteps. She'd watched him, learned from him, idolized him, and then one day he'd been gone.
She'd been barely seventeen and it had been the start of the summer after her junior year. She'd gone home early to pack (they were going camping to celebrate the end of classes) and he'd stayed late to finish cleaning out his desk. He'd been in a hurry to get home, not wanting to lose their camping spot at a local state park. He'd failed to stop at a nearby intersection and had been hit by an approaching car. That had been the end of him.
And the end of Meg.
The old Meg.
She'd gone to live with her grandparents and, much to their surprise, had packed away her soccer ball and kneepads. She'd ditched her favorite baseball bat and glove, her autographed Troy Aikman football and her lucky San Antonio Spurs basketball jersey. Even more, she'd packed away her all-time favorite sweats and the lucky Dallas Cowboy T-shirt her dad had bought her. She'd taken out a subscription to Cosmo and had learned all the latest fashion trends. She'd even forfeited helping her granddad on his tractor so that her grandmother could teach her how to sew.
In one summer, she'd traded in her love of sports for an infatuation with shoes and clothes and all things feminine, and had started her senior year as a different Meg. A woman determined to forget her past, to bury it right along with her father.
When Oren had chronicled their night on the wall of the boys' locker room, her undies hanging from one of the locker pegs as proof, she'd been thrilled. The male population of Skull Creek High would finally see her as more than just a competitive edge during game time. She'd been so good at sports that she'd become the best buddy of every male athlete in school. They'd asked her advice on everything from touchdowns to golf putts.
They'd never, however, asked her out.
She'd been convinced that that one wild night with Oren would be enough to change her image.
She'd been wrong.
This was Skull Creek. The classic small town where people left their doors unlocked and the sidewalks rolled up at six o'clock every evening. Forget crime. The most exciting news centered around the occasional boob job or cheating spouse. Strangers were scarce and everyone knew everyone.
And that meant that once she was Manhandler Meg, she'd always be Manhandler Meg.
While she'd managed to change who she actually was, she'd never been able to change everyone's perception of her.
Not way back when Oren had written about her and the entire football team had assumed it was a really great practical joke—she'd gotten so many high fives that her hand had been raw—and not now that she wore high heels and sexy clothes and ran her own dress boutique, It's All About You, a small, exclusive shop located on Main Street, smack dab between Dillon's computer repair shop and the town's one and only full-service spa, Pam's Pamper Park.
People still saw her as a chip-off-the-old-Sweeney-block. The women rarely felt threatened and the men…Well, they actually respected her.
While she knew that most females would kill to be valued for their minds rather than their bodies, once, just once, she would like to have a man actually see her as a sex object.
So make a real change, pack your bags and get out of Dodge.
She'd thought about it. But the notion of leaving her grand-parents—even though they now lived an hour away in a retirement community outside of Austin, and she only saw them a few times a month—was even less appealing than being known as Manhandler Meg for the rest of her life. They'd helped her through her father's death, loved her, raised her, and she intended to return the favor. They'd been there for her when she'd needed them the most, and she intended to be there for them when the time came and they eventually needed her. She couldn't do that if she was God knows where.
Which meant she was here and she was staying.
Walter had been her second romantic entanglement. One that had continued over the years, on during football season and off after the Super Bowl, which kicked off the start of tax season—he was an accountant. While she knew Walter found her attractive, he also liked to pick her brain for betting advice (he spear-headed the weekly football pool at his office). When he won, he got very happy and the sex was pretty good—if she initiated (Walter wasn't one for making the first move). When he wasn't making money betting on his favorite sport, he was so boring he made a wedge of cheese look exciting.
He was neck-deep in IRS forms and for the past three months, she'd been flying solo.
A good thing, she reminded herself. Walter wasn't the man for her and so she'd broken things off for good after the last Super Bowl. She didn't want a man who only wanted her some of the time. Even more, she didn't want a man who didn't want her enough to make the first move. She was through initiating sex.
Hence the classes.
They'd originally been given by Dillon's sister, Cheryl Anne, who'd been desperate to break out of her shell and do something wild and crazy with her own life. She'd succeeded for a few weeks before she'd realized that actually having sex was much more preferable than talking about it with a bunch of clueless women eager to spice up their relationships. She'd handed over her classes to Winona, the owner of the only motel in town, and had married her long-time boyfriend. Cheryl Anne was now living the American dream.
Not that Meg's goal was to get married. Maybe. Someday. If the right man came along. Right now, however, she simply wanted to have sex with a man who really and truly wanted to have sex with her. A man who couldn't keep his hands off her.
A man who wanted her badly enough to make the first move.
The classes would teach her how to increase her sex appeal to the point that she was irresistible. Hopefully.
Meg finished documenting her results, closed her Pleasure Manual and headed back upstairs to her bedroom closet. After careful consideration, she settled for a hot-pink shell, a frayed blue jean miniskirt with rhinestone trim and a pair of high-heeled sandals she'd picked up on her latest shopping trip to Austin. The outfit met all of her must-haves—feminine and sexy and ubertrendy—which was why it had made it into her closet in the first place. As owner of the one and only upscale boutique in town, she wanted her own personal wardrobe to reflect her business image. While she might be striking out when it came to changing everyone's perception of her personally, professionally she was batting one thousand.
Her shop had become the go-to place for every special occasion—from proms to anniversary parties to the occasional hot date. Women sought her advice on clothes, shoes and accessories, and her shop had even been named Business of theYear three consecutive times in a row by the Skull Creek Chamber of Commerce.
But while her shop was making the news, Meg wasn't.
Meaning she'd yet to garner even a mention in Tilly Townsend's infamous Hot Chicks list. The list was published every six months and featured the ten hottest bachelorettes in town. Likewise, Tilly also did a Randiest Rooster list that named the ten hottest bachelors. The list was the ultimate when it came to popularity—a who's who of the most sought-after singles in town. The women were smart, successful, vivacious and irresistible to men. The newest version came out in exactly two weeks and Meg wanted to be on it.
Meg ignored an inkling of hopelessness and headed for the shower.
She spent the next half hour upstairs getting ready and the last fifteen minutes downstairs sucking down a Diet Coke and rereading her notes on last week's lesson. She was seated at her table, about to get to the Understanding Your Vibrator section, when a tongue lapped at her bare thigh.
She glanced down at the black-and-gray Blue Heeler who'd pushed through the doggy door and now stood next to her. Tail wagging, tongue lolling, the animal stared up at her, a pleading look in her big brown eyes.
"Don't even think it." She wagged a finger at her. "You know what the vet said. Sugar isn't good for a dog your age." Babe, named for the infamous Babe Ruth, obviously disagreed. She wagged her way over to the pantry and stared hopefully at the closed door.
"You can't have any," Meg told the dog, pushing to her feet. She bypassed the pantry to retrieve a small box from a nearby cabinet. "Doc said you could have a veggie biscuit instead." She held out the foul-smelling treat. Babe approached, took one sniff and wagged her way back over to the pantry. She nuzzled the door.
"No," Meg said, but the dog kept pleading.
Five minutes and some serious whimpering later, Meg pulled out a box of golden cakes and fed one to the anxious dog. Babe was getting old. Sixteen to be exact, which meant she no longer had the energy to chase Frisbees or bark at Mrs. Calico's Chihuahua next door. She'd given up chasing balls, too, and carting in the newspaper. Other than watching re-runs of Sex and the City and eating the occasional Twinkie, she had zero pleasure in her old age.
Meg fed her a second and smiled as she wolfed it down.
The dog whimpered for a third, but Meg shook her head. "Discipline, girl. It's all about discipline." She stuffed the box back into the pantry and closed the door.
Babe licked at Meg's fingers for a few seconds before heading back to the den and her doggy bed, obviously satisfied for the moment.
If only Meg felt the same.
Despite the orgasm, she was still restless.Anxious. Unfulfilled.
Because she was still every bit as invisible as she'd been way back when. That's why she was taking carnal classes. She wanted men to notice her, to lust after her, to find her completely irresistible.
The way the women were now lusting after Dillon Cash.
She stared at the lifestyle section of the Skull Creek Gazette spread out on her kitchen table and her gaze snagged on Tilly's weekly column—What's Hot and What's Not.
A picture of Dillon taken at Joe Bob's Bar & Grill blazed back at her. He was boot scootin'his way across the sawdust floor with Amelia Louise Lauderfield. The infamous Amelia Louise Lauderfield. Number six on Tilly's Hot Chicks list.
Dillon and a bona fide Hot Chick.
Meg still couldn't believe it.
One minute he'd been spending his Saturday nights holed up in his computer repair shop, and the next—a few months ago to be exact—he'd shown up in a nearby town at a local honky tonk, of all places. He'd ditched his glasses and swapped his button-down shirt and slacks for well-worn jeans and a T-shirt. Even more, he'd traded his car, complete with seat belts and air bags, for a custom-made motorcycle and no helmet.
It hadn't been the news of his physical transformation that had startled her so much as everyone's response to it—every female in the Cherry Blossom Saloon had fallen all over themselves for a chance to go home with him.
Then again, word had it he'd shown up after happy hour, which meant that the liquor had been flowing. More than likely, the members of his instant fan club had been extremely drunk. On top of that, the place was out of town. The women who'd gone gaga over his new look couldn't have been privy to his reputation.
At least that's the conclusion she'd come to after one of her customers, Cornelia Wallace, had relayed the rumors circulating around town. She could still hear the old woman's words.
"He's having one of them middle-aged life crisis things. I saw a special about it on the Discovery Health Channel. Said the threat of aging makes a man do crazy things."
"Don't you have to be middle-aged to have a midlife crisis?" Meg had asked the old woman. "Dillon's only thirty."
"Maybe it's one of them there near-death experiences. They did a 20/20 special about them last week. Said folks do all sorts of bizarre things when they almost meet their maker. Or maybe he's having a coming-out-of-the-closet moment and he's fighting it by trying to prove his manhood. Saw just such a thing on one of them cable channels last month. It was all about how this fella actually slept with three dozen women and fathered twenty-two young 'uns just so's he could prove to himself that he wasn't buttering his bread on the wrong side. What do you think?"
"I think you spend too much time watching television. Maybe it wasn't even Dillon over at the saloon. Maybe it was just someone who looked like him."
"It was him, all right. Heard it straight from Evangeline Dupree, who heard it from her granddaughter, who heard it from her boyfriend who was there having his bachelor party. He swore it was Dillon."
But Meg wasn't so sure. Dillon at a saloon? Getting comfy with a bunch of women?
Not the Dillon she knew.
While they didn't spend a lot of time together now—he was busy at his shop and she was busy with her customers, so they only managed the occasional lunch—she still saw enough of him to know that he was every bit as awkward around the opposite sex as he'd been back in high school.
Up until two months ago, that is.
That's when things had changed.
When he'd changed.
Not that she'd seen the transformation firsthand. No, he'd been avoiding her, canceling their lunches, dodging her phone calls. She'd stopped by his shop to see him and put an end to all the nonsense that was flying around—there had to be a logical explanation, right?—but the place had been locked up tight. Ditto for his house. She'd even called his parents, but they'd been as confused as she was, and even more determined to hunt him down and find out the truth.
They'd been camping out in his yard for the past two weeks, trying to corner him and save him from himself.
Meg wasn't one-hundred-percent convinced that the sex object running around town was really him and so she'd taken a less radical approach—she'd left tons of messages on his cell. But he hadn't called her back.
Because he really was busy with his new social life?
Or because he'd left town for yet another computer seminar?
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