The Divorcee Does Laundry

Let's just say that my sex life was particularly eventful last week

Day One

3 a.m. Wide awake. It's been a year since my ex left me for a Barbie doll with a hairless crotch and bendable knees. (I saw gynecological close-ups on his phone, piercings and all. Ouch!) Haven't had sex, other than with batteries, in almost two years.

7 a.m. Alarm goes off. Should I masturbate or have coffee? Not really a question. Coffee always works. My rabbit vibrator? Not so much.

10 a.m. The laundry room is in the basement. I'm in my uniform: baggy sweatpants and T-shirt with no makeup. Hair in a bun. My appearance could scare off an attacker. God knows it scared off my husband.

A guy in a Harvard sweatshirt and strategically ripped jeans is loading a dryer. I figure he's unemployed. Or a writer. Who else does laundry on a weekday morning?

"Hello," he says, basso profundo. I look up, up, up into 6'2" of sheer gorgeous. Thickly lashed, turquoise eyes. A killer smile. A body that knows its way around a weight room. God, strike me dead now!

"Gregory," he says, extending a hand the color of honey. I squeak out my name. This must be an acid flashback. Real men don't look this good, other than on the cover of Mens Health. Gregory tosses his laundry bag over his broad shoulders and walks away, giving me an unobstructed view of his adorable butt. Brad Pitt, you're dead to me.

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11 p.m. I fantasize about what could've happened in the laundry room. I tell Gregory I'm not wearing panties because they are all "dirty." He dares me to prove it. I hike my skirt around my hips, sit on top of a vibrating washing machine and spread my legs. It's an open invitation. His hand grazes the bulge in his jeans. OOOOOOOOOH. HERE I GO AGAIN!!!

Day Two

7 a.m. First good night's sleep in months. Nothing cures insomnia like multiple orgasms.

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10 a.m. Too soon to do laundry again?

5 p.m. I check my ex's Facebook page, hoping his trophy wife's double-D breast implants have migrated to her hips. If I had known that's what he wanted, I would've filled our bed with balloon animals.

Day Three

7 a.m. Another good night's sleep. Masturbation is better than Ambien.

5:30 p.m. Head out to a nearby watering hole for not-so-happy hour. Sit at the bar, order a Chardonnay and make dinner out of freebies: guacamole and chicken wings.

A man's voice booms, "Hey!" Uh oh. Have I surpassed the limit on freebies?

I turn. It's Gregory in a dazzling white shirt, jeans and Lakers cap turned backwards. He plants himself on the barstool next to mine and orders bourbon on the rocks. OMG! This is embarrassing. Just a few hours ago, I was imagining him inside of me.

"Must be my lucky day. I haven't seen you here before," he says, swirling his drink.

"I'm usually here earlier," I say. "I don't like eating alone, but I'm not into the bar scene."

"I can imagine. Guys constantly pestering you for your number."

"At my age? I'm practically invisible," I snort.

"Not to me, Lucinda." he purrs.

An electric charge shoots up my thighs. Am I fantasizing again? No, this is really happening. Gregory asks about my career, my marriage, my daughter. He listens. I'm not used to being heard. Over refills, he tells his story. Separated from wife number two. One son. Alimony up to the eyeballs. His own practice in criminal law. Shit. What is it about me and lawyers? My pheromones must be a capital offense.

8 p.m. We walk back to our building. In the elevator, Gregory asks for my phone number. I burst out laughing. I had one Chardonnay too many. I'm about to pee my pants.

"Do you know how old I am?" I ask.

"Lucinda, I'm 42. Is that a problem?"

I'm startled. He's only eight years younger than me. I had figured more like 15 or 20. But still. He takes my hand and lifts it to his lips. If I don't keep my thighs pressed tight, my panties are going to slither down to my ankles.

11 p.m. Back in my apartment, I imagine doing it in the elevator. Gregory is standing. He has me pinned against a wall, my legs around his waist, his hands rocking my tush while pounding into me. I look up and see our reflection in the mirrored ceiling. SWEET JESUS!!!!

Day Four

10 a.m. Text from Mr. Multiple Orgasm. "Dinner at my place Saturday evening 8 p.m.? I make a mean carbonara." Oh, I bet you do!

11 a.m. Make an appointment at Surrender Salon for my hair, nails and a wax job. Going to go Brazilian. So what if my hoo-ha itches as if I have crabs until the hair grows back? I'm going to have sex with an Adonis!

2 p.m. Spend two hours and mucho dinero at Agent Provocateur. The prices are as obscene as the merchandise. I leave with a lascivious transparent black bra, panties, garter belt and black silk hose. My only regret? Gregory wasn't here to watch me try them on. Well. He'll see them soon enough.

11 p.m. Fantasize Gregory is pulling off my black silk stockings, one by one. He uses one to bind my hands to the bed post, the other to mask my eyes. He removes my panties with his teeth and … OH MY!!!!

Day Six

7 a.m. Hope Gregory has deaf neighbors because tonight's going to be a screamer.

12 p.m. Get highlights in my hair. Bid farewell to my pubes. I'm as bald down there as a newborn. Did it hurt? Let's just say that the aesthetician who did it got her training at a secret interrogation site. Nails are the color of merlot. Haven't eaten anything all day. I'll be ravenous tonight.

4 p.m. Pop down to laundry room to wash sheets, just in case Gregory wants to get wild in my bed. A middle-aged woman is folding towels. Her eyes burrow into mine.

"Are you Lucinda?"

"Um. Yes. Do I know you?"

"No, but I know you," she snarls. "You're the bimbo who's sleeping with my husband."

"I think you have me confused with someone else," I say, using my best psychiatric outpatient tone.

"Gregory Palmer in 11-C?" she hisses.

My mind reels.

"He told me he's separated," I say.

"But we're still legally married," she shouts.

Uh oh. This woman, who is clearly off her meds, has the key to Gregory's apartment. If she still does his laundry, what else does she do for him?

6 p.m. I consider canceling my date, then decide to give Mr. Gorgeous a chance. I figure even if his wife bursts in with guns blazing, I'll die happy.

8 p.m. Gregory answers the door with a wooden spoon in his hand. "Taste," he says. It's delicious!