Sara shrugs as she takes an elegant bite of her bean sprout wrap.
“I just feel a certain responsibility to get you back out on the market. My experiment with Shade went so much better than expected. And speaking of, since you are keeping Shade’s…services, it’s going to work out very well now that you’re dating.”
“I’m not dating!” I practically shout at her. The couple at the nearest table look over at me, startled. I settle myself down. “Not yet, anyway. Do you even listen to me?”
Sara levels a stare at me, unflustered.
“Not usually. Anyway. As I was saying, you’ll be able to date without the added pressure of whether or not to have sex with your date now. Isn’t that perfect? You can polish your dating skills without having to worry about the question of ‘will you or won’t you sleep with the guy at the end of the night’? You can take out your sexual frustrations on Shade, because you’re paying him to sleep with you. It’s a perfect arrangement. And I think you should begin your dating life with Brainy Brian. Because he’s easy and safe and won’t break your heart.”
I seriously want to pull my hair out. Or her hair out. Except hers is too short to really get a good grip on. We’re back to my hair. I sigh.
“Sara, I work with Brian. I don’t think it’s a good idea to date someone who I work with. Especially when I know that I’m not interested in him for the long term.”
“Good Lord, Alli!” she snaps. She’s quickly losing patience with my arguments, I can tell. “Don’t you get it? You’re not going to settle down with anyone else for a very long time. We got that out of our system with Rick, didn’t we? You’re going to have fun. But in order to do that, you have to learn how to interact with the opposite sex. You’ve forgotten how to flirt, my sweet.”
I rub the middle part of my forehead because it is rapidly growing a headache.
As I do, my phone buzzes. I look down and find a text from Shade. My eyes widen and I snatch up my phone to read it.
Do you want me yet?
I must look dumbfounded because Sara starts questioning me.
“What? Who is it? What’s wrong?”
I shake my head, laying my phone back down in my lap.
“Nothing’s wrong. Shade just texted me. I wasn’t expecting this kind of interaction with him. That’s all.”
Sara wrinkles her forehead. “A text? Really? That’s sort of strange. Chaz doesn’t text me except to confirm dates and times and whatnot.”
I’m puzzled. “Maybe he’s just flirting with me to make sure that he keeps me as a customer,” I speculate. “That’s probably it, actually. It’s good for business, right? He wants to keep me interested. It’s good sales strategy.”
“I don’t know,” Sara muses. “Life does not consist of sales strategy alone. But you might be right. Who knows?”
“Yep. Who knows,” I repeat.
I text him back.
Of course.
Because it’s true. I do want him. I’m a wanton, wanton, middle-aged sex fiend. Does that make me a cougar?
I turn to Sara. “Does this make me a cougar?”
She laughs a maniacal laugh, one that makes me instantly afraid. I look at her.
“Well, am I?”
“Oh, my dear little Alli. I think the common definition of a cougar is an older woman who seeks out younger men. I think. And I don’t know if you are old enough to technically be considered a cougar. But, in my opinion, a cougar is a sexual woman who is comfortable in her skin and knows what she wants. And if she doesn’t know what she wants, then like you, she is working hard on figuring it out. She’s sexy and she’s confident and sometimes, she might happen to have sex with a younger man. Because she’s confident and anything goes. That’s what I view a cougar to be. And so yes, I think you might be one.”
I gulp. Both at the name and at her definition.
“Okay,” I nod. “I’m a cougar. That’s alright. I’m okay.”
“Are you?” Sara asks, the barest hint of concern on her perfectly made-up face. “Are you trying to convince me or you?”
“Um, me, obviously,” I snort. “But it’s fine. I’m fine. I’m a cougar and I’m fine.”
Sara shakes her head. “You’re saying fine too many times. It’s a sign of insanity. Oh- I forgot. Be ready for our appointment to get waxed tomorrow evening. 6:45. I’ll pick you up. Don’t wear jeans—wear something loose. Like a skirt. Trust me, you won’t want any pressure on your cootch afterward.”
I roll my eyes. “Cootch? Seriously? Could you think of a more disgusting word?”
“Probably, if you give me a minute,” Sara answers, picking up her trash. “Just be ready when I pick you up.”
She stands up.
“I’m not getting a Brazilian,”I insist.
“Yes, you are,” she insists back. “You’re going to love it. You’re a strong, independent cougar. And as such, you need a Brazilian. All sexy cougars have Brazilians. Have I steered you wrong yet?”
“How about that time that…” I pause, trying to think of something. “Okay, how about that time when…” I pause again. “Okay, fine. I’ve got nothing right this second. But there have been times. I know it.”
Sara grins beatifically at me.
“Perhaps. But those times aren’t right now. You’re going to be smooth and silky as a baby’s bum. You’re going to love it. And Shade’s gonna love it. I’ll pick you up at 6:45. Oh, and you might want to take two ibuprofen ahead of time.”
“What?” I yelp.
But she’s already walking away in her strikingly gorgeous Jimmy Choos, swishing her h*ps so emphatically that every man in the near vicinity is gazing at her ass. And since I personally hate to disrupt a good exit, I let her go.
I’ll think on the Brazilian.
Unfortunately, I get side-tracked by work and life, and I forget to think about it. And I forget to do research on it.