Had she seriously convinced herself he would show up?  Considering she had showered, shaved, lotioned, perfumed, blown out her hair, put on light make-up, dressed in a long red lycra and spandex skirt from Wet Seal that she coupled with a simple white v-necked Old Navy tee–only after trying on and discarding nine other outfits–brushed her teeth, chewed twenty Tic Tacs, lit several candles before blowing them all out after deciding they were too presumptuous and glaringly betrayed her age and lack of recent sexual activity or any knowledge of what was considered sexy versus cheesy or just plain old desperate–why not just toss a bearskin rug on the floor and draw a bath sprinkled with rose petals and prepare a tray of champagne and strawberries while she was at it–she supposed assuming he would show was exactly what she’d done.  But now, eight hours after he had gone and seven hours and fifty minutes after she’d begun preparing for his return, her love plane was beginning to crash-land on the tarmac.
.        Whooo.  She took a deep breath, anchoring herself to her kitchen–and reality–with an outstretched hand planted on the island.
.        It’s not like he confirmed he was coming back.  After all, it was she who had made the initial overture.  Then immediately rescinded it once it was out of her mouth.  Sort of.
.        “Of course, you probably have other things to do tonight.  It is a Saturday.  You must have plans with your friends.”
.        “Nothing as intriguing as what I think you’ve got planned for me,” he admitted with a devilish smile and like that their roles had reversed, she conducting the repentant backpedaling, he the one who now held full control over the journey, or if there was even to be one.
.        “I’m just a talker,” she said, laughing nervously, pulling at her fingers.  “Reading too many paperbacks with Fabio on their covers.”
.        His brows knit in confusion.  “Huh?”  Had she really needed to expose another reminder of their chronological incompatibility?
.        “Fifty Shades of Grey?” she tried, and a knowing grin spread across his face.
.        “That book.  My parents joined a group where all the members reenact scenes from it and then discuss it at meetings.  It’s supposed to inject some life back into their marriage.  Talk about TMI, you know?”
.        She nodded, even though it wouldn’t be for another five minutes that she would figure out what TMI was.  To be fair, she was still ruminating on the idea that Ricky’s marriage may be in trouble.  At the very least it needed some spice.
.        “I’m more into spontaneity, you know?” Brody was saying.  “You don’t need some stupid book to tell you what to do.  Didn’t some grandma write that, anyway?  What the hell does she know about sex?”
.        Trixie really wanted him to stop talking.  To be gone from her house so she could fully absorb this mortification and hopefully reach a place where she could move on and learn from it.  She pictured herself Monday morning in front of her computer with a cup of coffee, scanning Craig’s List for a new pool boy.
.        “Yes, spontaneity,” she said, moving towards the front door, hoping he would follow.  When she turned to see if he had, she was surprised to find him so close he collided with her, his chin touching her nose.
.        “Let’s . . . let’s be spontaneous,” she said, slightly breathless at the heat radiating from his bare chest.  Where was his shirt?  She hoped he’d forget about it, planning to wrap it around a hard surface and grind herself on it until she rubbed a hole in the fabric.
.        “You decide at the last minute if you’re going to come back, and I’ll decide the moment the doorbell rings if I’m going to answer it.”
.        “That’s not spontaneous,” he said, his grin fading into slack-mouthed, slightly parted lips.  He moved closer to her so that she backed up against the door.  He rested one hand above her head, leaning into her.   “Cuz I’ll definitely come back and I won’t have to ring.  Spontaneous would be me tossing you over my shoulder right now, carrying you upstairs and screwing your brains out on the rug right outside your bedroom.”
.        He’d pulled back from her then, put his hands on her arms and gently eased her aside.  He let himself out, pulling the door closed behind him without so much as a glance back in her direction.  Was that really how they were leaving it?  She didn’t know, but she began preparations in the eventuality of his return, which, come to think of it, didn’t seem all that ridiculous.  What nineteen-year-old guy didn’t want to fuck at every opportunity?  So what if she was well into her forties?  Jennifer Aniston was forty-five, as was Jennifer Lopez.  Courteney Cox was in her fifties, likewise Demi Moore.  All of them totally fuckable, even for a nineteen-year-old.  Trixie may be forty-three, but she didn’t look a day over thirty.  Oftentimes, with her shiny blonde hair pulled into pigtails and wearing cut-off shorts and a bikini top while on the Wildwood boardwalk or some other beachside resort town with her daughter Mercy, they were mistaken as sisters.  “Good enough to make Dad cry,” was the  best response Mercy could give whenever Trixie posed the question, “How do I look?”  Although Tony was attractive in his own right, he had a maturity about him that gave him the appearance of being her older brother rather than her husband, merely two years her senior.
.        Now, in the kitchen, Trixie wondered if there was more to prepare than just herself.  Should she make some kind of food?  She looked in the fridge, relieved to find two bottles of wine and three beers.  She would definitely need alcohol to get through this night, whether he showed up or not.  Food she could worry about later.  Either they’d go to a diner together, or she’d be in the twenty-four hour Giant picking up some Breyer’s coffee ice cream.  In her head she was both Margaret and Carrie White, telling herself, “He’s not coming,” while at the same time shushing such counterproductive thoughts.
.        She found his shirt on the patio, tossed over a chair.  She thought of washing it for him, then settled on just folding it.  When even that seemed too motherly, she put it back where he left it.  Then, when at around midnight, just when she was well past giving up and on her third glass of chardonnay, the doorbell rang, Trixie stripped herself bare and pulled the shirt over her head.  She tousled her hair and padded barefoot–and assed– to the front door.
.        Is this spontaneous enough for you? she thought to herself, her stomach tumbling like a Maytag dryer as she turned the knob and yanked the door open.  His presence on her front patio jumbled various senses at once.  The smell of him, a mixture of crisp wind, liquor and Irish Spring body wash, combined with the sight of broad shoulders stretching across a beige lightweight criss-cross drawstring cotton hoodie, opened just enough to reveal a peek of his hard, tanned pecs, filtered through her nose and eyes, into her brain, making her dizzy with anticipation.  He smiled, perfect teeth glistening in the moonlight, and was about to say something when the words caught in his throat.  His eyes lingering on the area just below where her pussy began and the shirt stopped, he sucked in his bottom lip, slightly shaking his head.
.        “That is so fucking hot,” she thought she heard him say, but the words dissolved into her mouth as he practically leapt over the threshold, seizing her with one arm as the other reached back and slammed the door, propelling her against the opposite wall and mashing his lips against hers in a stinging kiss.  His hands grabbed her naked buttocks and squeezed roughly, hoisting her up so that she wrapped her legs around his waist, her thighs dangling off his hips.  She felt his erection through his jeans, the rough denim scratching at her plumping clitoris.  She moaned, her fingers fumbling on his fly, eager to free the throbbing, corded flesh trapped within.  It was in her hands mere seconds before he pierced her with it, shoving himself in with such completeness that she gasped, momentarily seeing prickles of light in her periphery.
.        She had no time to gasp for breath as he continued to pound into her, fast and hard, using his hands on her backside to push her forward with every thrust, intensifying the impact.  She felt him deep in her core, tasted the night he’d spent earlier at the bar as his tongue rolled into her mouth, mingling with hers.  He came quickly, loudly, grunting as he slammed into her, his cock punishing and relentless.  When he pulled out he took his prick in his hand, rubbing the tip on her.  When he slid the entire shaft back and forth across her clit, she began panting, humping it to orgasm.
.        They stayed pressed together, against the wall while their breathing regulated, their pounding hearts calmed.  She felt sticky warmth trickling down her inner thighs, her vagina as slick and dripping as a saucepan full of melting sticks of butter.  She closed her eyes, a satisfied smile snaking across her lips, reveling in what she had just done, and with whom she’d done it.
.        “Perfect,” she heard him whisper, his lips so close to her ear.  “Stay just like that.  Sleep like that.  Don’t wash it off.  Don’t take it off.”
.        She felt cool air on her as he lifted himself away, the wet parts of her chilling without the warmth of his body.  She heard the zipper of his pants, the closing of the door as he let himself back out into the night.  In all he’d been there for less than ten minutes.
.        She reached a finger down to her clitoris, her pelvis jerking as she made contact, still sensitive and wanting.