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Sex and Work
by Gwen Masters
Gwen Masters says:
I sat here for a while, trying to figure out what to write. At first, I really didn't think I had much to share on this particular topic. Why? I've rarely had coworkers. I've been a writer most of my life, and my only coworkers were editors from far-flung places, publishers that were far too busy to return an email or a phone call, and journalists who were more interested in getting into my mind than getting into my pants. Especially that one really good-looking guy from Ireland - but I digress.
As I lamented the lack of coworkers in my life, I remembered a time way back in the dark ages, before Gwen Masters met the world of erotica. I was working as a backup singer for a country band. (I know all those country music jokes are rumbling in the back of your minds as you read that. Why do you think I don't do it anymore?) But the point is this: on that particular tour, there was a man named Rhett.
Oh, lord have mercy, but that boy was hell on wheels. One of those guys that haunts you in your sleep ten years later. Gorgeous in a way that should be indecent for any man, and he knew it, which always makes it even more appealing, even though it shouldn't. I was hooked from the get-go, and he knew that too. It frustrated and excited me all at once. But I was a professional, and so was he, and we had too much riding on the outcome of the tour to even think about hooking up. Right? Well, I wasn't much on responsibility when raging desire was involved, and so I was ready and willing. One night, damned if it didn't happen.
And it was fantastic. The guy was nothing but energy and confidence, bolstered by a little too much alcohol and just enough attitude. I slipped back to his hotel room, and he took his time memorizing my body, at first. Then it was an all-out festival of drunken lust, culminating in the light of morning on the balcony, Rhett driving into me from behind and whispering into my ear about those people down in the courtyard who could see us. It was a night I would never forget.
Funny thing, though. The next night, and the next, and the next? The thrill was gone. Rhett was still that gorgeous, sweetly arrogant guy who knew all the tricks in bed. But none of them seemed to do it for me. Years later, I have figured out why. The first night was nothing but illicit fucking, sex with a ragged edge, the kind of night that leaves you panting for more.
The nights after that? There were no more surprises. There was no secret, for of course the band could hear us going at it most of the night. Hell, everyone could hear us. Without a secret, without a reason to look at one another slyly and with promise of more to come that no one else knew about, Rhett and I were nothing more than lackluster fuckbuddies.
A month later we ended on sensible and honest terms. We both agreed that sex without the thrill sucked. Then one night about three months later he showed up at my door unannounced with a bottle of Jack Daniels in one hand and a steamy video in the other. I introduced my neighbors to the sounds of a wild fuck with one of the hottest men they would ever meet. This time we did it right. This time, Rhett left my bed before dawn, leaving only the scent of his cologne and a daisy on my pillow.
The most astounding part of all of it? What endeared him to me more than the memories of the first night, more than his honesty, more than his delectable arrogant pride? What I remember today, and what tells me that given the chance, I wouldn't change a single thing?
Rhett remembered that I liked daisies.
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