Page 33 of The Yes Factor

Liv: 3 drink rule!

Me: Yep. Only had 2. Will be 30 min tops.

We enter Brad’s luxurious suite and I take a look around. I don’t like this kind of glossy contemporary furniture, but I recognize the quality. No expense has been spared in this room—it must cost a fortune. Afraid I might break the glass coffee table with my lipstick-carrying mini bowling ball of a purse, I gently place it and my phone down on the lacquered credenza.

With a look of lust in his eyes, Brad grabs my hand and leads me out to the balcony to admire the sweeping view. It’s a stunningly clear evening and there’s a glimmer of the ocean and the buildings of Century City in the distance. Maybe dating a millionaire isn’t a bad idea after all! As that thought crosses my mind, Brad wraps his arms around my waist and the pockets of his vest press against my back. Okay, well, I could do without that reminder of his sartorial (non)sense but still lean back into him, resting my head on his left shoulder and breathe in the scent of his cologne as we bask in the orange glow of the sunset. Is that Stetson cologne? I think to myself. Well, we’ve got to work on the clothing and the cologne (he smells like 1991!). My mental shopping list is growing longer.

“I really like you, Bex. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be than right here with you, right now,” Brad whispers in my ear. There might as well be a halo hanging over this man’s head because he’s saying everything right.

“I like you too, Brad.” My voice comes out slow and whispery like I’m auditioning to be a phone sex operator. This whole scene feels so surreal. Am I just getting swept up in the glamour of it? But dinner felt so easy and relaxed. I might actually like this man.

I slowly turn around, looking up at the salt and pepper scruff on his face as Brad pulls me in gently for a kiss. His lips are warm and soft on mine, and I exhale into him, reveling in his caress. God, it’s been so long since I’ve done this. He’s a great kisser, alternating between softness and a rough urgency that has my knees weak and wanting more. Feeling bold, I playfully push him back into the suite’s living room with an eagerness I haven’t felt in years. As my fingers slide down to his belt buckle and our feet are shuffling on the thick pile rug, my mind is reeling. Does he have condoms in any of those pockets? What underwear am I wearing and are they still wet from when I sneeze/peed—sneed at the bar? Ahh, the glamorous side effects of childbirth. I try to calculate the time I’ve been up in Brad’s suite, knowing that Liv is expecting me in about fifteen minutes and she’ll go completely insane if I’m not back at the restaurant on time. But I like Brad. He’s such a gentleman—kind, attentive, sweet. Maybe it’s time I stepped off this frozen tundra that is my sex life and got tropical.

Panting with need, I whisper, “Brad, I don’t have a condom. Do you?”

He kisses me deeply, looks into my eyes and responds in a breathy low rumble. “No, but I’m fine with a blow job.”

Huh. Hold on, what…? He’s fine with a blow job? Admittedly, that is not the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard, and is totally presumptuous, but honestly, I’m kind of relieved. I was never really the type to have sex on the first date. But I do like Brad enough that a blow job isn’t an insane idea. Patrick always told me I was talented at that particular skill, so what the hell, let’s see if I’ve still got it.

Brad kisses my neck hungrily as I lower his zipper one millimeter at a time. He groans into my shoulder and I smile with the knowledge that I’m turning him on so much. I slowly lower myself onto my knees and pull his pants down his legs as he plops down, none too gracefully, on the gray couch, navy boxers still covering his manly parts. I scoot my knees over the rough pile to wedge myself between his legs, when Brad looks down at me, his voice heavy with raw lust. “Goddamn, you are beautiful.”

I feel a sense of empowerment that I haven’t felt in years. Yes, I am the one on the giving end, but I’m overcome by a feeling of confidence as I control this man with his pants around his ankles and his shirt disheveled in lust. I’m in the driver’s seat and he’s the willing passenger I’m going to take on a wild ride.

My mouth watering in anticipation, I reach toward him, high on the control I have over him as my fingers disappear into the front seam of his boxers. My body is singing like Marvin Gaye, soulful and willful, when suddenly the needle scratches off the record in my head…because what I’ve grabbed can only be described as a hot dog. Long, thin, and blotchy red. Trying to shake off thoughts of yesterday’s lunch at Pink’s, my sexy meter dials back more than a few notches and I take a moment to gather my quickly fading enthusiasm. Those feelings I had just moments ago, Confidence and Empowerment, are now running down the hall screaming. Maybe I’m not as hungry as I thought…

Pulling me back into the moment, Brad reaches down and strokes my cheek with his thumb and gazes deep into my eyes. Shit. Come on, Bex, you can’t make him feel bad because he has a frankfurter for a penis! It’s not what you have, but how you use it, right? I can’t give this genuinely nice man a complex because his package resembles Oscar Mayer rather than something I’d buy at a Bavarian meat market! He can’t help it. It’s the lottery of life.

Resolutely, I lick my lips and descend, closing my eyes and parting my lips when…

DING! My phone on the credenza chimes loudly.

“Do you need to get that?” Brad opens his eyes with concern.

“No, it’s fine,” I mumble, determined to stay in the sexy zone.

With relief, Brad drops his head back on the couch cushion. I begin my second approach only stopping for a moment when I breathe in his aroma of sour beer. I can’t help feeling disappointed. Why can’t this be like the romance novels I beach read where men smell like cedar and musk after chopping wood shirtless? Christian Grey he is not. Oh well…

I touch the edge of my tongue to him when…

DING! My phone chimes again, which gives me mild “mom anxiety.” What if it’s Maddie having another meltdown? But, no, she said on FaceTime that she had it all handled. Anyway, whoever it is, I’m sure they can wait a few minutes.

Licking my lips a final time I…

DING!

DING!

DING!

DING!

Okay, that is definitely Liv. Only she would send me back-to-back texts that sound like church bells, making me momentarily question my morality. Not wanting to be deterred from breaking my sexual drought—regardless of how unsexy it’s all turning out to be—my sense of urgency increases with each DING! and I’m even more determined to give Brad the blow job of his life. This isn’t about him anymore, this is about me. I’m bringing sexy back, damn it!

My lips close for the first time over Oscar and with one smooth plunge, Brad jerks and moans, he grabs his swollen wiener with his right hand and showers his boxers before I even have a chance to grasp the reality of what just happened. I pull back in surprise and confusion.

“Baby, that was incredible.” Brad grunts.

I stare wide-eyed at his lap as Oscar bends over his hand, ready for a nap.

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