DAY ONE IS always fucking exasperating.
The tears. The glassy-eyed looks of confusion as they try to piece together where their vapid relationships went wrong. The stupid, incessant questions on how I could possibly live up to my word and earn every cent of the small fortunes their husbands have paid to send them here.
Sit there and shut up, honey. One of us is a professional. Now, if I need help making a fucking sandwich or getting red wine out of a linen tablecloth, I’ll ask for your opinion. Otherwise, shut those powder-pink lips and look pretty.
That’s all they’re good for—looking pretty. Cooking. Cleaning. Taking care of disgusting, snotty-nosed spawn.
Stepford wives. Trophies. High-class, well-bred prostitutes.
They seem perfect in every way. Beautiful, intelligent, graceful. The perfect accessory for the man who has it all.
Except one thing.
They’re as dull as lukewarm dishwater once you get them on their perfectly postured backs.
As they say, looks can be deceiving. Sexy does not equate good sex. More often than not, this theory holds true. If it didn’t, I wouldn’t be in business. And let me tell you, business is good. Very good.
I take a sip of water as I scan the varied faces of shock and horror that typically follows my usual, first day speech. This class is larger than the last, but I’m not surprised. It’s the end of the summer—a season when wearing less clothing than socially appropriate is acceptable. Husbands’ eyes have strayed, and so have their dicks. And in an effort to save their picture-fucking-perfect marriages, they’ve come to me, hoping by some miracle, I can make their husbands look at them like they see more than a well-groomed melee of coifed hair, veneers and filler.
A slender hand goes up, and I nod towards the young, waif-thin brunette who’s shaking like a leaf in her Prada floral frock. It’s ugly as shit, and makes her look like a middle-aged bag lady. She reminds me of one of those half-twit wives from Mad Men. Not the hot secretary, the one that just sat her ass at home, eating bon-bons in front of her black-and-white television set, while her husband screwed everything that moved.
“So…what exactly do you do? Are you, like, a teacher or something?” she asks, just above a whisper.
“More like a consultant. You all share a very serious issue and I hope to…guide you towards some suggestions that may rectify your situation.”
“What situation?”
Holy fuck. Testing, testing. Is this thing on or has Botox already begun to corrode her brain cells?
I smile tightly through the aggravation. Patience is key in my profession. Most days, I feel more like an overworked, underpaid daycare provider than a…lifestyle…coach. Same, same.
“I thought I explained the situation, Mrs.-” I squint at the file in front of me, matching her face to the name. “Cosgrove.”
Lorinda Cosgrove. As in Cos-Mart, the place where you can go shopping for Honey Buns, cheap lingerie and a 9-millimeter at 3 a.m. while wearing cut-off booty shorts and Crocs. No lie, there are websites dedicated to these trainwrecks. Google that shit.
“Yes, I am aware of your assessment, as crude as it is. However, what do you expect to achieve?”
I shake my head marginally. There’s always one in every class. One that doesn’t want to accept the ugly truth staring her in the face. Even though she’s read the manual, signed the contracts, and undergone all the necessary briefings before arriving, she still can’t grasp her reality—flashing bright, neon arrows toward her dried-up vagina. Good thing I have no qualms about reminding her.
“You suck at sex,” I deadpan, my expression blank. Audible gasps escape from almost every collagen-plumped lip, yet I continue to drive my point home. “You don’t satisfy your husband sexually, which is why he wants to cheat on you, if he hasn’t already. You may be a fantastic wife, mother, homemaker, whatever, but you are a lousy lover. And that trumps all.”
Lorinda clutches her chest with a shaky, manicured hand. The woman sitting next to her, a heavier-set, 40-something housewife—whose husband’s mid-life crisis, and love of barely legal debutantes have turned their marriage into a media circus—steadies her with a motherly squeeze on the shoulder. Aw, how sweet.
“And that goes for all of you,” I say, casting my glance around the room. “You’re here because you know you’re about to lose the one thing you’ve worked your pretty little ass off for—your man. You love the lifestyle you live, and instead of licking your wounds and moving on, you’d rather fix your broken marriage. And I’m here to help you.”
“But how?”