Once I see her filing in with the rest of the ladies, something hot and heavy collects in my gut. It’s torture. It’s relief. It’s goddamn confusing. I’m too edgy, too anxious, and there’s fuck all I can do about it now. Impulse takes over, and I’m striding toward her just as she takes her seat.
“Stand up,” I command. I don’t ask. I never ask for what I want.
“Excuse me?” Allison asks, with a frown wrinkling her forehead. I want to reach out and smooth those tiny creases, but I don’t. I’m not a total narcissist.
“Stand up, Ally.” I extend my hand to her, which she studies cautiously before taking. Her palm is warm and soft…everything I imagined her to be. Simultaneously smoothing her dress down her backside, she stands, closing the small space between us.
I hold her hand a beat longer than I should, before pulling it back. “Turn around. Let me see you.”
“Wha-? Um, I don’t understand what you-”
My hands are on her shoulders, their boldness catching her off guard and causing her to gasp. I guide her, turning her body 180 degrees. “This. This is what determines whether or not a man fucks you, ladies. The packaging. The allure. The temptation.” I turn her back toward me, letting those questioning, blue-green eyes bore into mine unabashedly. I can’t turn away. I can’t even fucking blink. I talk to her like she’s the only one in the room, yet I make sure my voice carries to the other eager ears. “Men are visual creatures. They need to be enticed. Excited. And while A-line dresses and ballet flats may be sensible, it’s not sexy.”
“This is Alexander McQueen!” she scoffs.
“It’s ugly as day-old sin. Fuck the labels.”
Her eyes grow wide at first, her cheeks pink with embarrassment. Then my words sink in, and pain creeps onto that porcelain canvas of sandy brown freckles. I don’t want to hurt her, but shit, the truth hurts. Life hurts. Hell, it hurts like a motherfucker.
Before she can protest, I’m touching her hair, pulling out the silver pins that secure it in a practical bun. Flames cascade down her back, spilling into her face and kissing her shoulders. I coil an auburn lock around my finger and inch my face closer to hers so only she can hear these words I shouldn’t say. These words that threaten to eat away at the once steel fortress of my logic.
“I think you’re sexy as fuck, Ally,” I whisper, my breath tempting the skin right below her ear. “You just don’t know it yet.”
Just as swiftly, my touch abandons her, and I’m hurriedly making my way to the lectern, away from her. Away from the temptation to rake my fingers through that fiery mane before fisting the hair at the nape of her neck—pulling her head back so she has no choice but to see me. But is that what I really want? For her to see who I really am? Or do I continue to spoon-feed her, and everyone else, the illusion that will provoke their own inner temptress?
I clear my throat, fidgeting with the lapel of my linen suit jacket. Allison is still standing, still looking at me with eyes wide and mouth agape. That was necessary. I had to tell her that. Who knows what spin the tabloids will put on her absence from the public eye?
Yes, yes, all part of my teaching methods.
I’m full of shit.
A hand goes up, saving me from the turmoil of my fucked up inner monologue. “Yes?”
The sound of my voice prompts Allison to take her seat, and I force my eyes to Maryanne Carrington, the portly, middle-aged woman from Day One who has proved to be the mother of the group. Probably because her husband likes to fuck girls young enough to be their daughter. “It’s evident that I’m no longer a spring chicken,” she says in her endearing southern drawl. “I’m not a size 2, and gravity has taken its toll. There’s only so much nippin’ and tuckin’ I can do without looking like a circus clown. How can I be tempting? What can I do to make my husband find me sexy again?”
“Mrs. Carrington, forgive me, but do you have tits?”
“Wha-what?” she stammers, clutching her chest with phantom palpitations.
“Tits? You have them, right?”
“Well…yes. Of course.” Her cheeks heat with crimson, and she lets out a nervous chuckle.
“And ass?”
“Why…yes.”
“Then you can be sexy. You are sexy. You just need to believe it enough to make your husband see it too.” I scan the tops of every coifed head, speaking to no one, yet needing everyone to hear me. “It’s not about being the skinniest, or having the biggest breasts, or the best ass. We don’t give a fuck about pumping your lips full of collagen or threading extensions in your hair. We just want you. We are simple creatures, ladies. Give us something that makes our mouths water. Strut around in that frilly lingerie and heels while you dust the furniture, pretending to be totally oblivious to our stares. Bend over to pick something up with the top buttons of your blouse undone so we get a peek of that cleavage. Wear your hair down so we can imagine the feel of it between our fingers, pulling it while you cry with passion.”