Before I know it, I'm standing in the doorway practicing deep breathing techniques. I have a fresh pedicure and am wearing heeled sandals that show off my feet. The dress fits as well as I'd expected, and the skirt swishes when I walk. My underwear--also courtesy of Marjorie--is La Perla, and very sexy, adding a bit of contrast to my more conservative dress.
Marjorie did my make-up herself, and I look better than I ever have. Made-up, but still natural.
Everything about me is ready. Everything, except that niggling fear. And that, I'm just going to have to deal with.
"Remember the house," Joy says. "Keep your house in mind, and everything will be easy."
I nod. "Easy."
"Want me to wait at your place?"
"That's okay," I say. I love Joy, but considering what I'm about to do, I think I'm going to want to be alone. "But can you swing by and feed Skittles?" I rescued the now-fat tabby cat from a sack in a Dumpster when he was only a few days old. His siblings didn't make it, but I nursed him to health, bottle-feeding him and keeping him safe and warm in a little bed I made out of a crate and a heating pad. It was two weeks after Andy and Mom died, and Skittles saved me as much as I'd saved him.
"Will do," Joy says.
"Your driver is downstairs," Marjorie tells me, glancing up from her phone where she's obviously just received a text. "Any last minute questions?"
"No," I say, though I'll probably have a million the moment I get in the car. "Now that I've decided to do this thing, I just want to get started, you know?"
"Then good luck, Sugar." She hands me a small envelope. "Open this when you get to the hotel. Your driver's name is Lionel, and Joy can walk down with you. I'll contact you tomorrow about transferring payment. And Mr. Z will take care of any tip he might offer you on-site. Okay?"
I draw a deep breath, then nod.
Holy crap, I'm really doing this.
As Marjorie promised, there's a black sedan waiting under the porte-cochere, and a well-dressed man with silver hair is holding the back passenger door open for me. "Miss Sugar," he says, as I hug Joy and promise to call her in the morning to tell her absolutely everything.
Then I slide into the car, Lionel shuts the door, and it all feels suddenly very, very real.
I'm actually going to have sex with a stranger.
I let the words hang in my head for a while, as I decide if I'm truly okay with that basic truism. And you know what? I am. I have a good reason. A purpose. And that's more than most women who meet a guy at a bar and go home with him can say.
Of course, those women have the benefit of being attracted to the guy. And, probably, of being at least a little tipsy, if not downright drunk.
What if he's all wham, bam? What if he doesn't have lube or doesn't even care if it hurts?
What if I'm too nervous to get turned on even if he's freaking Casanova?
What if I'm a complete and total idiot for doing this?
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit.
There's a screen between me and the driver, and a control panel on the seat back. I can't find the button for the screen, but I do find an intercom, and I ask Lionel to swing by a drugstore before we go to meet Mr. Z.
"I understood you were on a schedule."
"Trust me. This is important."
Lucky for me, Lionel's a nice guy, and when he pulls into a Rite Aid, I practically sprint inside--despite the impractical four-inch shoes--and head straight for the sex aisle, where I'm faced with a remarkable amount of lubricant variety. I choose a small box with a familiar brand name, then hurry toward the cashier, pausing only long enough to grab a spritzer of minty breath spray and one of those disposable glasses pre-filled with red wine. The top peels off, and I assume Lionel won't mind if I have a quick drink in the back of the car.
As for the breath spray, it's easier to be confident with a little minty goodness.
Once I'm all paid and back in the car, I tuck the lube and breath spray into my purse, then carefully peel the lid off the wine. I want the drink, but I don't want to stain my dress.
I drink it fast, then close my eyes and let a warm buzz wash over me.