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Masters and Johnson didn't cover that. Kinsey either.
I have to take matters into my own, uh, hands.
But, hey, enough preamble. Time for the fun part.
I set my lab book on the bedside table, I slip under the hot pink sheets, I settle into the mattress.
It's a little too small, a little too firm, a little too obviously the bed in my childhood bedroom.The Matrixposters and the shelves of sci-fi don't help. They pull me toward stressful study sessions and crushes on guys who never looked my way.
Guys like Jackson.
And just like when I was a gawky teenager with braces, I still fail to register as an adult woman in his eyes. He still looks at me like a kid he needs to protect.
It's sweet, really. Or it would be if I didn't want to tear his clothes off.
The reality is painful.
But my fantasy?
It's perfect.
My eyes flutter closed. My world fades to a soft shade of white.
My thoughts drift to a familiar scenario.
A sleepover at my best friend's house.
It's early, so early, the sun is just peeking through the sky, casting a soft glow over the world.
I wake up in her room and slip into my swimsuit. The house is quiet. Dead quiet. It feels like I'm the only person in theuniverse, like the big, beautiful space belongs to me and me alone.
There's a freedom to it. A thrill. The independence of growing up and taking my own space.
I sneak to the backyard with light steps. Only I'm not alone here.
Jackson is awake too.
Despite the interruption to my solitude, I feel no disappointment. On the contrary, his presence thrills me. Fills me with the buzz of anticipation.
He's sitting on one of the lounge chairs next to the pool in his typical summer outfit, a button-up linen shirt and charcoal slacks, hands and eyes on the paperback book carefully positioned over his lap.
He looks like he walked out of a 1950s detective novel. Tall, but not too tall. Muscular, but not overly built. Handsome, but not in a conventional Chris Pine sort of way.
He has the light brown hair and the green eyes, but he's a little too sharp, a little too intense.
He doesn't quite fit into the beautiful, modern backyard, with its long, rectangular pool and its succulent garden.
He doesn't quite fit with me, even though I'm wearing one of his long, linen shirts over my swimsuit.
Jackson watches as I pull the sliding glass door open, step outside, move across the long, concrete path.
His eyes stay fixed on me as I undo the buttons of the shirt and drop the soft fabric on the sand lawn chair.
He looks me up and down slowly, noting every inch of exposed skin. The fuchsia bikini leaves little to the imagination.
It's not out of an old pulp novel. It's a modern thing. Thin straps. Bra cups. Barely any booty coverage.
We don't fit together. We're from different worlds. He's refined and mature—someone who knows about love and sexand wine and law—and I'm still a kid, at least in my head. New and inexperienced and eager to learn.
