The Sex Bucket List Read online

  The Sex Bucket List

  by

  PRESCOTT LANE

  Copyright © 2017 Prescott Lane

  Kindle Edition

  Cover design © Perfect Pear Creative Covers

  Cover image by Alina Cardiae Photography / Shutterstock.com

  Editing by Nikki Rushbrook

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One: The List Emerges

  Chapter Two: Ask a Man Out

  Chapter Three: Multiples

  Chapter Four: Sex with an Ex

  Chapter Five: Pole Dancing 101

  Chapter Six: Orgasm Meditation

  Chapter Seven: Public Display

  Chapter Eight: Naughty Pics

  Chapter Nine: Selfish Sex

  Chapter Ten: Cougar Denied

  Chapter Eleven: Panties to a Stranger

  Chapter Twelve: Porn and Beer

  Chapter Thirteen: List Emergency

  Chapter Fourteen: Unselfish Sex

  Chapter Fifteen: Reverse Cowgirl

  Chapter Sixteen: Why Me?

  Chapter Seventeen: The Talk

  Chapter Eighteen: No Threesomes

  Chapter Nineteen: Spanking

  Chapter Twenty: Sex Tape

  Chapter Twenty-One: Sex, Interrupted

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Quickie Queen

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Complications

  Chapter Twenty-Four: Man Sandwich

  Chapter Twenty-Five: The List Returns

  Epilogue

  Also by Prescott Lane

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE LIST EMERGES

  EMERSON

  I don’t care what they say, forty is not the new twenty. You can name a cocktail that, or have a social media page with the title, but that doesn’t make it true. When my kids were little, we used to say fat was the “F” word. Then my boys thought the “F” word was fart. But maybe we were all wrong. Maybe it’s not a word at all, but a number—the big four-zero.

  And I’m in my early forties, so I’m super screwed. Who even thought of that lying phrase? Forty is the new twenty? I don’t know a single twenty-year-old who gets sleep wrinkles. Come on, you know what I’m talking about. The little lines left on your face in the morning from your sheet or pillowcase. In your twenties, they bounce back by the time your feet hit the floor. At forty, you’re hoping they disappear by the time you walk in the office.

  And what twenty-year-old gets gray hair? And I’m not talking about on your head. Everyone remembers that Sex in the City episode when Samantha found her first gray pubic hair. At the time, I thought that was just good television. Unfortunately, now I know it actually happens.

  Aside from getting older, the three reasons for my wrinkles and gray hair are upstairs getting ready for their week with their father, my ex-husband. That’s the worst part about divorce, splitting time, missing out on whole weeks of their lives. Sure, we call and text, and I go to their activities, but it’s not the same as kissing them goodnight. But that’s divorce these days.

  I tend to keep myself busy while they’re gone, working more, exercising, spending time with friends and family. I even clean to avoid feeling the loss. That’s how bad it’s been the past year and a half or so.

  On today’s agenda, clean out my wallet. I did the purse two weeks ago when they were gone. And if your wallet is anything like mine, you’ve got some kind of discount card for every store within a twenty-mile radius.

  I begin sorting through them. A pet store? We don’t have pets. Why do I have that? A punch card for a packaging store from two years ago? Toss. An expired coupon for a car detailing? The list is endless. Between my Victoria’s Secret credit card that I never use, and the yogurt frequent buyer card that I use too much, I find a folded-up, tattered piece of paper.

  Emerson’s Sex Bucket List.

  I have a vague memory of writing this with my friend, Poppy, and sister-in-law, Layla. It was at Layla’s bachelorette party a couple years ago shortly after Ryan and I separated. She and my baby brother, Gage, were getting married then. They just recently had their first baby.

  At that party, the three of us were well into our third bottle of wine, when Poppy suggested I had a case of mono-penis, as she called it, and needed to get back out on the market. But dating wasn’t on my radar. I didn’t even know what Tinder or Plenty of Fish were. And I didn’t think ChristianMingle would take me.

  Poppy suggested I make a sex bucket list. At first I thought she was joking, but she was dead serious. Layla provided the pen and paper, and Poppy started firing ideas at me. Layla chimed in here and there. We must’ve really been loaded when we came up with some of these. There are over twenty ideas on the list, and I vaguely remember it being hard to come up with them. I was with Ryan for over twenty years, so I’d accomplished a lot already. I’m no Poppy, but not half bad. The longer the list got, the more we laughed.

  I’m not sure if it’s because it’s been a couple years or because of the amount I drank, but I can’t remember much else from that party.

  I see twerking is scratched off, so I must have done that when we went dancing later that night. I know I haven’t done it since. Sadly, that’s the only thing scratched off the list. It’s the only action—if you can even call it that—I’ve seen in a long time.

  It makes sense I’d have a sex list, though. I mean, why not? I’ve got grocery lists, Christmas lists, to-do lists, even honey-do lists—minus the honey. I’m the queen of list making. It helps me keep some semblance of order in my life. Those of you with kids and a job and countless after-school activities know what I’m talking about.

  So why not a sex bucket list? The doorbell rings, and I quickly fold it up.

  I’m not sure if it’s just my kids, but they never answer the door. Maybe I enforced that too much when they were little. Don’t open the door to strangers. Hell, I still tell them that. But I’ve created monsters, because they don’t ever answer the home phone, either. They think if it’s important, their cell phones will ring.

  Still, it’s weird my ex-husband rings the bell. I’ve always told him he can just knock and come in, but he doesn’t. We shared this house for close to twenty years. When we bought it, it was a complete disaster, but Ryan carefully brought it back to life. It’s beautiful: two stories, painted a cheery yellow color with a white wrap-around porch and red door. Ryan thought I was crazy when I suggested red; he teased me mercilessly that it would look like scrambled eggs with ketchup.

  Opening the door, I lift my glasses to my head, completing my messy bun look. It goes with my oversized shirt and yoga pants—the mom uniform for the twenty-first century. And the glasses are a necessary evil of being forty-something. I shouldn’t complain, I really only need them for reading and when my eyes are tired.

  Ryan smiles at me, and it still hurts. But I’m glad we’ve gotten to this place—the friend zone. “Morning,” he says. “They almost ready?”

  I motion for him to come in, yelling up the stairs for the kids. All their bedrooms are upstairs, and the master bedroom is down. That was perfect when I was married, for privacy. But now when the kids are gone, I barely even go upstairs. “I’m sure the boys are,” I say. “But you know Ava. She’s trying to match her nail polish to her clothes.”

  He chuckl
es, sticking his hands in his pockets, and takes a few steps inside but stopping at the edge of the foyer. He never comes in any further than that. It’s like there’s lava past that point. “How’s the baby?” he asks. “Ava texted me a picture of Gage and her.”

  “Greer,” I say. “That’s her name.”

  “Pretty. It’s different.”

  I nod, hating how we just make stupid, polite, awkward conversation now. The man has fucked me every which way, and even had his finger up my ass. Now we just discuss the weather.

  One of the most difficult things to get used to when Ryan moved out was that I didn’t have anybody to share things with. I’d see some silly news story or hear some gossip about a friend, and I’d want to tell him—but I couldn’t. He was gone. It’s the strangest feeling to go from sharing everything with someone to sharing nothing.

  “She’s adorable,” I say. “I’m going over to see Layla and Gage later. They plan on spending most of the summer in Savannah, so they’ll be close to family while the baby’s so little.”

  “Gage told me. I called to say congrats,” Ryan says, and that doesn’t surprise me. Gage and Ryan always got along. It’s not like they hang out anymore, but there’s no hard feelings between them. Still, Gage is my brother, and he stood by me through the divorce.

  “He’s so happy,” I say.

  “Remember when we brought Ava home,” he says, looking away for a second, smiling. “God, that was over sixteen years ago.”

  “We had no idea what we were doing.”

  “We’ve got three great kids.”

  “They are,” I say, “even though I did a lot of things wrong.”

  “We did a lot of things wrong,” he says.

  I almost fall over in shock. It’s the first time I’ve ever heard him take any blame for the destruction of our marriage. Why would he say this now? My mouth is open, and I’m trying to think of something to say, but before anything comes out, our seven-year-old comes flying down the stairs.

  “Daddy! Daddy!” Connor says, giving him a high-five, followed by some odd handshake and ending with fist bumps. “Did you get the new video game? The one with the zombies?”

  “Shh!” Ryan says. “Your mom’s not supposed to know about that.”

  In truth, Ryan cleared it with me. We are the two most responsible and considerate divorced people in the history of the universe.

  Connor flashes me a big toothless grin. “Jacob, Dad got the game,” Connor says as his older brother approaches.

  “Cool.”

  Jacob’s fourteen, so he only provides one-word answers, and that’s on a good day. Sometimes he just gives a shrug or an eye roll or a grunt, and not just to me and his siblings. He does the same to Ryan. “Where’s your sister?” I ask Jacob, sneaking a kiss on the side of his head.

  “If you’d get me a car, then I could just drive myself over,” Ava says, coming down the stairs.

  Ryan holds out his keys. “You can drive mine.”

  Ava ignores him, stopping in front of me. He gets the brunt of her attitude. “Could I spend a night here with just you?”

  Glancing over at Ryan, I say, “Your dad misses you, honey.”

  “Doubt that,” she mumbles.

  “Jacob, take your brother to the car,” Ryan says and hands Jacob the keys. “Don’t drive off.” Both boys laugh and bolt outside.

  “Ava, honey,” I say and comb my fingers through her long hair, “what’s going on? I know this isn’t about a car. You’ve never been spoiled.”

  “I just want to stay with you. I worry about you here alone,” Ava says, leaning her head on my shoulder.

  I wrap her in a hug and can see Ryan is agitated. He values his time with the kids and doesn’t want to hear all this. I get it, and I’m surprised by Ava. We all went through some growing pains when Ryan and I first separated, but I thought we were past much of it. Maybe she’s having trouble with her own boyfriend, Justin. Maybe that’s where this attitude is coming from. I try to reassure her. “I’ve got an alarm and a good book, and I’m going over to see your new cousin. I’ll be fine.”

  “Please,” she begs.

  “Let’s go, Ava,” Ryan says. “We aren’t going to cater to this behavior.”

  He stops when Ava stares daggers at him, like only a sixteen-year-old girl can. “You might have the boys fooled,” she barks, “but I see right through you.”

  “Ava!” I scold. No matter what, Ryan is her father, and he deserves respect. He’d demand the same for me.

  “He’s dating!” she blurts out. “Some blonde woman!”

  She says the word blonde like it’s a cuss word. And maybe she has a point. Gray hair doesn’t show as easily in blondes, and supposedly they have more fun. I’m sure they’re better at twerking, too. Sighing, I mess with my brown hair, pulling on my messy bun. The only word I can manage is, “Oh.”

  “Ava, we can talk about this later,” Ryan says, his eyes flashing to me.

  “Mom doesn’t date,” she says. “She’s always home. Alone!”

  Somewhere deep inside, I appreciate her concern for me, but not to the point that Ryan hears I’m some kind of hermit, that I have zero social life.

  “Mom, she drives a hybrid Mercedes and wears stilettos and carries a Prada bag. And I hate her.”

  Apparently, Ava now hates hybrids, Mercedes, Prada, and stilettos. I look over at Ryan, not knowing what to say. “Ryan, I thought we said we’d talk before bringing someone new into the kids’ lives.” Mentally, I pat myself on the back for sounding so mature though I’m feeling like I could be sick.

  “She’s practically my age,” Ava piles on.

  I wish Ava would stop talking and leave. Now I feel like I could throw up.

  “Emerson, I didn’t bring her around the kids. We were out at the movies, and Ava saw us.” Ryan turns to Ava and asks, “How’d you know what she drives?”

  We both look at Ava, who’s looking at her feet. “I might have had Justin drive by your house.”

  “Ava,” he yells, and she dissolves into tears.

  I pull her into my arms and let her cry. I may need to suppress my emotions about this, but I won’t make her.

  Ryan steps towards us, rubbing our daughter’s back. “I’m sorry, baby girl. I shouldn’t have snapped like that.”

  “But you can’t stalk your father,” I tell Ava, feeling her smile a little.

  “For the record, her name is Christine,” Ryan says gently. “And she’s thirty-five, not sixteen.”

  That’s still almost ten years younger than me. Wonder when her birthday is? Maybe she’s almost thirty-six.

  “Are you going to marry her?” Ava cries.

  “Honey,” he says, rubbing her back some more, “we’ve only been out a few times.”

  Ava turns around. “But you like her?”

  “So far,” he says.

  She looks up at me, and I give her a smile, reassuring her that I’m fine. “I just always hoped you and Mom would get back together.”

  I guess I always hoped that, too. Ryan is the only man I’ve ever loved. I don’t think it’s possible for me to love anyone else. I never wanted this—a broken family. I know my kids wish we’d get back together, and it hurts my heart that I can’t give them what they really want.

  Ryan looks at me with his help me eyes. “Sweetie,” I say, “I want your dad to be happy, and he wants the same thing for me.”

  Ava nods a little, drying her face with her hands, and Ryan gives her shoulder a little rub. “Can you go make sure your brothers aren’t drag racing down the street? Give me and your mom a minute.” Ava gives me another big hug then disappears outside.

  “Maybe you should let her stay with me,” I say. “She might need me right now.”

  He shakes his head. “I think she needs to see that this doesn’t change anything between me and her.”

  “You’re probably right,” I say. He sits down on the stairs, his head in his hands, then looks up at me, his blue eyes piercing. “
Sorry about that. You okay?”

  It’s sweet he even bothered to ask—and his dimples popped out when he did. I’ve always had a thing for dimples. It’s a genetic thing. My brother Gage loves Layla’s dimples, and I’ve always liked Ryan’s dimples. It’s part of what made me fall for him.

  There’s actually not much about him that a woman wouldn’t fall for. Even in his forties, he’s maintained his lean, muscular build. And even with a few gray strands in his brown hair, and a few lines around his eyes when he smiles, he still makes my heart speed up. I guess that shouldn’t happen anymore, but it does.

  “Why do I feel like I just got caught cheating?” he asks.

  What’s gotten into him? I’m not quite sure how to answer, or if he’s even looking for an answer. I suspect he’s fucking this Christine woman; maybe that’s why it feels different for him. But I’m not going to offer that opinion out loud, and it’s probably wrong anyway. I’m sure he’s had sex since the divorce. Well, I can’t be sure, but it’s more than likely. I could carbon date my vagina, it hasn’t been used in so long.

  He adds, “It’s not like I haven’t been on a date since we split up.”

  I figured as much, but didn’t need to hear that bit of information. “I might not be the best person to discuss this with.”

  He shakes his head, getting to his feet. “It’s just easy to fall back into that place.”

  “Same here,” I admit.

  He starts for the door then turns back. “You’re a hard woman to get over, you know that?”

  But before I can answer, he’s gone.

  * * *

  I remember the day my marriage fell apart. It was October 22, a year before either of us said the forbidden d-word. But it was the day I knew we were in big trouble. We’d had another fight the night before, which extended into the morning and past lunch the next day. I called Ryan at work, trying to make peace, begging him to go to counseling, for us to get some help. He refused.

  Heart mangled.

  That’s when I knew. He didn’t seem to care. He wouldn’t fight for me. Every woman needs to know her man will fight for her, protect her, go to battle to keep her, but I knew in that moment Ryan would just let me go.