Jeanie London - Real Men - Rugged Rebels - Watch and Learn / Under His Skin / Her Perfect Hero

Where did one keep their divorce papers? In a box with their defunct wedding photos and marriage license? In a file with other routine documents like tax forms and canceled checks? In a frame, mounted on the wall?

She sighed, postponing yet another decision. When her hand touched the white envelope—presumably from Covington Women’s College—that Chev Martinez had delivered, a nostalgic pang struck her. She had savored her time at the school, had been ecstatic to escape the suffocation of her parents’ close supervision. The young women she’d met there had seemed so much more worldly and more mature than she’d been. Gemma had been content to hover on the periphery of their candid opinions and heated debates about the human condition, trying to soak up their moxie.

She tore open the flap with her thumb and removed the contents, another envelope tucked inside a cover letter. The yellow flowered envelope plucked at a memory chord. On it was written a series of numbers and letters that made up a code of sorts—she frowned—in her own handwriting?

Unfolding the crisp cover letter, she scanned the letterhead. Dr. Michelle Alexander elicited another tug on her memory, compelling her to read on to determine why.

Dear Ms. Jacobs,

You were a student in my senior-level class titled Sexual Psyche at Covington Women’s College. You may or may not recall that one of the optional assignments in the class was for each student to record her sexual fantasies and seal them in an envelope, to be mailed to the student in ten years’time. Enclosed you will find the envelope you submitted, which was carefully catalogued by a numbered code for the sake of anonymity and has remained sealed. It is my hope that the contents will prove to be emotionally constructive in whatever place and situation you find yourself ten years later. If you have any questions, concerns or feedback, do not hesitate to contact me. With warm regards, Dr. Michelle Alexander

Wonder flowered in Gemma’s chest as memories came rushing back in a torrent of disjointed images. The Sexual Psyche class had been legendary at Covington. Jokingly dubbed “Sex for Beginners” by the female students, Gemma had felt naughty simply signing up for it. She recalled how nervous and self-conscious she’d been the first time she’d slid into a seat in the rear of the class, eyes lowered.

Dr. Michelle Alexander had been a lush-hipped woman with long, dark wavy hair and a wide, warm smile. She had made sex seem like a glorious gift rather than the obligation that Gemma’s mother had conveyed. Gemma had been mesmerized, wondering as the woman lectured on the virtues of self-gratification and multiple orgasms, how many lovers she had at her beck and call. The class had been an awakening for Gemma, an outlet for all the pent-up questions she had about a topic that had long mystified her.

She fingered the flowered envelope, oddly embarrassed at the prospect of reading things she’d written as a virgin, before she’d even met Jason, now that she thought about the timing.

Gemma bit into her lip. Why was the prospect of having insight into the woman she’d been before Jason so unsettling? After all, she had come full circle.

GEMMA CARRIED the envelope upstairs along with a half bottle of wine, deciding to take a shower and relax before delving into the past. The air on the second floor was warm and moist. She glanced at the clock and groaned—she’d forgotten to call a service company to come fix the air conditioner. Tonight was going to be a hot one.

But the water in the shower was cool. She slipped beneath the stream and leaned her head back, capturing a mouthful of water, then expelling it straight up. She smiled, realizing she hadn’t done that in a while. It was such a silly thing to encourage her, but it did. A unwitting moment of pleasure, a few seconds of forgetfulness.

Then she spotted one of Jason’s razors in the shower caddy, and the awful feeling, which she imagined as similar to being in a car accident, returned. No warning, no control and no mercy. And the numbness afterward, the deep denial that something that happened countless times a day to other people could happen to her. She and Jason—they had been special … different … happy.

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

She soaped and rinsed her skin hurriedly, suddenly eager to get out of the shower, to stop her mind from wandering to unhealthy places. When she turned off the water,she picked up Jason’s razor and tossed it in the garbage can. Then she pulled a towel from the rack to blot her hair and pat her skin dry. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and stopped for a candid appraisal.

Out of neglect, her hair was a little longer than she normally kept it, but it made her look younger, softer. She had always taken care of her body through Pilates and regular outdoor activity, and although she might have lost some definition over the past few weeks of apathy, she still looked as good naked as she ever had.

She ran her hands over her breasts and down her flat stomach.

Had Jason simply grown bored with her? She turned to look at her behind, wryly checking for an expiration date she might have missed. She was no longer a coed, but she refused to believe she was past her prime.

Gemma wrapped a towel around her and tucked the ends between her breasts, then padded to the bedroom. After splashing a hefty portion of red zinfandel into a glass, she settled into an oversize chair and picked up the yellow flowered envelope. She held it for a moment, trying to remember the contents. She closed her eyes and visualized the dorm room she had shared with Sue and two other girls her senior year. She’d kept her stationery in a box under her bed. A memory flickered and she recalled that she’d sat up with a flashlight to work on the assignment—the act of writing down her sexual fantasies in the daylight had seemed unthinkable.

Two mouthfuls of the wine made a mellow path down her throat. She carefully worked loose the old, dry adhesive on the envelope, her heart quickening behind her breastbone. Removing several neatly folded stationery sheets,she recognized her girlish handwriting—more timid back then, tighter, smaller.

The subject matter probably had something to do with that, she conceded.

The date was January, the last semester of her senior year.

I don’t know how to start this letter, really. The instructor of our Sex for Beginners class says we’re supposed to write down our sexual fantasies. Dr. Alexander says that we’ll learn a lot about ourselves by understanding our deepest desires. In ten years, she’s supposed to find us and send us our letters. In ten years I’ll be thirty-two and it seems so far away I can’t imagine what I’ll be like then.

Gemma released a dry laugh. Ten years had evaporated, and she still didn’t have a clue as to who she was.

And as far as the sexual fantasies go, I’m not sure I know enough about sex to know what excites me. You see, I’m a virgin, so I don’t know what it feels like to make love. I’ve never even seen a naked man, except for pictures. And I watched a couple of X-rated videos with Sue that she got from some guy. Sue says that sex is more fun for the man than the woman and that doesn’t seem fair. The women on the porn video seemed to be having fun, though.

I touched a penis once, at a party. The guy was kissing me and shoved my hand down his pants. It was softer than I thought it would be, and hairy. Then he came in my hand and I had to go to the bathroom to wash it off. It smelled strange and not at all like I thought it would. When I came out of the bathroom, the guy acted like he didn’t know me.

Gemma grimaced. She didn’t remember the guy, but she remembered the incident. How naive she’d been.