About Last Night...

Envy surged in Janine’s chest. She’d been living vicariously through Marie’s sensual escapades for years, listening to her adventures in between offering homeopathic treatments for bladder infections from too much friction, skin rashes from flavored body potions and strained muscles from unnatural positions. “Well, you better tell Greg to stay away from your jugular with those Mick Jagger lips of his.”

“Always the doctor,” Marie said with a wry smile.

“Physican’s ass…” She stopped and they giggled at her words. “Physician’s assistant,” she corrected primly, then fell back on her bed where they were sitting amidst stacks of gifts. Marie fell back too, toppling boxes, and they broke into gales of laughter.

Janine sighed and toyed with her empty wineglass. “Thanks for arranging the party, sis. It was fun.”

“You’re welcome,” Marie said. “But don’t lie. These kinds of things are always a roaring bore for the guest of honor.”

She laughed—her older sister was nothing if not honest. Instead of basking in the glow of the spotlight, Janine had spent the evening nursing a bottle of zinfandel, listening to a roomful of women talk about their fabulous sex lives. Someone had started a round robin of, “What was your most memorable encounter?” and when her turn came, she’d recounted a fantasy as if it had actually happened. She’d felt a little guilty about lying, but somehow, the middle of a raucous bachelorette party didn’t strike her as the best place to divulge the fact that she was a virgin. Not even Marie knew.

Janine sipped her wine and reflected on her chaste history. Her virginity certainly wasn’t a source of personal embarrassment. On the other hand, she didn’t deserve to be pinned with the good-girl-of-the-year ribbon—given the right man and the right circumstances, she imagined she would have indulged as enthusiastically as the next person. She’d simply…never gotten around to having sex. In high school she’d been too shy to attract a boyfriend. In her ten grueling years of part-time college and med school, she’d been too busy working and studying to be a social butterfly. And afterward…well, afterward, she’d met Steve.

“I just wish you had let me hire some live entertainment,” her sister said, breaking into her thoughts.

Janine flushed, relenting silently that her sense of modesty was perhaps above average. “You know that’s not my style.”

Marie scoffed. “After that story about doing it on a penthouse balcony?”

“Oh, that.” Janine smiled sheepishly. “I, um, might have stretched the truth a tad.”

“How much?”

“Like a piece of warm taffy.”

Her sister laughed. “You have a great imagination—that part about you dropping a shoe really had me going.”

The details were specific because she’d relived the hot summer-night scene in her head so many times. She suspected her claustrophobia made her fantasize about open spaces, and she suspected her celibacy made her fantasize, period.

“And I thought your penis was pretty impressive,” Marie continued, her lips pursed.

“Thanks,” Janine said a bit wistfully. “I didn’t think it was half-bad myself.” Marie’s brainchild of seeing who could sculpt the best penis out of a Popsicle before it melted had been a big hit, especially after the wine had started flowing.

“I guess Steve was your inspiration.”

Janine pushed her long hair behind her ears to avoid eye contact. “I got an A in anatomy.”

Marie’s eyes lit with curiosity. “Oh? Is the infamous plastic surgeon’s operating equipment lacking?”

For all she knew, Steve’s equipment could be as blue as her Popsicle prizewinner, but she decided to cover. “Marie, I’m not going to discuss my future husband’s physical assets.”

Marie pouted, then assumed a dreamy look, already distracted. “Can you believe that in less than forty-eight hours you’ll be a married woman?”

She stared at the ring on her left hand, the cluster of huge diamonds perched atop a wide platinum band—a priceless heirloom that once belonged to Steve’s grandmother. “Yeah, married.” She wished the light-headed anticipation and breathless impatience she’d read about in Bride magazine would sweep down and roll away the stone of anguish in her stomach. Wasn’t cold feet a malady for the groom?

Marie held up a troll doll wearing a bridal gown. “Ugh. Who gave you this?”

“Lisa. It’s kind of scary, don’t you think?”

“Well, she’s still bitter over her divorce. She told me she ran her husband’s Armani suits through the wood shredder and mulched her azalea bushes. Cold, huh?”

“Brrr.”

“Heeeey, what about this sexy little number?”

She had to hold her temple when she turned her head. Upon seeing the pink and black bustier and garter belt, she frowned. “Sandy.”

Marie pushed herself to her feet, holding the outfit in front of her curvaceous figure, and posed in the mirror. “Why the attitude? I think it’s hot.”

Propping herself up on her elbow, Janine twirled a strand of honey-colored hair around her finger. Her split ends needed to be trimmed before the rehearsal dinner tomorrow—how would she be able to fit in an appointment? “It might have something to do with the fact that she assured me pink was Steve’s favorite color on a woman.”

Marie’s mouth formed a silent O. “Well, she’s his receptionist. She should know, I suppose.”

“I didn’t know,” Janine murmured, feeling ridiculously close to tears.

“Oh, come on. You don’t think there’s anything going on between Steve and that bimbo, do you?”

She shook her head. “Honestly, I don’t think he has enough sex drive to have an affair.” Her fingers flew to her mouth. Had she actually said that?

Marie’s eyes flew wide. “Oh? You should get drunk more often.” She bounced on the corner of the bed, scattering more boxes. “Do tell.”

Janine hesitated, wondering how much of her musings could be attributed to last-minute jitters.

“Come on,” Marie urged. “I gathered that you and Steve don’t exactly set the sheets on fire, but I figured it wasn’t all that important to you.”

“Should it be?”

“What?”

“Important to me. Sex, I mean.”

Marie’s eyes widened. “You’re asking me?”

She smirked. “Try to be objective, sis. Haven’t you ever had a good relationship without great sex?”

“Let me think—no.”

“You’re a big help.”

“Okay, I’m sorry.” She crossed her arms and donned a serious expression. “What seems to be the problem? Foreplay? Duration? Frequency?”

“Frequency would cover it, I think.”

“Hey, lots of couples abstain for several weeks before the wedding to, you know—” she pedaled the air with her fists “—shake things up a little.”

“We’ve abstained for longer than a few weeks.”

“How long?”