Her doctor recommended estrogen therapy. Lucia was leery because the list of side effects was as long as her arm. Yet, he insisted that with frequent monitoring, there was little to be concerned about. Menopause had replaced her sex-drive with mood swings, hot flashes, and vaginal dryness. At lengthy intervals, she performed her wifely duty for the sake of the marriage, yet it left her feeling bitter and resentful. Lucia’s husband, Wyler, noticed the detachment in her eyes when she opened her legs for him.
Lately, when the occasion warranted, Wyler smeared lubricant on his tip and pushed into the past—traveling back in his mind to a time when Lucia’s hips churned and her fragrant flower quivered around his cock. He imagined the Lucia of yesteryear, when she was in her thirties, working on a Ph.D. in mathematics, and nearly always had energy left at the end of the day to take him on an erotic journey. Yet, these days she just wanted him to get it over with, to pull out and spurt on her belly because sperm made her itch.
Lucia’s lack of libido caused her to procrastinate in her search for a treatment. She had hoped that she would wake up one-morning feeling better, and that her desire, like a lost pet, would return to paw at the door. She had tried fantasizing, yet images conjured so effortlessly in the past were unsustainable now. Now there was only Wyler, moving slowly between her thighs, grunting and leaving an opalescent puddle on her lower tummy.
Lucia didn’t like pills. She explained to the doctor that she was even sensitive to aspirin. He prescribed a minimal dose of estrogen cream to be applied by hand. When she returned home, she sat up on the bed, drew her knees up to her chest, and spread her legs. Then she put a prescribed amount of the cream on the tip of her index finger and pushed it in as deeply as she could.
“A week or two,” the doctor had said, “and you will feel a difference.”
Two weeks later exactly, Lucia was working in her office at the university when a familiar ache announced itself. The lost pet had returned. The Braid Theory she was studying faded into the background and was replaced by the urge. She shivered and her flower throbbed beneath her long Indian skirt. She glanced at her watch—just after twelve—the traffic would be impossible at this hour. Wyler was a full-time writer and worked from home. Depending on traffic, their home was forty minutes away—too far, too long. She locked the door and returned to her desk. Furtively, she lifted the skirt, lowered her panty and sat in her office chair, resting her feet on the edge of the desktop. She licked her first two fingers and reached to find the tiny teardrop nestled beneath her dark pubic hair.
Lucia imagined Wyler lowering her to the bed, lifting her knees and pushing in slowly. She heard herself moan and closed her eyes. Yet the image of Wyler image was soon replaced by a strong memory. As an undergraduate, she had visited a favorite professor during office hours, boldly locked the door and presented herself on his desk. The professor had wasted little time in draining his pants and slipping inside.
In those days, Lucia’s sexuality purred to life with the touch of a button. With the exception of Wyler, she had never stayed with any man for very long. Curiosity drove her always to greener pastures. A few times she had several different men on the same day. Lucia sifted through memories—the first years with Wyler, handsome and hypersexual. They balled as if there were no tomorrow. More than once the mattress slid off the bed.
Lucia paused to add more moisture to her fingers, leaned back into the chair and sighed deeply. She closed her eyes again and there was Luis. When they met at a seminar eight years ago, he had been forthright about wanting her. She politely declined, yet here he was now, scratching at the door, the outer labia petals were slipping over his engorged cock and letting him in.
The image shifted and the Cuban professor, Osbel, two doors down from her office came into focus. He often stopped by to chat and it was obvious that he liked her. She imagined sitting on her desk, Osbel cupping her below the knees, lifting her legs, his thick, dark shaft pushing down and in, glistening with wetness when he pulled back and plunging forward again.
Her fingers circled her clitoris, transporting her back to an infidelity at a conference in Morelia. She and Wyler had been married for only two years. Pedro, a Portuguese professor from Lisbon, had pushed the right buttons and they lost themselves in each other for hours. She remembered after the first time, he had stayed hard and they had done it again even as his spunk crept out and dripped to the bedspread. They made love well into the night and then she returned to her hotel room to shower and sleep
Lucia kept a thumb on her tiny clitoris and slipped two fingers inside, curling them upward to find her sweet spot. She clenched her teeth to keep pleasure from spilling into the hallway, “Mmm,” the strength of her first orgasm made contractions around her fingers, “huh, mmm,” her hips jerked around in the chair.
She imagined Pedro groaning, gliding back and forth. Another strong climax followed and then smaller ones as Pedro filled her with semen. He had wanted to continue meeting even after the conference, yet she was married and he was engaged. They never connected again, yet his memory was fresh.
Lucia cleaned herself with a tissue. Each of her fantasies had been suffused with bits of reality. Her lost pet had returned, and she was determined to keep it from ever leaving again.
There came a light tapping at her door. Her blood left her face and she hoped that no one had heard her. Quickly she stood, pulled up her panties, straightened her skirt and ran hands through her hair. Then she unlocked the door.
The Cuban professor was there, “Can I treat you to lunch?”
“Okay, thank you.” No harm in that, she thought. Yet, even as she gathered her purse and locked the office, a familiar ache returned.