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swig. “This isn’t my area of expertise, but whatever gets you there when you’re alone, I bet it’d work when you’ve got company, too.”

Chapter Seven
     
    WHAT GETS HER there when she’s alone?
    That seemed like something she should know.
    As she photographed items for the back-to-school circular, Lisa thought back on last night’s conversation and had to concede Nat had a point. While she never intended to act on her craving for Braden, she did hope to have sex again one day. It was time to look closely at what lit her up.
    She snapped a few test shots and checked the results. “Definitely not pencil cases shaped like fire engines,” she muttered.
    Since the divorce, she realized, her orgasms were about as fulfilling as scratching an itch. Before Braden showed up on her lawn, there was no fantasizing, no scene setting... she would just crank on the vibe and knock one out in lieu of an Ambien. It was ludicrous that she’d lost her virginity twenty-three years ago, yet still had no idea what turned her on. What was she, a fucking Puritan?
    The day passed in a blur of colorful school supplies and more colorful language.
    As she pulled into her driveway after a long drive home from the studio, the rational part of her was relieved that Braden’s truck wasn’t there. She hadn’t heard from him since their talk, and she couldn’t imagine when she would be ready to face him again.
    The evening was warm and her back yard looked welcoming thanks to all the work he had done. She decided to prune some of her flower bushes while attempting to get in touch with her inner sex kitten. After a quick dinner, she pulled on her cut-off shorts and a gauzy cotton tank top. At the last minute, she decided she would feel sexier if she removed her bra, letting the soft shirt skim directly across her skin. Voluptuous as she was, she hardly ever went braless outside of her bedroom, but this felt... nice. She grabbed a pair of clippers from the garage, then headed out back.
    As she cut into an overgrown crepe myrtle, a breeze blew through the loose sides of her top. The fabric brushed deliciously against her peaked nipples, and she felt a surge of sexual awareness followed by a wave of self-loathing. She bagged her clippings and reflected on the root of that negativity.
    Lisa had been self-conscious about her breasts on and off throughout her life. She’d had none to speak of until she was about fourteen, but she made up for lost time and filled out a C-cup by her junior year of high school. The larger breasts balanced her small waist and curvy bottom, and for a little while she had a lot of confidence and male attention.
    Until Ricky Lavin. They had only dated for a few months when she was sixteen. It was a forgettable relationship in nearly every regard, but for a throw-away comment he made one night. Funny how painful memories remained the most vivid. She clipped another crepe myrtle, and let the past in.
    They had been watching a scary movie with friends in someone’s huge basement media room, and snuck off to take advantage of the darkness and lack of parental supervision. The shag carpet was itchy on her back, she remembered. They made out for a while and she let him unhook her bra -- the first boy who had been granted that privilege. As he played ineptly with her breasts (though it was years before she knew any better), he paused between kisses to say, “You need to firm these things up.” His dad was a well-regarded gynecologist, so she had assumed Ricky knew what he was talking about.
    Twenty-five years later, Lisa paused with hedge clippers in mid-air and shook her head. One asinine remark from a cocky high school kid, and she’d hated her breasts ever since. With the wisdom of hindsight and advanced age, it finally hit her: there had been absolutely nothing wrong with her teenage breasts. With a deep sigh, she longed to have her young body back.
    She regretted the years of insecurity -- the clothes not worn, the sex