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air. “Marcus Scaggs?”
                “Oh, Marcus was irresistible,” I say and take a sip of cola. “Until he admitted his goal in life was to have a clitoris of his own.”
                “Oops! Sorry, I forgot.”
                “Listen, why are we—”
                “Troy Collier?”
                “Ha! As soon as I let slip to Troy I was attracted to him, he back peddled fast enough to win the Tour de France.”
                She throws up her hands in frustration. “Hell, shit, and damn, girl! I’m sorry, but I don’t understand why you can’t put it about more.” She starts playing with her watch, a clear sign of her agitation.
                “Put it about? Ana, you make it sound like a product, or something.”
                “It must be made of gold considering the way you guard it. Why so uptight?” She leans across the table and slugs me on the arm. For someone so trim, Ana is tough. She has a firm, direct approach that’s probably the result of being raised with four brothers. “What happened to the girl I took to Trisha Steven’s New Year’s party?”
                “Oh, please.” I drop my head in shame. “Don’t go there.” But it’s too late. The event Ana jerks to the surface of my mind happened over three years ago and is the reason I put restrictions on myself today.        Trisha’s party had a Roman theme and when in Rome . . .
                Suffice it to say, Tom Collins and togas make quite a mix. It was like cramming the sexual energy of a herd of teenagers into one night. I never would’ve guessed I’d participate in group sex or public sex. By the time the New Year arrived, it was togas-off-and-the-last -one-penetrated-loses. Trisha had plenty of guests and I started the New Year with a bang.
                “Mmm, yes,” Ana drawls in recollection. “We tied for first place that night.” She giggles. “You were in fine form, girlie. They were calling you Messalina by the time the night was through.”
                “Shut up!” But I’m not mad. “As if you can talk, Scarlet Woman.”
                She’s right, though. I had earned the name Messalina and played the part of the infamous, sex-driven Empress of Rome to the max. I even had my own Emperor Claudius by the name of Eddie Norton.  Years later, we still laugh over it, but I have to admit that was the last time I’d been laid good and proper. Three years is a long time. 
                That night, for the first time in my life, I experienced a rush of freedom and abandon. Apart from going to The DeLuxe every week for public, mutual masturbation, I don’t know any other way to get that feeling back. Sure, I can stay at home and do this sort of thing in private, but I don’t. Trisha Steven’s New Year’s Eve party awakened something in me.
                Why should I accept the stigma of being sex-starved because I’m a woman who likes sex? I like the way sex makes me feel, the giving and receiving. I may not be catwalk material, but I like the touch, smell, taste—the sound of sex. My “wild” history has taught me to appreciate the whole experience and refine my technique.
                Hell, I’m getting too old for sport fucking. I don’t want just any dick invading my space, and if that means letting strangers feel me up until something better comes along, then so be it.
                I think of Jared. Shit, I haven’t felt anything so intense in my life, sexual or otherwise. Not even the New Year’s Eve orgy or my list of miserable boyfriends compare to what I felt with Jared. He may be talented, handsome, and self-assured, but there’s something about him I can’t define that allowed him to get straight to the core of me.
                If I ever see him again, maybe I’ll discover what it