Ramona Galhare used to write erotica. She used to own dozens of dildos, various vibrators, and countless other phallic doodads. However, Ramona had not felt sexy in over two years. And she didn't feel sexy now. She didn't feel sexy or sexual or sexed or sexist or sexsational or sex-crazed or sex-starved. Sex sucks. Ramona had been pregnant and given birth to two kids who continued to get up in her grill long after any memory of her ever having had an orgasm had faded. Now Ramona needed a father's day gift for the man responsible for making her a chuck wagon, any gift that might make daddy feel big. So, she walked into a boutique in the Fashion Valley Mall called The Art of Shaving.
A beautiful salesgirl helped Ramona. The girl's name was Leila. She had the grace of a ballerina and the lips of a goddess. Her hair reminded Ramona of the setting sun.
Leila gave Ramona a well-rehearsed pitch.
"I even use this balm in my Bikini area!" Leila explained to Ramona about the after-shave balm. Leila rubbed a bit of the balm on the back of her hand to give Ramona a sniff of the sandalwood scent. Ramona had never sniffed a more majestic little hand.
Ramona looked Leila square in the eyes with her own bedroom eyes. She cocked one brow and bit her lower lip. Then Ramona's voice deepened and she said, "Is that so?"
Leila blushed only slightly as she returned Ramona's sentiment by inhaling, tossing her head back a bit to expose her slender throat, and exhaling so gentle a sigh of pleasure that only a pin-drop pixie could have heard it. Ramona heard the sigh and said, "Bet his philtril dimple feels smooth as a babe's ass after such a perfect shave."
"His what?" Leila asked, cracking her salesgirls' promiscuous smile.
"His philtril dimple." Ramona repeated slowly, and she stretched out her index finger to rub over the groove on Leila's upper lip. It was such a sensual, intimate, and unexpected gesture that both women nearly wet their pants right there in the boutique.
Ramona left the Art of Shaving store with a new, fancy kit for her man. She had also gotten Leila's phone number.
She drove her husband's Audi back home that day with the top dropped and her tennis skirt flipped up. She hadn't worn panties that day. In fact she had ditched all her panties when she'd moved from New York City to the West Coast. She had given $3,000 worth of lingerie to the Salvation Army after conceding that bras and panties felt way too restrictive in a beach town. This drive home now from the Fashion Valley Mall assured her that parting with all the panties had been the right decision, indeed. Upon entering The Five, she shifted gear, passed a Vons truck that had pictures of fruit painted all over it, and Ramona indulged in the pleasure of the San Diego Freeway rushing up her cunt.