Every dick Victoria touched was an investment.
Heavenly? Cedric? Both? Neither? Victoria scanned their profiles on the app TuitionCougars; they were equally handsome juniors in college. Heavenly’s major was communications. He was requesting $10,000 (for entertainment, a vacation, clothing, and car repairs) plus another $50,000 for next year’s tuition and a new car. Cedric’s field was engineering. His shortfall without a breakdown was cumulative of $80,000.
Goddamn, Victoria thought. Why are the young educated men in Atlanta trying to get over on older women, too? Just because she was a sponsor didn’t mean she was desperate.
Considering there wasn’t exclusivity, a ten-grand spread out over a year was reasonable. Eighty thousand was enough for a down payment on a house. Picturing Willy’s gray pubic hairs, she in-boxed both of the guys: Dinner or lunch at Capital Grille in Buckhead?
Victoria kicked the sheet. She wasn’t ungrateful for her gift, but out of all the spells she’d cast and broken, why-oh-why couldn’t she prepare one potion for herself? The Lord had bestowed “private summers” upon seasoned women for what good reason? Victoria appreciated making it to sixty, but she certainly wasn’t happy having had a decade of hot flashes and difficulty falling asleep most nights.
Expectedly, she went from a peaceful moment to what felt like a wildfire spreading inside of her. Sweat oozed from every pore. The prickling sensation along her scalp threatened to soak her freshly flat-ironed short hair, reverting it to her natural curls.
Victoria silently prayed, Lord, hear my prayer. Make it stop. Now. Her cell slipped from her saturated palms, hit her breast, bounced onto the carpet. Making a split decision, Victoria yanked off her head scarf, then slid from underneath the moist covers before her 140 pounds became 139. If she continued to lie down, the mattress would be drenched in minutes.
“Help me, Jesus,” she said softly.
Why, Lord? Why? What’s the purpose? she questioned, knowing He knew her thoughts. Why don’t men have a period? Menopause? Hot flashes. Babies? Anything. Something that would decrease or at least interrupt their sex drive other than erectile dysfunction, old age, or prostate cancer?
Tiptoeing through the dimly lit room, Victoria tried not to disturb her companion, who’d temporarily stopped breathing. Abruptly he snorted, coughed three times, then resumed his snore. Willy denied having sleep apnea; he refused to do a breathing study or use an oxygen machine.
Victoria entered the bathroom, quietly closed the door before switching on the ceiling track lights. Covering her hair with a plastic cap lined with satin, Victoria quickly stepped into the shower and turned on the cool water. Adjusting four of the ten heads, she welcomed the mist spraying from her breasts to her knees.
With a sigh of relief, she softly said, “Thank You, Jesus.”
It was too early to be perky. Too late to go back to sleep. “Please let it end, Lord. Forever, this time. This is the only thing I ask of You every day. I know You hear me. But just in case, it’s Your favorite child, Victoria Fox, Lord.
“It’s me, it’s me, it’s me, O Lord, standin’ in the need of prayer.” The hymn transitioned to a hum.
Preparing for her cryotherapy, the liquid-nitrogen regulator was set to 192 degrees below zero. Victoria put on her special socks, boots, and gloves, then stood inside for 120 seconds exactly. Any device, workout equipment, serum, mask, or cream that prevented Victoria from wrinkling, sagging, or aging was somewhere in her four-thousand-square-foot mansion.
Stepping out of the freezing chamber, she said, “Thank You, Lord Jesus.”
Growing up, Victoria was too poor to be rich. Too rich to be poor. Thankful that she never married, had two pregnancies—no births—Victoria was responsible for one person all her life. That was the way it would always be until her Lord and Savior called her to glory.
“You okay in there?” Brother Copeland called out from the bedroom.
Why, Lord? Why? What’s the purpose of men, when most of them don’t know how to make love and women are sexually self-sufficient? she questioned.
“Brushing my teeth,” she replied, then traded her electric toothbrush for her Luxe Replenish 7-Function black stimulator.
Letting the silver vibrating tip rest on her clit, sixty seconds later, Victoria released a satisfying climax, as she’d done to start each day.
Victoria had resolved to being an opportunist at the age of sixteen. “Shit,” she hissed. Now that he was up, her getting back to the TuitionCougars app to see if Cedric and/or Heavenly had replied wasn’t happening soon.
Victoria had hoped the Lord would’ve given her just one more hour of relaxation. That way, Brother Copeland would’ve rolled out of her bed, gotten dressed, and walked out of their—more like her—house, which he’d bought, all cash, after his first wife died.
Victoria didn’t have much to do with Brother Willy’s wife passing unexpectedly.
Standing in the doorway, she replied, “I have to get ready for church, Willy Copeland. I’m ushering the early service this morning.” That was the truth. It was seven o’clock and church started in two hours.
“Yeah, but we don’t have a sunrise service, honey pumpkin. Come back to bed so Mz. Purrty can cuddle with Big Willy,” he said. “Him beez lonely.” A pouty mouth followed.
No need to deny her lifelong sponsor. Every woman needed at least one. Victoria had satisfied Brother Copeland through two of his marriages for a total of thirty-four adulterous years—plus a decade of fornication.
In the beginning, it was just the two of them, she’d thought. She was sixteen. He was twenty-seven. The Lord knew her heart. Willy didn’t. If Willy had gotten her pregnant again or procreated with any woman, Willy would’ve lived the rest of his days itching and scratching his balls.
Victoria had voodoo potions of the best and worst kind, but she preferred the ones that agitated her enemies.
“Let’s get this out of the way or you’re going to have to wait until next weekend to cum,” Victoria said, peeling the wrapper off of her favorite toy for Big Willy.
He was the only man she ever cared for. But Victoria’s mother had told her: “If a man lies, he’ll steal. If he steals, he’ll kill. And once a cheater, always a cheater. It’s not if, Victoria. It’s when he’ll do it again. Better to be the one he’s cheating with than the one he’s cheating on. And always get your money up front, baby.”
Back when she was in her twenties, thirties, and forties, sex with Willy did not require forethought. He stayed ready.
“Work your magic, darling. You are the only woman that knows how to send Big Willy to the moon,” he said. “I done took my medication. Half of your work is done, sugarplum.” His belly jiggled when he laughed.
Willy was her seventy-one-year-old steady Saturday-evening, Sunday-morning companion. She had one younger man in her rotation. Rodney Hudson, a thirty-four-years-young—big dick for real—aspiring entrepreneur that would be in her bed beating her pussy up before sunset. Rodney gave her what Brother Willy Copeland no longer had to offer. There was no voodoo potion to make bad dick better and no concoction for hot flashes, but Victoria was relieved that putting a little coconut oil inside of her vagina helped alleviate the dryness.
“Close your eyes, Willy. I’m about to take you on a ride out of this orbit, honey!” Victoria exclaimed.