Chapter Text
She’s barely been in town for a month when the itch starts.
It starts idly, when her mind wanders a little too far in the quiet moments — when her kids are sleeping and she should be sleeping too but her brain is spinning with all the ‘what if’s. She tries not to act on it because this is her fresh start — her chance to lay low and start over and live the life she’s always dreamed of, free of a stupidly commanding overbearing man telling her what to do — and she doesn’t want to fuck it up because Gretchen has been so kind , but some stupid, fucked up part of her brain can’t stop thinking about it.
She only allows herself to fantasize about it in the twilight hours, when the kids — and Gretchen too, because she’s so fucking lucky to have a friend like her to stay with — are in bed, slips a hand beneath the covers and traps it in the elastic waist of her floral pointelle pajama bottoms and works those tiny little circles into her cunt until her heart races and her toes curl and her mind is finally blissfully empty.
Regina doesn’t want to give in — doesn’t want to give it more than an idle moment’s thought unless she’s at her loneliest and horniest — but the desire blooms the more she ignores it, runs through her veins like a white hot fire and spreads when she touches herself. She’s up to masturbating three times a day — fucking herself in the shower before work, in the bath at the end of the day, and in bed when everyone is asleep — and she thinks she can manage it like this, can manage without fucking up everything and everyone around her.
But the desire still comes at her in waves, like a hot body of water lapping at her feet and splashing up on her.
She isn’t even sure what she wants — knows that it’s human touch mostly — but images of a nameless, faceless somebody swirl around in her mind. A woman, because men are nearly repulsive to her after six horrible years of marriage to a shell of a man who never gave a damn about her or the kids to begin with, and Regina is almost always the one being tossed around like a plaything in her fantasies. She’s spent so much of her adult life identifying as a radical feminist — she is, believes the world is set up for men and women are only seen as an accessory to them for their convenience or fuckability — that the idea of being thrown and slapped around like a ragdoll should disgust her, but she can’t help the way her cunt clenches after one of those wet dreams.
She thinks that at thirty, she should be considered too old for this sort of thing anyways.
It’s harder to ignore the longer time goes on — the more bills pile up and her new job stresses her out and fuck , why hasn’t he sent the divorce papers back yet? — and it boils over into a desperate drive to one of the seedy sex shops she swore she’d never go into because her favorite vibrator doesn’t seem to be doing the trick anymore and she’s so fucking desperate . She pulls up to the store and nearly grimaces at the sight of it — the sign reads ‘Sex! Toys! & More!’ in a cutesy pink comic sans, both grammatically incorrect and repulsive at the same time — but this is the only sex shop in this sleepy little suburban daydream town that Gretchen has moved to, so her options are limited and really, she’ll take what she can get.
She wonders what the “and more” means.
The inside of the store is clean and tidy, organized with well-labeled sections and diagrams of how things worked — much more organized and professional than Regina originally expected, albeit a little bit more pink. She remembers these sorts of places to be catered to men — doesn’t have much experience with them in recent years, really — but there’s just as much for women as there is men in here, no seedy video rooms or magazines with topless women on them. It’s tactful for a sex shop, if that even exists, and she finds her nerves calmed just a little bit by it.
“Hi! Let me know if you need any help.”
The woman behind the counter is a sweet redheaded thing, with a kind smile and even kinder eyes — is content to let Regina browse without hounding her or pushing things into her hands. She nods her thanks and wanders over to the section cleverly labeled ‘Vibes for Her’. There’s no sugar coating it with the personal massager label, nor is there the sexist bullshit she finds in most online shops where everything is a pink bullet vibrator, and it’s a refreshing thing to wander into a shop and feel so utterly seen, not like she’s some freak of nature.
And if she selects a pink vibrating bullet to go along with her other purchases? Sue her, she’s a woman and she happens to have an affinity for pink.
It’s the woman-hating rhetoric of men that she hates, acting like women are only deserving of one mode of pleasure.
She decides it’s an argument for another day, peruses through the selection on the shelves instead. There’s a good assortment of girly pastels, glitter, and plain blacks but not much in the way of nudes — she’s thankful for that, really, finds it absolutely repulsive with the fake bulging veins and pallor — an even better assortment of styles. It’s almost hard for her to only pick two things — two because she’s living out of a fucking suitcase in Gretchen goddamned Weiners’ chic suburban daydream home with her two kids and her cat and Regina is confident and sex positive but she would absolutely die if Gretchen found anything in her stuff.
It’s just not one of those battles worth fighting.
She finally settles on two kinds, the pink bullet vibrator that disgusts her radical feminist side yet delights her inner depraved whore and a sparkly purple one to go with it. It’s labeled as discreet and that’s exactly what she needs in this stage of life, just until she puts an offer in on the perfect house and her kids start spending a few nights at Auntie Gretch’s house.
She isn’t quite sure how she suddenly transformed into a depraved whore at the ripe old age of thirty.
Her purchases go up on the counter and she’s trying her damnedest to stay quiet and keep her eyes focused on the wall off to the side of the cashier because yes, she’s sex positive and a bonafide whore until it comes down to talking about her sex life, but the redheaded woman doesn’t seem to take her silence as a hint and examines her selection carefully.
“I see you like pink.”
A safe observation given Regina’s pink day dress, the purse to match, and the two vibrators on the counter. This girl is struggling to start a conversation but Regina feels her cheeks heating up at the fact that this woman is touching her vibrators and acting like there isn’t a single thing awkward about that.
“Mhmm.” She feels bad for being short, adjusts her floppy hat so her face shows just a little more. “My favorite color since I was old enough to have a favorite color.”
Regina’s eyes wander to a board over to the left of the woman, aptly labeled ‘Personals’. It’s decorated neatly, lacking the crude dick pictures on photocopied pages like she’s seen at other shops, the same affinity for pink evident on the board and mixed in with some yellows. There’s a brief thought in her head to go look at a few of the cards pinned up there, but she’s almost certain she’d die of embarrassment first.
“Mine’s blue… Green too.” The woman catches her gaze, follows it over to the board and nearly lights up with excitement. “Ooh, I know just the person if you’re looking.”
“Oh, no…” Regina trails off, feels her cheeks heat with a blush. She’s the picture of indecision because her body is telling her yes, do it and her mind is screaming for her to stop. She can’t — there’s too much chaos in her life already — but the idea sparks in the pit of her stomach and feels like a dull throb of wondering. “I’m not looking. Not for myself, anyways.”
The saleswoman smiles this kindly thing, undeterred and unconvinced as she shrugs and starts to ring up Regina’s purchase.
It’s then that she realizes just how blue the woman’s eyes are in contrast to her red hair, how many freckles she has dotting the apples of her cheeks and the exposed skin of her chest just under the hollow of her throat. It makes Regina feel infinitely smaller in the big room, makes her feel like every flaw of hers has big neon glowing signs pointing towards them — emphasis on her ugly personality and messed up mind — and it’s a great reminder that she doesn’t need to get involved with anyone, needs to stick to herself and her new toys and not bother anyone with her baggage.
“Name’s Cady, by the way.” She doesn’t ask Regina for her name, seems to sense the apprehension and tension in her body. She’s sure her face is pinched and her forehead wrinkles on full display, but she finds she doesn’t care all that much. “You should really think about hiring someone if you’re at all interested.”
Regina tries to tell herself that she isn’t, chooses to politely not respond and hand her credit card over to pay. She can’t help it if her eyes train on the board of business cards while the saleswoman packs her items into a discrete black plastic bag — she throws in various sample packets of something Regina can’t quite identify, it makes her feel just a little bit stupid — and she especially can’t help it if her cheeks are just a little bit pink.
Pink.
It’s effeminate. Girly. Ditzy and stupid and silly and giggly.
She’s pink because she hides behind the curtain of womanhood, disguises herself as someone with a cotton candy brain and sugar sweet smiles. But she’s smart, cunning, cuts like a knife longer and deeper than most of the stuffy suited men she knows.
She’s pink because pink is power.
Pink highlights in her hair, pink handbag, pink dress and pink shoes and pink lipstick and pink pussy, everything the stuffy suited men want and nothing they’ll ever get.
She’s brought from her thoughts by the saleswoman — Cady, her name is Cady — pressing a business card into her hands. It’s a heavyweight cardstock, black with rose gold foiling — a prettier business card than Regina’s own, she’s certain of it — but she doesn’t allow herself to look at it in detail, doesn’t allow herself the satisfaction of it.
“Just in case you want to try.” She’s sheepish, nudges her warm fingers into Regina’s hand. “She’s wonderful, I’ve worked with her a time or two.”
Regina closes her fingers around the card, slips it into the black plastic bag. She doesn’t want to seem rude but she knows — god, she knows — she has a problem with impulse control and if she looks at it — if she even entertains the thought of human touch or giving into that primal need for once in her life — she’ll absolutely give in and create chaos because she’s Regina fucking George and she creates chaos everywhere she goes.
“Just in case.” She winks, takes her bag and walks to the door with her hips swaying because yes, she noticed Cady staring at her when she was paying, lingers with her hand on the glass pane and turns back to the desk. “Regina George. Look me up if you’re ever inclined.”
She doesn’t allow Cady time to respond, saunters out the door and to her car with a giddy little smile on her face. It feels light and airy and flirty and fun , something she’s denied herself for so long. She’s repressed her desires for so long that it almost feels foreign to do this — almost feels naughty and wrong and selfish to even go to the sex shop, let alone entertain the idea of hiring someone to fuck her — but she gets into her car and digs into the bag and takes a long look at the business card nonetheless because she’s no good with impulse control anyways.
Karen Smith
Soft Domme
It barely gives away any information, just a name and title on the front with a phone number on the back. Regina isn’t sure if that quiets her curiosity or sparks it.
She decides it’s going to be trashed — along with the flavored condom sample in the bag because she is so done with men — is going to throw it away just as soon as she can discreetly do it. No, Gretchen wouldn’t judge her, but Regina would rather the earth open up and swallow her whole than have Gretchen see it and ask questions.
For now, she’s content to hide her purchases in the bottom of her obnoxiously large pink purse and tell herself that she is absolutely definitely most positively throwing the card away and not giving it another moment’s thought.
If she repeats it enough she’ll eventually believe it, right?