Always & Forever Vive (The Undergrad Years #4) (3 page)

Today for ‘show and tell’, your daughter brought in a bottle of Farnworth Firewater liquor. While it’s wonderful that she’s taking pride in your family’s business, the fact remains it’s still alcohol and not allowed on campus.

Since Vive seemed enthusiastic in sharing the story about how her grandmother had started the company, her fourth grade teacher was going to overlook the incident. Until Vive declared it was happy hour, pulled out a blender, taught the class how to make frozen daiquiris, and served them.

Naturally, a few students who drank the cocktails became ill, vomiting everywhere, and had to be sent to the infirmary. Their parents will be in touch with you shortly. As for your daughter, we’ve had to place her on warning. This is not acceptable.

Yours,

Principal Maud Lundgren

June 3, 1996

Mr. and Mrs. Farnworth

Vive is bright, outspoken, and one of the smartest girls we have at our school. We truly admire her academic talents and all the financial contributions you’ve made to our institution over the years. However, due to last month’s incident where she gave herself and two of her classmates tattoos, combined with this week’s infraction when she wore a see-through blouse with fishnet stockings and no underpants to class, defending that she was dressing the part of Victoria, Crown Princess of Sweden, Duchess of Västergötland, for her drama class to ‘get into character’, we simply cannot have her back in the fall as she poses a threat to our entire student body.

Over the years, Vive has proven herself to be a free-thinker. There is an academy in the United States which deals with children similar to Vive. I’ve attached a letter of recommendation for her to board at Avon Porter in Connecticut. There, Vive will get the attention and discipline she so needs and deserves.

Goodbye,

Principal Maud Lundgren

A bidet, two boyfriends, and Mama’s f-bomb call from Hell!

March 2003

The Sherry Netherland

Upper East Side Historic District

I’ll never be double-penetrated again!

Ughhh. I glanced down at my furbaby, Hedda Hopper, who sat curled up on the floor wagging her tail, shaming me with her orange-speckled eyes as if I were some kind of slut.

“Hedda, I know how this looks, and I know what you’re thinking. You can just stop right there.” I snapped my fingers in her direction, hoping she’d leave the bathroom.

My Lhasa Apso never left my side. Like ever.

Yes, I, Viveca Farnworth, liquor heiress and richest teen in town, was sitting on my bidet located at the penthouse of the Sherry Netherland, hung-over as fudge from drinking way too many cosmos before getting fucked five ways from Friday. Not to mention…it was only Thursday.

I’m so sore.

With my gold glittery acrylic nail, I pushed the bright red button on the left side of the bidet, smiling to myself as the warm water jetted between my legs.

Yesss, right there. That’s it, Mister Bidet. Tap that kitty. Get in there. Get it good. Ahhhh.

White stars illuminated behind my eyelids.

I don’t care what home appliances one thinks they can’t live without. Forget the dishwasher, garbage disposal, indoor tanning lamps, spa rain shower, waterbed, air conditioner, hot tub, and television.

Get yourself a b-i-d-e-t!
Hello.
My vajayjay has never been happier.

Back at Avon Porter, my tenth grade health teacher had once told the class, “A clean vagina is a happy vagina.”

And oh, how I loved for my vajayjay to be happy!

Leaning forward to glance out the bathroom doorway toward my bed, I noticed my two boyfriends on opposing sides of the mattress, still asleep. I felt the edges of my lips curl into a smile as a warm glow washed over me.

So sexy! So mine!!

Yup. This semester, I’d gotten myself not one lover, but two. It’d been reported in all the local gossip rags. Everyone knew I was involved in a threesome, including my frickin’ parents.
For reals.

Malin Uma Farnworth, more commonly known as my mama, had shouted over the phone at me (from the family jet while on the tarmac in Oslo) when the article published. “Viveca! My little darling. Angel of my life. You may think it’s funny to push your mama’s buttons and make my head fly off as if I were a bobble doll, but is what
The Manhattanites Times
is reporting true?”

Mama had a love-hate relationship with me. She
loved
my free spirit and that I did as I pleased. She
hated
the fact that she couldn’t do the same. Someone had to be the parent, and it sure as shit wasn’t going to be me.

Of course I’d seen the article. There I danced, decked in a sherbet-hued Herve Leger mini dress, which fit me like a glove (but appeared more as a Band-Aid over my girly bits) at a nightclub with my two hunks. Only showing their torsos, ripped forearms, and biceps around my taut frame, their names and faces had been left out of the article.

Lucky them!

In the photo, I held on to one boyfriend from the front, while the other had come up from behind. Together, the three of us were grinding in all our ménage à trois glory. It was fab-me-lous. The headline had read, “Farnworth Firewater Heiress Sees Double.”

So I’d told Mama, “Yes, it’s true. But it’s not what you think, so calm down. There’s no cow on the ice. We’re not poly or anything like that. In fact, the boys refuse to even kiss.”

I have to be honest. I probably would’ve loved it if my boyfriends
did
fool around with each other. I mean, I’d make popcorn and totally watch. Wouldn’t you?

“You mean to tell me that you’re dating two men at the same time, they both know about each other, and you all hang out together,” Mama had clarified.

“Ah-huh.” I’d expected her to tell me to throw myself against a wall. That’s a Swedish expression like ‘to take a hike’—fyi.

“Well, my little angel, party on!” Congratulating me on this feat, Mama had also said a few choice words in her native language, “
Alla goda ting är tre
.”

“All good things
do
come in threes,” I repeated.

That’s me. I’m a party girl. Doing as Mama had suggested, I continued to date both men at the same time. They didn’t mind, so why should I?

Drumroll, please…

Boyfriend one: Jay Austin Johnston was a teacher’s assistant in the undergrad program, while working his way toward a Masters of Journalism in graduate school. We’d been seeing each other since the start of the semester.

Was it an issue that he was the aide for my toughest professor, Dr. Henry?

Nope.

According to the school’s handbook, it wasn’t a violation of sorts. Technically speaking, we were both students and had the right to screw. And boy, did we ever.

With sandy blond hair, a high forehead, and broad shoulders, there wasn’t one thing I disliked physically about that man. Think male supermodel Jason Lewis meets pop singer Nick Carter. That’s my Jay Austin Johnson.

Even his hands, big and strong, made my sparkly lip-gloss drool down my face every time he touched me. Oh, and the way he played with my clit, causing me to orgasm with every touch.

He
looooved
fingering me with those thick, skilled fingers. And I sure as shit wasn’t complaining. At the movies the week before, while we were watching an early screening of
Finding Nemo
, he’d used his coat to conceal the fact that he was indeed burying his hands deep between my legs. My heartbeat quickened and I became breathless.

Go, Nemo. Go!

Thank Gawd I’d gotten myself a Brazilian. Smooth, clean and ready for him night or day, I was always good to go for Jay Austin.

After class, on Dr. Henry’s desk, he’d force my legs apart, raising my body’s temperature, and spread my folds wide, before tongue-fuckin’ the stress of studying out of me. Every nerve-ending on my body tingled.

Ahhh, boy, could Jay Austin make me come buckets. The dude was on a mission, every single time, to make me shoot a geyser. It was the craziest thing ever, like major cray-cray. And he desired a commitment. He wanted to own me as I did the year’s latest Louis Vuitton handbag. Oh, how I love my French leather accessories.

Wonderful, totally and utterly orgasmic, Jay Austin was almost perfect in every way. I supposed if I’d met him say a year or so before, I probably would’ve been completely obsessed with him, fantasizing about walking off into the sunset together.

While I looked fabulous on his juicy beefcake arms, there was just one teensy-weensy problem...

Ahem. To be honest (and don’t judge me now) he just wasn’t that in touch with his emotions. It was as if he was a Stepford boyfriend. You know, as in too perfect. He never raised his voice or got passionate about anything—except for my pussy.

Sure, he was nice to think about when I was charging up my toy—getting myself off—and I loved the way my body felt alongside his. But his emotional intelligence to ‘go deep’ on a subject just wasn’t there. It was as if his feelings switch had been flipped permanently to the off position. We talked about the weather, sex, school, sports, and more sex. He kept it superficial.

Yawn-O-Rama!

Does that make me sound shallow? I hope not. I’d like to think I’m a deep intense person looking for a ‘connection’.

When I’d told this to Mama, she’d explained, “My little angel, men generally aren’t emotionally in-tune with their feelings, let alone all that smart. Not compared to us women. That’s why you have your friends to keep your mind stimulated and your emotions in check with reality.”

“Well, why have a lover then?” I’d asked Mama.

“To keep your body motivated.”

Hmm…I wasn’t sure I agreed. I wanted a man who made both my mind and body come alive.

That was the reason  I’d started hanging out (getting private tutoring lessons) with the school’s bad boy, who’d later go on to become boyfriend number two: Seneca Seminole.

Another drumroll, please…

He’s a Native American Indian and a PhD student in Sociology. Inked from head to toe with a lean body and a freak-of-nature ginormous dick, his brain was even bigger than his penis.
I’m totally serious here, people.

Seneca was the smartest guy on campus. For reals.

He got a full scholarship to attend Manhattan’s only Ivy League institution, Columbia University. My college, too! And not because he was a minority. Heck, the guy didn’t even check off his ethnicity on his college application. Leaving that box blank, he got in on merit.

Don’t you just love that?

He knows every fact about everything. From the American Revolution to both World Wars and more, he’d recite the dates, the political leaders, and even the philosophical thoughts popular at the time.

For the first time in my eighteen—soon to be nineteen—years, I was hot and heavy over a guy’s intelligence. It sorta freaked me the fudge out. I’d make chance encounters on campus so I could bump into him. The mere thought of him kept me awake at night. You should’ve seen the dark circles under my eyes when we first started dating. No eye cream or concealer could get rid of ‘em.

Just as Jay Austin’s body and desire to get me off turned me on, so did Seneca’s smarts. The dude could easily win on
Jeopardy
.

Don’t tell him I told you this, but last week, my besties and I filled out an application for him to audition to be on the show. He’d totally clean Alex Trebek up in one fell swoop. Cha-frickin’-ching.

There was just one, teensy-weensy problem with Seneca…

I know.

He didn’t want a relationship.

Please. Just shoot me.

Any normal girl, I suppose, would just stick with the tried-and-true, devoting themselves to Jay Austin. Right? That was what Mama told me to do, too.

Well, I am
not
normal, people.
Hello!
I crave challenges. I conquer things, places, and people. Once at Avon Porter, I’d even tried to flip my gay best friend to come back to the straight team.
For reals.
More about that later. Much later.

Mama says I’m just like her mother, my grandmamma, Greta Ann, the founder of Farnworth Firewater. Brilliant in business, the woman had boyfriends on every continent. Lord love her, may she rest in peace.

I was starting to think maybe I just wasn’t that type of girl. You know: relationship material. I hadn’t had love—true, endearing, everlasting l-o-v-e—since my boarding school days at Avon Porter with my first, and only, real heartthrob, Sanderloo Konjik. I miss that boy so much. He’s in Heaven with Grandmamma, Greta Ann. I’d like to think she’s watching over him.

Jay Austin, you know, boyfriend number one, sometimes will say or do something that’ll remind me of Sanderloo. Maybe I look for him in all the boys I date. Usually, my eyes always prickle with tears when I think about him. Hearing his name, to this day, causes an excited flutter in my stomach. My breathing always slows and it’s as if I’m going into some type of trance thinking about, and memorializing, the good days I’d had with him. Wouldn’t it be great if I could go back in time and be with him just once more?