Angry and wet. Dressed to please. A half-willing slave.
—oh my lover
—there is a special place in all hells for people like you
I know it.
What do you want?
—you
—on no terms
—so entwined with me we don’t end
—for a few hours
Then I send you home. Bruised and happy.
—not too bruised, not in any too obvious places
Of course.
Perhaps hating me just a little more.
—Of course. Inevitable.
Swear at me. Curse me when I’m fucking you.
Walk in my door. Say ‘fuck you.’ Then – submit.
—I want to meet you in a public place first.
—Will you let me?
If you demonstrate your submission in public. By how you dress
How you speak.
How you admit you’re my whore.
—I want your hands under my clothes, on my skin, in a place with eyes
My shameless exhibitionist whore.
— (suddenly all of our…previous…encounters seem so fucking tame)
(Practice.)
Will you do all that I ask?
—yes
Good answer.
—I’ve forgotten…
—I’ve forgotten how you fit into the crevices, indentations of my mind
I very much like reminding you of yourself
—Tell me, what do I do to you?
You feel like a counterpart. A woman me. You spark a fire deep in me. And you bring to mind how I was shaped, erotically. You affected me so. Of course we fit. You impressed me.
—impressed
—imprinted
I still have the bruises
—inside
Deep.
— [deleted]
— [and again – I can’t form the words]
Say it
—you’re like a disease
—I knew it then
—wanted you so badly, I needed to run away from you
—too much
—it’s a hard thing when you understand what someone is, perfectly.
Footsteps down the stairs and I slam the laptop lid down. I should really just do this on my phone. Less conspicuous. As the thought enters my head, I push it away. I don’t like it. I do not like to be…deceitful. I lift the laptop lid up.
—Reality calls. xx
xx
Alex piggybacks Annie down the stairs and into my lap. I enfold her, kiss her, smell her hair. He brushes his lips against my forehead, then hers. ‘Running late,’ he calls over his shoulder as he runs into the kitchen, grabs coffee, runs back upstairs. ‘Want me to get the boys out of bed before I shower?’
‘No, there’s lots of time for them,’ I say to his disappearing back. Stretch on the couch. Don’t look at the laptop. Pull my thoughts away from where they inevitably wend and think about what a fantastic, fantastic father Alex is. And how precious what I have here, in my arms at this moment, all around me in this house, in this family, in this life, is to me. And try to wrap myself in that thought. Protect myself with it.
I fail.
What do you want?
—You
—on no terms
—so entwined with me we don’t end
—for a few hours
Then I send you home. Bruised and happy.
Perhaps hating me just a little more
Breakfast. Shower. Clothes. Everyone has socks and pants; minor miracle. Into the minivan. I’m so rattled, I almost ram into Clint as he pulls into the driveway to pick up his son Clayton.
‘Jeezus, I’m so sorry,’ I say through the rolled-down window.
‘You OK, Jane?’ he asks, peering at me through his. One of the longest sentences he’s ever said to me. Of course, I did just almost kill him.
‘Fine,’ I lie. ‘Just late. Be safe.’
‘You be safe,’ he says, and I can see he’s pondering the logistics of driving all my four kids as well as Clayton wherever it is they have to go, because clearly I can’t be trusted behind the wheel of a car right now…and I smile. My head clears, briefly, and I have one of those sharp insights into why Lacey has loved him for the past nine, ten, eleven years – as he’s fucked other women and fathered at least one other child – and why women keep on falling into bed with him even though he makes no pretence of what he is and what he is not.
Cause he’s a really, really rockin’ dad. His always-pointing-to-the-hottest-target cock notwithstanding.
I’ve told this to Lacey before, not that she really needs to hear it, for she knows – that he’s a great dad. Because it’s not something hidden. This is not a new revelation for me either; Clint’s commitment to fatherhood has always been there. Not in being Clayton’s weekend dad – although he’s never, as far as I know, missed a weekend. Not in showering either Clayton or even Lacey with gifts, because he’s no Disney dad. In fact, he’s kind of…cheap, really. Lacey orders herself gifts from Clint and tells him what he got her. Sometimes he reimburses her. Sometimes he conveniently forgets. His presents to his son, birthday and Christmas alike, consist of on-sale clothes, the price tag of which is further driven down by Clint’s employee discount. I know this, because Lacey has no secrets, important or otherwise.
