would prefer to be ravaged.
Or ruled? With a firm hand.
—Oh god.
Tell me you’re going to make yourself come. Tonight.
—I think I just did.
With a full report upon completion.
—Well that you might need to wait for.
No time like the present.
—making you wait and anticipate has always been my MO
Making you submit has always been mine. (Or attempt therein)
—almost disarmed
pleased
—// almost //
Determined. Now what are you going to wear for me?
—I do have these fuck-me heels that will be perfect.
—So long as I don’t have to walk anywhere in them.
Describe.
—just wait
—some things just have to be seen
Put them on.
—they’re hard to type in
—That’s how hot they are
Intrigued.
You won’t be on your feet for long.
—Nice. We’ll be arrested for indecent exposure.
Hopeful.
Fuck-me heels. Good start.
This has been…electrifying. Illuminating. Awoken thoughts I’m glad to be reminded of. I think I’m going to go…take care of myself right now.
—Enjoy.
Still at the office.
—very professional
—close the door first
Tell me where do you want this cum?
—running down to my belly button
Where do I aim?
—at black lace of the bra I’ll be wearing with the fuck-me shoes.
—go. See you in 12 days.
I count the hours.
xx
—oo
I finish the analysis in a stupor. And before hitting send, take it to my dad. Ask him to read it to make sure there are no odd adjectives or metaphors in the copy.
He doesn’t ask why. Points to ‘orgasmic’, ‘sublime’ and a completely extraneous ‘pounding’. I delete them. Send the file to the client. Take the kids home, put them to bed.
When Alex finally gets home, close to midnight, I’m still awake and give him the most adventurous night in bed he’s had in months. Possibly years.
‘Jesus,’ he says when it’s over. ‘What happened to you?’
‘Hormones,’ I say. ‘I think…yes, hormones.’
And we sleep.
Tuesday, December 4
Alex brings me coffee up to bed before he leaves for the firm. I stumble out of bed and into the shower. The brood’s already up, the boys fighting over who gets to play Minecraft first, the girls curled up on the couch with books, one reading, the other carefully, seriously imitating her sister. I look at them intensely. Feel my love for them reverberate in waves, through me, throughout the room.
No one wants to do much of anything in the short hour or two of the morning before I have to bundle the kids into the car to drop them off at school. They just chill. I consider it an ultimate test of character not to check Facebook.
It causes me physical pain.
I drop the elder three at school and Annie at my mom’s for the morning, and then head off to the gym. If I was a woman nearing 40 somewhere sexy like New York City, say, I’d probably have a therapist. But I’m a skiing Calgarian so I have a personal trainer. Also a chiropractor and an acupuncturist. And a massage therapist. Winter sports kill the spine…and our tendency to drive SUVs and mega-trucks any distances over 0.6 kilometres when we’re not on the hills means we need fucking treadmills to get exercise.
There really is no hope for humanity, I think as I careen down one overpass, then another. It’s my usual think as I drive to the gym. That if I just went for a (free) bike ride, (free) run or did some real physical work – chopped wood, I don’t know, laid some bricks or something – I’d achieve the same result in a less self-centred, narcissistic environment.
I keep on getting distracted from my self-inflicted lecture by imagining Matt’s tongue between my thighs.
Fuck. Focus.
I park. Wave to Jesse as I run to the changing room. Jesse. My trainer. The very very very junior fourth partner, as he puts it, in a very clean, very bright, very Zen gym, filled with inspirational quotes and a dizzying array of equipment. The gym runs classes, sells memberships and all that other stuff, but its real draw is the personal training services – or just going to the gym to ogle the trainers. The personal trainers, male and female, look like Greek – in one case, Nubian – gods.
Mine is, not to put too much of a point on it, the prettiest. He was a gift from Alex for my birthday a couple of years ago.
‘So I saw Nicola yesterday,’ he says as he loads up weights for me. I stare at him blankly. What the fuck is he talking about. Nicola? Nicola! Who is Nicola?
Not important. What’s important is how you will look in those fuck-me heels when we meet.
—Go away. Not in my head. Not now.
I know Nicola. Jesse knows Nicola. I introduced Nicola to Jesse, actually. Before the gong-show of a divorce, when her own struggle with careening towards 40 resulted in a fitness-must-lose-weight-and-look-hotter craze. I don’t judge: I don’t come to Jesse because it’s fun or because I enjoy exercise. I too have no desire to be a fat, frumpy middle-aged woman who wears yoga pants
