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“Apparently, Mr. Flynn likes to keep track of how many hundred-dollar hookers and bootleg cigars he buys!” She wriggled in her seat.
“Bad news for Mr. Flynn’s secretary, I guess.”
Marcy grinned. “She’s been blowing Bob on the side. He didn’t tell Mr. Flynn.”
“Bob Hoover?” That was unexpected news.
“Yeah. Can you believe it?”
“I guess I can believe anything of anybody,” I told her honestly. “Most people are far less discriminating about who they take to bed than you’d think.”
“Oh, really?” She gave me a ferrety look of interest. “And you’d know this because…?”
“Pure conjecture.” I pushed away from the table and threw away my trash.
Marcy didn’t look disappointed, only more intrigued. “Uh-huh.”
I gave her a sweet and bland smile, and left her alone to meditate on my mysterious sex life.
The fact is, people are far less discriminating in who they fuck than anyone wants to admit. Appearance, intelligence, a sense of humor, wealth, power…not everyone has these qualities, and fewer have more than one. But here’s the truth. Fat, ugly and stupid people get laid, too, the media just doesn’t report on it like they do when the lovers are gorgeous film stars. Men don’t need to be clobbered over the head with the sight of your tits to know you’re looking for action. Even pent-up librarian types can get fucked with their panties around their ankles and a brick wall scraping bloody welts on their backs.
At least, this one can.
Or at least I’d been able to three years ago, which was the last time I’d gone out looking. I hadn’t been looking for action at Sweet Heaven, merely jonesing for chocolate. So why, then, had I let him take me away? Why had I asked him to walk me home and been so disappointed when he left me on the doorstep with nothing but a wave?
That I hadn’t been looking to find someone that day only exacerbated my private torture. If I’d found him in a bar instead of Sweet Heaven, if my hair had been loose about my shoulders, if my blouse had been unbuttoned, would he have asked to come inside my door? Come inside my body? Would he have kissed me on the stoop, his hands slipping around my waist and pulling me against him tight?
I would never know.
I thought of him all that day and all the next, and the wanting of him grew and grew in my mind like pouring water into a vase filled with stones. Thinking of him consumed my waking moments and seeped into my dreams, leading to sweaty nights amongst tangled sheets.
I studied my face incessantly, wondering what he had seen that day to take me from the candy store and to the pub, but not to bed. Had I failed somehow? Had I said some wrong thing, revealed some flaw, laughed too loudly or not quickly enough at his humor?
I knew I was obsessing. That’s what I did. Turned things over and over in my brain to pick them apart from every angle. Analyzed and calculated and pondered.
I could not forget the way his breath smelled when he leaned over to whisper in my ear, “Do you like licorice?”
I could not forget the warmth of his hand on mine when he congratulated me for downing that first shot of whiskey.
I could not forget the flash of his blue-green eyes or the small but perfect cleft in his chin or the faint freckles on the bridge of his nose and forehead or his voice and laugh, the slow deep honey of it that had made me want to lean against him and rub myself on him the way cats do, purring.
The last time I picked up a man in a bar and let him take me home, he’d ejaculated all over my skirt and cried beer-scented tears all over my face. Then he’d called me names and demanded I pay him back for the drinks he’d bought me. It had been one last bad encounter in a string of them. Boys who didn’t know what to do with their pricks, older men who thought two seconds of fingering counted as foreplay, sweet-faced lads who turned into abusive bastards the moment the doors locked behind them.
Celibacy had become the better option. A challenge I set myself that became habit. The day I’d met him in Sweet Heaven it had been three years, two months, a week and three days since I’d had sex.
Now, with thoughts of him on my mind, that nameless stranger, I couldn’t stop thinking of sex. A man I passed on the street could catch my gaze and my cunt would clench like fingers closing on a flower. My nipples rubbed with constant friction against my bras. My panties tugged incessantly at my clit, urging me to stroke that small button over and over, no matter the place or the time or the circumstance.
I was horny.
My assignations had never been about any sort of amorous feelings. They’d been about filling an emptiness inside, of chasing away the dark cloud I could usually escape but sometimes…could not. I went to bars and parties and the park to pick up men who might take me away for a few hours, might make me forget everything in my head. Sex had been a choice I made to ease an ache inside. I knew it. I knew why I did it. I knew why I looked like a librarian and acted like a whore.
Until now it hadn’t mattered. I’d met men who made me laugh, who made me sigh, even a few, very few, who’d made me come. Until now I had never met one I couldn’t forget.
For two weeks I stuttered along this way, my concentration knitted together by strands of habit rather than any effort on my part. My work didn’t suffer, only because the numbers came so easily to me, but everything else did. I forgot to mail bills, pick up the dry cleaning, set my alarm.
The spring days were still easing into night early enough that sometimes my ride home on the bus was done in darkness. I sat in my usual seat, the one at the back, my coat and briefcase folded neatly over my lap, my legs crossed high up at the thigh. I stared out the window and imagined his face and the smell of his breath, and then, with the rocking of the bus to aid me, I began to get myself off.
At first, just a gentle squeezing of my thigh muscles done in time to the thump of the bus wheels on the pavement. My pussy swelled. My clit became a tiny hard nodule pressing against the soft fabric of my panties. My hips, hidden by the coat and briefcase, rocked on the plastic seat. With both hands folded sedately on my lap, nobody looking at me would have any idea what I was doing.
Streetlights cast bars of silver on my lap and made swiftly moving lines of light that slid up my body and away, leaving behind darkness interrupted a minute later by another streak. I began to time my pace to the passing of the lights.
Sweet tension curled inside my stomach. My breath caught and held, then hissed out between my parted lips when it began to burn inside my lungs. I kept my eyes fixed on the window and the sights outside it, but I saw none of them. I saw the ghost of my face reflected now and again in the window glass. I imagined him looking at me.
My fingers curled on top of my leather briefcase, holding tight. My foot moved up and down, up and down, squeezing my thighs together, rubbing my clit in a small but perfect motion. I wanted so badly to touch myself, to stroke my fingers in circles around that hard button, to slide them inside and fuck myself while the bus sped on toward its destination— but I didn’t. I rocked and squeezed, and each lamp we passed urged me that much closer to climax.
My body shook from holding so still when it wanted to writhe. I had never done this before, this furtive dance toward completion. Masturbation was done at home alone in the bath or in bed, straightforward and swift, a release of tension. This, here, was almost against my will. My thoughts of him, the movement of the bus, my celibacy, had all conspired to set my body burning with a fire only orgasm could quench.
Sweat slid down the line of my spine and into the crack of my buttocks. That touch, that light tickle, so much like the feeling of a tongue along my skin, sent me hurtling over the edge. My cunt tightened as my body tensed. My nails scratched thin lines in the leather of my briefcase. My clit jumped and spasmed, and bolts of pure bliss radiated through my entire body.
I shook in silence, drawing less attention than if I’d sneezed. I turned the gasping sigh into a cough that barely turned heads. In another moment looseness pervaded me, and boneless, I slumped a bit in my seat as the bus eased to a stop.
My stop.
I got off on trembling legs, certain the smell of sex had to be clinging to me like perfume, but nobody seemed to notice. I exited the bus into a spring mist, and I lifted my face to the night sky and let it kiss me all over, not caring that it flattened my hair and dampened my blouse.
I had made myself come on a public bus thinking of his face, and I still didn’t know his name.
For better or worse, that solo touch on the public transportation eased some of my need. The numbers came back to me, filling my mind with their steady stream of plus and minus. I threw myself into my work, landing several big accounts that had been the responsibility of Bob Hoover, now too busy getting lunchtime blow jobs from Mr. Flynn’s secretary to handle the load.
I didn’t mind. More work meant greater opportunity to show the higher-ups I deserved my title, my corner office, my extra vacation time. It meant I didn’t have to invent reasons to stay late at work so I’d need to choose between going home and facing an empty house or heading out to some meat-market bar and testing my strength of will.
“Sex,” Marcy declared in the lunchroom, “is like this chocolate éclair.”
She’d brought me a powdered sugar doughnut. “Full of cream and makes you feel like you want to puke after?”
She rolled her eyes. “What the hell sort of sex do you have, Elle?”
“None, recently.”
“I’m shocked.” Her tone made it clear she wasn’t. “But no wonder, with an attitude like that.”
She might have big hair and trashy taste in clothes, but Marcy could make me laugh. “Tell my why sex is like that éclair, then.”
“Because it’s tempting enough to make you forget everything else you’re supposed to do.” She licked some chocolate off the top. “And it’s satisfying enough to make you glad you did.”
I sat back in my chair a little, watching her. “I take it you had some sex last night?”
She made a mock-innocent face, and I realized something. I liked her. She fluttered her eyelashes. “Who, little ole me?”
“Yes, you.” I put the doughnut back in the box and snagged the last éclair. “And you’re dying to tell me about it, so stop wasting time and get to it before someone else comes in and we have to pretend to be talking about business.”
Marcy laughed. “I wasn’t sure you’d like to hear about it.”
I studied her face. “You think that about me, don’t you. That I don’t like sex?”
She looked up from her gooey plate, her smile sincere, and something passed over her expression. Something a little like pity. It made me frown.
“I don’t know, Elle. I don’t know you well enough to say, really, but you act like you don’t like much of anything sometimes, except work.”
Hearing something you already know shouldn’t ever be a shock, but it usually is. I wanted to answer her right away, but my throat had closed and my eyes burned with tears I blinked against to keep from falling. I put one hand on my stomach, which had lurched at her words in recognition of the truth of them.
Marcy, despite her appearance and occasional dumb-blonde performance, is anything but stupid. She reached at once for my hand and closed her fingers over mine before I could pull it away. She squeezed my hand and let go fast enough to keep me from startling.
“Hey,” she said softly. “It’s all right. We all have buttons.”
Right then, at that moment, I had the chance to make Marcy my friend. A real one, not a business acquaintance. I have stood on the edge of so many things, so many times, and I most always back away. If there is a time when telling the truth will open a door, I lie. If a smile will forge a connection, I turn my face.
But this time, surprising myself and probably her, I didn’t.
I smiled at her. “Tell me about your date last night.”
She did. In detail enough to make me blush. It was the best lunch I’d ever had.
When it was time for us to go to our separate offices, she stopped me with another squeeze of my hand. “You should come out with me sometime.”
I let her squeeze my hand because she was so earnest, and we’d had such a good time. “Sure.”
“You will?” She squealed, the hand squeeze turning into an impromptu, full-length hug that made my entire body stiffen. Marcy patted my back and stepped away, and if she noticed that her embrace had turned me into a wooden effigy, she said nothing. “Great.”
“Great.” I smiled and nodded.
Her enthusiasm was infectious, and it had been a long time since I’d had a girlfriend. Any sort of friend. I caught myself humming later, at my desk.
Euphoria doesn’t last under the best circumstances, and when I pushed open my front door to find the light on my answering machine blinking steadily, mine vanished.
I don’t get many calls at home. Doctors’ offices, sales calls, wrong numbers, my brother Chad…and my mother. The red number four mocked me as I dumped my mail on the table and hung my keys on the small hook by the door. Four messages in one day? They had to be from her.
Hating your mother is such a cliché comedians use it to make audiences laugh. Psychiatrists base their entire careers upon diagnosing it. Greeting card companies stick the knife in further by making consumers feel so guilty about the way they really feel about their mothers, they’ll willingly pay five dollars for a piece of paper with some pretty words they didn’t write, echoing a sentiment they don’t feel.
I don’t hate my mother.
I’ve tried to hate my mother, I really have. If I hated her, I might be able to put her out of my life at last, be done with her, put an end to the torture she provides. The sad fact remains, I haven’t learned to hate my mother. The best I can do is ignore her.
“Ella, pick up the phone.”
My mother’s voice is a nasal foghorn, bleating her disdain as a warning to all the other ships to stay away from me, the reason for her disappointment. I can’t hate her, but I can hate her voice, and the way she calls me Ella instead of Elle.Ella is a waif’s name, an orphan sitting in the cinders. Elle is classier, crisper. The name a woman called herself when she wanted people to take her seriously. She insists on calling me Ella because she knows it annoys me.
By the fourth message she was detailing how life didn’t seem worth living with such an ungrateful excuse for a daughter. How the pills the doctor prescribed for her nerves weren’t working. How she was embarrassed to have to ask Karen Cooper from next door to go to the pharmacy for her when she had a daughter who should be quite capable of taking care of her, but for the fact she refused.
She had a husband who could go for her, too, but she never seemed to remember that.
“And don’t forget!” I jumped at the suddenness of her voice ringing out from the small speaker. “You said you’d visit soon.”
There was a brief moment of hissing static at the end of her message as though she’d hung on the line, convinced I was really there and ignoring her, and if she waited long enough she’d catch me out.
The phone rang again as I looked at it. Resigned, I picked it up. I didn’t bother to defend myself. She talked for ten minutes before I had the chance to say anything.
“I was at work, Mother,” I managed to interject when she paused to light a cigarette.
She greeted my answer with an audible sniff of disdain. “So late.”
“Yes, Mother. So late.” The clock showed ten after eight. “I take the bus home, remember?”
“You have that fancy car. Why don’t you drive it?”
I didn’t bother to explain yet again my reasons for keeping a car in the city but using public transportation, which was faster and easier. She wouldn’t have listened.
“You should find a husband,” she said at last, and I bit back a sigh. The tirade was close to ending. “Though how you ever will, I don’t know. Men don’t like women who are smarter than they are. Or who earn more money. Or—” she paused significantly “—who don’t take care of themselves.”
“I take care of myself, Mother.” I meant financially. She meant spa treatments and manicures.
“Ella.” Her sigh sounded very loud over the phone. “You could be so pretty…”
I looked into the mirror as she talked, seeing the reflection of a woman my mother didn’t know. “Mother. Enough. I’m hanging up.”
I imagined the way her mouth pursed at such harsh treatment from her only daughter. “Fine.”
“I’ll call you soon.”
She snorted. “Don’t forget, you promised to come visit.”
The thought made my stomach fall away. “Yes, I know, but—”
“You have to take me to the cemetery, Ella.”
The woman in the mirror looked startled. I didn’t feel startled. I didn’t feel…anything. No matter what my reflection showed.
“I know, Mother.”
“Don’t think you can weasel out of it this year—”
“Goodbye, Mother.”
I disconnected her, though she still squawked, and immediately dialed another number.
“Marcy. It’s Elle.”
Marcy, bless her, revealed nothing but pleased surprise at my desire to take her up on her invitation to go out after work. It was exactly the reaction I needed. Too much enthusiasm would have made me rethink; too little would have made me cancel.
