How was Day 1, kittens? I should tell you, what you’re reading is the ms I submitted to HarperCollins, not the final edited one. Don’t worry–they only made 20 changes in the 400 pages. 19 don’t matter. One… well. I’ll tell you about it at the party. In the meantime:
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.
I park. Wave to Jesse as I run to the change 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 a point on it, the prettiest. He was 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 because they’re more forgiving than jeans. Regardless. Jesus, what is happening in my head? Narcissistic bitch, snap out of it. He’s talking about Nicola. I need to listen. “She told me about, you know, her situation. She said you knew,” Jesse says. He blushes slightly.
I nod. I’m fond of Jesse. He’s beautiful and has a nice voice, and is ridiculously young. Chronologically, he’s 26, and half the time—when he’s doing his job and telling me what to do—he’s older than his birth age, confident, in control, in charge. And the other half—when he moves onto any other ground—he’s so very, very young. And awkward. And so unaware of life.
Sometimes, I think he might be gay—the question’s never been asked and answered, because, when I’m with him, he makes me lift heavy shit and I scream and grunt and pant and so there is not much room for conversation. I infer his potential homosexually purely from the fact although he is built like an Adonis and eminently fuckable—when Alex introduced me to him, I cooed that other men buy their wives flowers and chocolate and my beloved got me a ripped boy toy—he comes across as very, very… safe. He gropes and prods and readjust me—and his dozens-upon-dozens other female clients—fairly thoroughly. It never feels inappropriate, or edgy. I sweat with him two or three times a week, and I’ve committed no thought crime with him, no matter how ardent my mood is otherwise, he’s that safe. So safe, I’ve pondered setting him up with my neighbour’s 17-year-old daughter… except for that he might be gay thing. We’ve all got to go through our gay lovers—I’ve had two—but it really sucks if the gay boy’s your first one. A little disheartening.
“I’m just so shocked,” Jesse says. I nod and grunt. Lift up. Hold. Drop down. “Have you met her husband?”
“Y…e…s,” I exhale. “Total dork. Even before he became a cheating rat-fuck bastard.”
“Well, I wasn’t going to be so…” Jesse pauses.
“Offensive?” I offer as I gasp.
“Blunt,” Jesse says. “But yes. Not exactly a Don Juan. I wouldn’t have thought… have you seen the pictures of the girl friend?”
“The naked pictures?” I get out between lifts. “No. I managed to avoid that. I guess you didn’t.”
“Nicola showed me,” Jesse says.
“Skanky?” I ask. Jesse is shocked. His Puritanism and youth come out at the most unexpected times. He’s shocked—that I said skank. He’s shocked that Nicola and her dorky husband are divorcing because of his torrid affair with a skanky—but sufficiently attractive, to Nicola’s ex at least, (“If you like that type,” that’s Nicola’s voice providing commentary in the background) intern. He’s shocked the dorky husband was fucking the attractive skank. He might be shocked people in their 30s and 40s, and those really old 50-year-olds sweating on the ellipticals over there, have sex. Dirty thoughts.
I’m not quite 40 yet. But it’s less than two years away. And Matt… is Matt 40 now? He’s got to be. Maybe even 41.
“Hey, Jesse,” I ask. “How old do you think I am?”
He pauses. Yes, it’s a test. I asked him how old he was a few months ago. I thought 28—he was 26. My two-year-misjudgement didn’t matter. But he really can’t win with me, I realize. If he says 40, I’ll throw the barbell at him. If he says 36, who gives a crap? What’s two years less? I catch the thought and stare it in the face. It’s never ever bothered me that I’m now 38. Four kids. Soft, loose breasts, stretched skin on the belly. That’s all part of me, of what I am. Am I anxious about my age? Am I having a mid-life crisis? A stupid fucking mid-life crisis that’s making me easy fodder for a manipulative fuck like Matt who clearly is having a mid-life crisis of his own, much like Nicola’s husband was having when he started fucking the skank? Except, instead of looking for something new, he comes looking for me, because he knows…
Selfish, evil bastard.
I am so not going to see him on December 14.
“I’ve never thought about it,” he says. And I think, clever boy, that’s the right answer. But he plods on. “Well,” he says, “I know your oldest girl is 10. So… you must be… you must be 30-something, like at least 32? Maybe even 34?”
I stop listening. I don’t really hear. I’m away again. Teeth marks on my neck. My thighs. Oh fuck. Where was I? What were we talking about?
“But she seems to be coping ok,” Jesse returns to Nicola. “I mean, she’s angry and all that. But I think she’ll be ok.”
She’d probably be a hell of a lot better if you sort of accidentally on purpose patted her ass after her work out session, I think. Don’t say out loud. Slap myself mentally. Feel Matt’s breath on the back of my neck…
“She’s tough,” I say. “And really… well. The only really shocking thing here is that he left her. Well, ok, not exactly left her. What he wanted to do was to fuck the skank and to stay married. And she didn’t. So she’s the one who asked for a divorce. But what I mean is—we all kind of expected her to lose her patience with him somewhere along the line without the illicit sex, you know? Cause he was—you know, a dork.”
Jesse gives me an odd look. My Puritan boy. He does not like it when I swear. I hope he chalks it up to my indignation on my friend’s behalf.
“Anyway,” he says, “exercise helps.”
Oh, Jesse. So cute. So sweet. So dumb.
I like it better when he doesn’t talk.
I stay silent for the remainder of the session, and try hard not to think about Matt’s cock.
My Mom seems frazzled when I come to pick up Annie, so I don’t stay. Pack up Annie. We run errands—bank, big grocery shop—then pick up her siblings at school. “Gran was weird,” Annie says at one point. “Sad.” “Really?” I murmur, indifferent. My mother’s always a bit weird. Groceries, kids in car… but I’m reluctant to go home. Restless. I take the kids to the Glenbow Museum’s Discovery Room instead. Middle of the week, so it’s quiet, empty. The two volunteers fight with each other for the privilege of assisting Annie with her craft.
So of course I sit on the couch. And pull out the phone.
Why am I doing this?
Because… ah. Yes. There is a message.
Enjoy your evening?
Well. This I can answer.
—So much. My husband thanks you.
I have a perhaps undeserved feeling of accomplishment and pride.
(Inspiring you and lucky Alex.)
—That’s you. Spreading sweetness and light wherever you go.
The Johnny Appleseed of Eros.
I can stop now. I should stop now. What the fuck am I doing? This:
—My mind was busy with you last night. And this morning en route to my personal trainer.
I am a fucking idiot who should know better.
I love to be kept busy. Tell me your thoughts. Paint me a picture.
—I was rehearsing our meeting.
I am charged.
—You’ve got a lot to live up to.
as do you
but I’m confident you will work hard to please me.
I’m seducing you subliminally (lick) is it working?
—not so very subliminally
Tell me what you want most.
I like that answer.
—i’m wondering if your lips feel the way i remember them
I want you in all your darkest ways.
The things you would only ever tell me about.
I want you to scare me.
I’d like you to try.
demand something. scare me. right now.
—take off your tie, wrap it around my hands
that’s a promise
I will put you to work
—I see us at a table, someplace dark… and eyes on us, and someone wondering, “Did I just see that? Did they just… no… did they?”
“I think she just stroked his cock through his jeans.”
— “Where are his hands?”
“I’m sure she just pulled her skirt up and her shirt down…”
— “Was that her nipple between his fingers?”
“I’m pretty positive she just handed him her panties.”
I have to run to a client meeting now.
I request a picture of you in your fuck-me shoes.
—I think I just came without touching myself.
—Remember that during the boring parts of the meeting.
That is so unbelievably sexy
get on that photo
demanding, i know
11 days xx
“Mom?” I turn my head. “Look what I made!”
I am a really good Mom.
Except I’m not sure really good moms exchange “Was that her nipple between his fingers?” and “I’m pretty positive she just handed him her panties” texts with their ex-lovers while their kids do crafts. In a fucking museum.
Well, Marie probably does.
And she’s a good mom.
Ex-lover. Returning lover. Oh, fucking hell. The point here is… what is the point? The point is this: am I genuinely planning to fuck Matt when he comes to town?
I drive like a maniac across the downtown, and it’s a minor miracle we get home without an accident.
My neighbour Lacey is pulling into her driveway as I’m stepping out of the car. “Ja-ane! You have to see this! You won’t believe what I’ve just been dooo-ing!”
Lacey is… Lacey is perfection.
I think she’s 52 or 53, and I only think this because I’ve been to her fiftieth birthday party a couple of years ago. You would never say of Lacey, “Oh my god I hope I look like that when I’m 50.” You would say, “Fuck, I wish I was that when I was 20.” And then you’d try to get her into bed.
I’m not overselling. Carved out of ebony, voluptuous, curvy, perfect in every way—the centre of any room into which she saunters. (She doesn’t walk; she saunters.) She makes me want to climb into her lap and nibble on her ears.
And she makes me smile, always, when I see her. Not even Marie does that.
Lacey’s been my neighbour almost all of my mother-life. She has spent much of this time searching for a soul-mate—and almost all of it fucking Clint.
Clint’s car pulls up behind Lacey’s. She waves at him as she runs over to me.
“You will never believe what Clint and I have been doing!” she whispers. She leans in closer to me, her lips almost touching my ear. (Does she do this on purpose? No. Of course not. It’s just me. I think about her ear lobes at the most inappropriate times.) “We’ve been ring shopping!”
As she reaches into her purse—to pull out a box?—I’m stunned. Yes, Clint allegedly proposed last summer, after he turned 50. Part of his mid-life crisis. And Lacey seemed to actually believe it. But ring shopping? Really? Clint?
Lacey whips out her phone. “Look,” she says. “I like this one. And this one. And this one. Clint likes this one.”
Just pictures. Not yet the real thing.
That, I can believe.
Clint has opened his car door. One long leg is hanging out. The rest of him will stay in the car until I’m gone. That’s his MO. Limit contact with women he’s not sleeping with—and keep contact with the women he’s sleeping with or wants to sleep with to the minimum necessary to sleep with them.
“They’re beautiful, Lacey,” I say sincerely.
Lacey smiles, and puts the phone away.
“I think it’s actually going to happen,” she says. “You know, the wedding.”
I flush. My scepticism about the ring, the wedding—the relationship—is justifiable. How many years? How many “Lacey is single”/”Lacey is in a relationship”/ “It’s complicated” switchbacks on her Facebook status? But I would not express that to Lacey for anything.
I arrange my lips into what is meant to be a supportive smile. Perhaps it comes out wrong, as Lacey takes back a step.
“You look different,” she says. “Have you cut your hair?” I shake my head. “Lost weight?” “Uhm-no.” “New dress?” “No.”
“Well, there’s something about you,” she gives me a critical look. “I like it,” she pronounces. “Whatever you’re doing, keep doing it!” And she saunters into the house.
Lacey claims to be a little bit psychic. Perhaps she is.
As I unbuckle Annie, I see Clint get out of his car. As I lock the van, he’s reaching Lacey’s front door.
Jesus Christ, was he unbuckling his belt with one hand while reaching for the door knob with the other?
I need to get my mind out of the gutter.
“Mom!” Eddie wails. “Open the door! It’s so cold!”
The kids snack, then disappear into various corners of the house, except for Annie, who sits in my lap as I make pasta. Alex makes it home just as I’m slopping it into bowls on the table; the children squeal with delight, and then fight over who gets to sit next to him. He offers to do bedtime if they stop fighting, and they suppress it, a little.
I do a half-ass job cleaning the kitchen—good mother. A morally ambiguous wife. A horrid housekeeper. And then, to the sound of my husband running our children’s bath, I pop open the laptop. And this time, I take the initiative.
Because I am clearly insane.
—I’ve rethought the visuals. I’ve never seen you in a tie. Use your belt. It’ll have to come off anyway.
And of course he’s there.
No, the only time I’ve ever used a tie on you, we borrowed it. Remember?
And leather is more fun.
How long will I have you?
—I guess that depends on when you untie me.
I’ll try not to be greedy. // Try // I make no promises.
Now tell me. In detail. What you did last night.
—I don’t know how to start.
Begin at the beginning, insatiable you. And take me through every filthy detail.
—No. I think I’ll just tell you Alex had gauge marks all the way down his back at the end.
Lucky man. Unless he doesn’t enjoy the scratches.
—And you? Did you aim at the lace and watch it trickle down?
I had you tied up (thinking ahead… though your wrists were behind your back), working your mouth, laced breasts jutting forward from having your wrists bound. Then when I was ready, I stroked the last few moments, freeing your mouth. I wanted you to word-fuck me to the end.
Then I aimed.
A hot beautiful messy sight.
—You were always much better at this than I.
Love making you wet
ready to devour you
are you ready to be put to work?
no? wet and trembling sounds ready to me
—still need something
Tell me. What do you need?
—something to nudge me over the edge
—a hand in just the right place, a tongue on just the right spot
a firm handprint on your lovely skin
—just enough pressure
just enough to motivate
an encouraging spank
not being punished.
—Fuck. Has it been 10 years since we’ve seen each other?
a long interval
—I’m astounded you can still do this to me.
Amazing how fast to rekindle, yes.
I’ve never stopped wanting you.
I always thought we were sexual equals.
—I like that.
We are a twisted pair.
In the best way—woven together in some primal way. We match.
Tell me you want me.
—So much. You?
I want to feel your hair in my hands as I take you from behind.
I want to unleash you, drive you mad. Fuck you until you lose your words, all your self-restraint.
—Fuck. So primal. I still remember the way you smell, you know. I didn’t think I did, but in this moment, it is all around me.
It’s what you need to nudge you over the edge.
Now get on your knees.
Open your mouth.
Thrust your tongue out so I can fuck your mouth deeper.
—you’re bigger than I remember
I can feel the tip of your tongue on my balls each time I bury my cock in your face.
—where are my hands?
rubbing your wet cunt
your moans transmit along the shaft of my cock
“cum for me while I use your pretty mouth”
I tighten my grip on your hair to raise the tension.
Raise the stakes. Nudge you over the edge.
—teeth on your cock
I like it
—teeth and mouth off your cock, my face just pressed against you while I writhe
I press your face against me, clutching you, almost smothering you, your hot wet breathing burning into me.
—I moan. You tell me…
“Cum for me. Show me how hard you can cum.”
—My teeth are clenched and I hiss
—My hands can’t keep up anymore. I press myself against your leg, I rub
fucking yourself with my leg like a bitch in heat
your cunt so scorching hot and slippery wet against me
just when you can’t take anymore i turn you around, hard, and slide my spit-covered cock inside your cunt. one hand never leaving your neck.
you fuck-me heels have you at the perfect height. your cunt right where i want it.
so wet i can feel you dripping down your thighs, onto my legs
making the most delicious wet sounds echoing off the hotel walls.
—Someone pounds on the wall.
“Tell them to fuck off. Loudly.”
SLAP on your ass. “SAY IT.”
— “Fuck off. We’re busy.”
yes, you are
I want to look at you
“Go sit on the chair. Spread for me.”
—good, I can’t support my weight anymore, knees giving out
—you like that
I do. I like the thought of you preparing yourself to get fucked.
gift-wrapping yourself for me
giving yourself to me utterly
I take a long moment to admire and appreciate your gift of yourself.
I sit on the edge of the bed and drink in the sight of you. I stroke my curved cock. Is it as you remember it?
—I want to straddle it, will you let me
Play with yourself a bit longer. I’ve missed you.
I want to record this movie into my memory.
—but i want to be touching you
and i want to drive you even more mad
now come take this cock inside your pretty cunt
the view of your luscious breasts over me
—I sit on your thighs
—rest my head on your shoulder
—I slide over your cock, now that I’m sitting on you, it’s my turn to tease
—your hands on my ass
“Show me how you like to ride a cock.”
“Fuck me. Show me how hard you can take it.”
I’m gripping your ass hard enough to mark you.
—I bite you again
oh you biting little tease
SLAP on your ass
you’re so going to get it for that.
—I let you in…
—just for a moment
—One stroke, two… I slide off
Get that cunt back here.
I grip your ass HARD
you are fucking tight.
—reality obtrudes: I’ve had four babies, my lover. I don’t know about that.
You are truly erotic. beats merely tight any day
My lover. I like the sound of that. You wouldn’t say that to me for a long time…
Now I grab your legs. The sight of them on either side of my neck as I put them over my shoulders my cock reaching so fucking deep inside you, fuck yes…
your heels pointed straight to the hotel room above
—jeezus fucking christ
your clit pounded by the hard bone above my even harder cock
—you push every button
you scream so loudly i shove your pretty lace panties in your mouth
—you will never be able to stay at this hotel again
you will never be able to wear that lace lingerie again
not without blushing at the things you did in it. Gladly.
—I am so wet there are rivulets streaming down the inside of my thighs.
I want to see that.
—I slide off you. Stand up. Push you down on the bed.
my cock is yours
—I climb over you, up your torso. Slither up you. I am so wet, I leave slick along you where I touch you.
—I straddle your face. I’m up high—you can’t reach me yet. But you see me. And you feel me as I drip. Droplet by droplet.
mmmmm the sweet scent of you
I open my mouth to catch your sweet juice
on my chin, on my tongue, on my lips… dripping down the sides of my face
“Play with your cunt. I want you to gush on me.”
Do as you’re told. Now.
—My hands: one on my clit, the other hugging my breasts.
—Yours—on my calves. Just holding them.
No, gripping them tight.
Feel the pressure of my hands?
— (can we match this in real life, my lover? Because this conversation is turning into the most erotic chapter of my life… And we’ve set the bar fucking high in the past.)
(yes, oh, yes, we will. In 11 days.)
—I drop a little lower, just graze you with my cunt
my tongue just barely able to lap at your slit
“squeeze your breasts fucking HARD. cum on me.”
my fingers dig into your legs HARD
—I’m not really there. I’m on that front lawn in… what neighbourhood was that? Do you remember? my skirt around my waist…
—and on your roof, your mouth on my cunt, my breasts
—… and in a stairwell… which one? oh god
There were several. All of them fucking hot.
—I scream again, and oh my god, I’m coming all over your face, right now, and every moment in the past all at once
i can see your cunt clench and spasm as your juice pours down on me hot and sweet
you are delicious
—the world spins
And now you’re ready to be really fucked. Before you can recover. I’m far from through with you.
Though sadly I have to leave now. To the gym. With my wife. Reality does intrude. But you’ll know I’m sweating to look good for you.
And you have a photo to take for me.
—But. Wow. Thank you, my lover.
Thank YOU. You know what I want to see, don’t you?
I’ll check later.
I am not going to send him a picture of my cunt. What sort of skank does he think I am?
next: DAY 3–Fuck Foreplay
Can’t wait? You can still get Tell Me in time for Christmas from Chapters/Indigo: Tell Me (paperback). (Amazon is replenishing its stock and not guaranteeing delivery.)
Start reading on your e-reader anytime.
A note on royalties and how you feed an author: I get about a $1CND when you buy the $3.99 e-book. You don’t want to know how little I get from the sale of each hard copy. So you should buy both. ;P
And… if you’re in yyc, consider yourself invited:
OK, so we’ve covered the important stuff, and now the outer later… what? Oh. The gentlemen want to know if they’re supposed to wear lingerie as well. Please yourselves, darling, or the one who will see what’s next to your skin. No designer’s managed to make men’s briefs or boxers sexy for me, so I truly don’t care. But I will be scrutinizing your shoes. Very carefully.
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