OMFG, the party is tomorrow, and I think I’m finally starting to get stupid nervous. I hope YOU are just feeling excited. What do you think of this day’s chapter title? Subtle, eh? It’s that kind of book…
Day 3—Fuck Foreplay
Wednesday, December 5
I don’t sleep. I don’t think. I just… is feel even the right verb? I’m sick with desire. And generally sick. And resentful. And angry. And so filled with lust, sleep is impossible.
I go downstairs, and try to find a make-work project. But it’s too early for even Toronto to panic and send me work and I’ve met all my other deadlines. I work to calm myself by organizing family photos. Thanksgiving. Halloween. Random life shots—but all real life. Children. Mother. Not a psychotic skank whore orgasming on command to words on the computer screen.
Fuck. I slap my face. Then, stupid, thoughtless, log in to Twitter and Facebook. And read this:
You kept me up all night, lover. I dreamed I was watching you fuck a man like an animal, your eyes locked on mine the whole time. Even when you came.
Oh my fucking god. Real life. Children. Mother. Wife! It all recedes into the background. Instead:
—I walk around on edge of orgasm all day and I read this, and I come, instantly, immediately. Silently.
And he’s in Montreal, so of course, he is already awake, moving, on-line. And he writes back:
10 days. Nine, really.
Love the thought of you on a hair trigger.
—I’m still worried the reality will fall short of the build up.
Reality has many things in its favour. Such as the feeling of you wrapped around my cock.
—Your tongue on my skin.
Enjoy your heightened state, my lover. And get on that photo. My inbox was empty this morning. Disappointed; verging on angry.
You have no idea how demanding.
I slam the laptop lid down as Alex comes down the stairs. “Up early again? Is this one of the signs of the apocalypse?” he jokes as he kisses me. Running joke in our household—me, the most un-morning of un-morning people. Alex, often up at 6 a.m. on weekends. Freak.
“Possibly,” I say. “Or peri-menopause. Am I old enough for peri-menopause?”
“Jesus, I hope not,” Alex says, shocked. “Working?”
“Facebooking,” I say. “I probably drank all the coffee already. You’ll have to make another pot.”
Alex sighs dramatically. I hear the whirr of the coffee grinder.
My fingers tickle the top of the laptop. I make myself think about Nicola’s rat-fuck bastard of a husband, whose two or three graduate degrees from MIT did not learn him to not sex-text with his intern on the un-password-protected family plan phone. In the bathroom. At the dinner table. Apparently, in church. (“You guys go to church?” I remember asking Nicola in shock when I heard that story. “Aren’t you atheists?” “Taoists,” she corrects me. “But the grandparents…” her voice trails off. Grandparents. No need to say more. The things we do for grandparents.)
Alex tramps up past me, upstairs. I hear the shower. I open the laptop.
I’m hoping you disappeared to play with the camera. I am checking my email obsessively. Verging on compulsively. Where is my photo?
—The photo is not going to happen. Disobedient.
Insubordinate. Lucky for you, I feel understanding.
—More to look forward to.
Agreed. Mostly I just like picturing you being subversive.
—You are incorrigible. Corrupting.
And I believe you love it.
Fuck. Already want to cum. Jeans still done up. Hands only typing. Amazing.
—How was your sweat session? Focused on the task at hand?
I was. The task being to look good for you. You are inspiring. I imagined there was an email waiting for me back in my locker. I even imagined the subject line: come fuck me. I think that inspired 20 per cent heavier weights, minimum.
—I have a picture of you laying down on a bench. And I come in.
Continue while I type with my left hand…
—Are you sure you want to do this again?
—And straddle you. You’re still holding the weight. But your attention is, um, divided. I say, “Fuck foreplay.”
I want to show you how hard you just made me.
—I just slide off your pants and slip you right in. You drop the bar—it just makes it into the safeties.
Shove my cock.
—I lean forward, feel that angle?
Mmm, yes, so deep. Your clit grinding into me now.
—My hands are on your hips and I hold you down as I lift up. You want to thrust, but I keep on pushing you down.
Hungry bitch. I love it.
Give me a safe email address. I need to show you.
—janelies at gmail.com
—I move up and down your shaft. I hold myself up with my hands…
—And crush down on you
Check your email.
—Looking. Oh, god. Fuck.
—Jeezus. Flood of memory…
Glad you approve.
—Ashamed, excited, overwrought, distracted… I might need to slide off you and lick you a while… But first…
—I bring my legs up onto the bench—they’re resting on your hips—the weight of me presses you into the bench, the pressure of your hip bones bruises me. I change angles a little, feel that? But this is about me, not you. My hands on your shoulders. My cunt slapping down on you.
Use my cock.
—You’re at my disposal.
Milk your pleasure from me.
—No, I will milk you later
—Now I just need…
—…a little more friction
—…a little more pressure…
—…and here I cum.
— (why is it so much dirtier as cum instead of come? what a difference a vowel makes)
—…and oh, you’re about to as well, so I slide off even as I writhe…
Cum on my cock.
—and I touch my lips to your head
—My tongue finds the hole
—I caress you with one hand and myself with the other
Your skills impress. Just the sight of your hands working both of us is enough to make my balls tighten, my cock swell even harder…
You can taste the salty precum.
—I lap it up
Such a submissive sentence.
—Your effect on me: you turn me from mistress to slave with one taste. I forget that I meant to ride you and pleasure myself selfishly. I worship at your cock.
I want to hear you say you’re my fuckslave.
—I can’t. My mouth is full of your cock.
The words muffled by my cock. Say it.
—I’m your fuckslave, I whisper, as I take more and more of you down my throat.
My hands gripping your hair as you choke on my cock.
Your spit dripping.
—Your hands in my hair, gripping, pulling
— (I look at your picture again)
Take it deep.
Forcing you down.
Thrust out your tongue.
I pull you up for air.
—I’m gasping breathless smeared
Slap your lips with my cock. They swell.
Then it’s right back to work.
Get on your hands and knees. On the bench.
Mouth at the perfect height.
—I crawl up…
Keep you hands where they are. I want to use your mouth like a cunt. My cock is crammed into your throat.
I reach over you and slap your ass, just to feel you moan against my shaft. Take it. SLAP.
Do you want this?
Tell me you’re my fuckslave again. I like to see you type it.
—I whisper, I’m your fuckslave, my head bent down.
—I can’t believe you can still… again… do this to me.
—No one else does.
—A part of me hates it.
—I. Hate. It.
That’s so fucking hot.
Angry hate fucking.
—It’s barely consensual what you do to me.
—But so wet…
Knowing how forced you are.
—Push me onto the floor.
No. I will use your mouth even longer because I know you’d rather be fucked in your cunt.
—oh dear fucking god I am so wet
Rub your clit. I want to feel it in your throat when you cum
—My hands on my cunt, thumbs on clit, fingers stretching me, probing, rubbing
I enjoy seeing you debase yourself for me.
My cock twitching.
For me. All for me.
Cum for me.
—Palm of hand on my clit, pressing
Your selfish master.
—I arch up on the floor as I cum
—Your cock slides deeper into my throat
—I couldn’t spit out your cum if I wanted to
—It sloshes into me
All of it.
—I have no choice all inside me
—a little dribble at the corner of my mouth
You please me so.
Lick it off. No spilling.
Alex walks into the room, and I raise my glazed eyes from the screen to look at him, but my fingers remain on the keyboard:
—Lick (not alone)
—tongue in corner of mouth
I should release you then
—then come fuck me
You please me.
—9 days xx
Alex kisses my forehead on his way out the door, and it burns. I have one of those odd moments of gratitude for my faithlessness—my lack of faith in the Christian god or any other nasty vengeful cosmic being—because if I believed, I too would burn. The act of physical transgression totally unnecessary; all the sin sufficient in this act, this thought crime, cyberfuck, mindfuck.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
The kids’ school has one of its random days off today, so I drive over to meet Marie and her brood right after breakfast. We meet in the Confederation Park parking lot, and, between us, unload six kids and 10 sleds out of our minivans. “Why do we have more sleds than kids?” Cassandra asks. “Because we’re really clever moms,” I tell her. “At some point, everyone will want to be on the saucers. And then someone will throw a hissy fit because what he really wants is the steering sleigh. Plus, Marie and I need something under our tooshies.”
“Can I just sit and hang out with you when I get bored?” Cassandra asks.
“Of course,” I say. But the snow is alluring, and she’s running up the hill at full speed along with the boys and Annie in minutes.
Marie hands me a mug of hot chocolate.
“You rock,” I say.
“You look like shit,” she says. “How do I look?”
I look at her. Much as usual. But she clearly wants a different type of answer.
“Ambiguous,” I say. It’s a good word. So many potential interpretations. And it pleases Marie.
“That pretty much nails it,” she says. And I know she wants to talk about the lunch, and probably resents me a little for not bringing it up yesterday.
“So?” I say. She shrugs eloquently.
“I don’t know,” she says. “We ate lunch. We held hands. We necked, like high school kids, in the parkade. And then I came back.”
“I sent him a text after, thanks for a great time,” she says. “And he hasn’t written me back.” She bites her lips. “I think it’s over.”
“Because if he had had a great time, he’d text me back, right? With plans to do it again? He was clearly disappointed in the whole experience.”
Oh, my Marie.
“Should I text him to find out if he received my text?” she asks, and I see her reaching for the phone.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Marie, what are you, 12?” I snap. And she takes half a step back and stares at me, because I don’t snap. Out of character. “It’s what, half a day. Don’t fucking chase. Enjoy… enjoy the memory.”
“But I’m just not sure I’m really enjoying the memory,” she says wistfully. “It was, you know, okay. But a little awkward. And the chemistry in person… it wasn’t… it wasn’t quite the same as in the texts. And I think maybe he felt that too…”
I don’t understand women.
“But if you felt that, then why are you so anxious for him to get back to you?” I ask.
“Because!” Marie exclaims. “I don’t want him to be the one to leave! I want to be the one to make the decision that it’s over. Jesus, Jane, don’t you understand anything?”
I give Marie a pat on the arm that she morphs into a hug.
Again, I think I could tell her. I should tell her. So she doesn’t feel alone. So I don’t feel alone. We could be the anti-Nicola-and-Colleen. Commiserating, instead of about their cheating husbands, about our fucking lovers.
But I can’t.
I just don’t.
“You really, really don’t look well,” Marie repeats.
Too much cyberfucking, not enough sleep, I’m tempted to say. Except it’s of course not just that. Secrets. They exhaust. Moral ambiguity, it exhausts.
And there’s a big crash half-way up the hill, and Marie and I race up to disentangle limbs and sleds and to kiss bruises and fix toques and mittens.
Use your mouth even longer because I know you’d rather be fucked in your cunt
—oh dear fucking god I am so wet
Cum for me.
Oh Jesus. I really need to work on feeling badly about this. And I need to… I don’t know what I need. A smack up-the-side my head. A reality check.
The phone rings as I’m unloading the kids at the front door. “Dad?” I say with surprise. My mother calls me and texts me constantly. Annoying “What are you doing?” texts, random “I love you guys!” texts, to the point “Do the kids want anything special for lunch on Tuesday?” texts, passive-aggressive “I know you don’t care about such things, but it really means a lot to Dad and me to have our anniversary acknowledged…” My father calls only in real emergencies. As do I.
“What’s wrong?” I say. Anxiety mounting.
“Why does something have to be wrong for me to call my only daughter?” my father says. “I just called to see how you guys are doing. And to tell you I love you.”
Fucking twilight zone.
“OK,” I say. “We love you too. You sure everything’s ok?”
“Fine, fine,” he says. “You know, it’s that time of the year when there’ s just not much to do at work. So an old man’s mind wanders. To the things he loves.”
This is not my father talking.
“Dad?” I ask. “Are you by any chance recovering from a Christmas lunch that involved too much wine?”
“Jane!” he’s appalled. “You know I never drink at work. With work colleagues. I guess it’s just the season to feel, you know, sentimental. And we’re having our lunch tomorrow, and I just… I wanted to tell you I love you. And how much I’m looking forward to seeing you.”
“OK,” I say. “Well, we’re just fine. And I love you too. You sure nothing’s wrong?”
“Everything’s fine, fine,” he says again. And rings off.
I’m a little weirded out.
When Alex comes home and I tell him about the phone call—he’s also weirded out.
“Maybe he had a prostate exam or a colonoscopy or something and is suddenly aware of his own mortality, again,” Alex suggests. “Remember that time he had to have an MRI? He wouldn’t stop hugging me.”
“Maybe,” I agree. The phone blips to announce an “I love you xoxoxoxoxo love Mom” text from my mother. I type back “xoxo” without saying anything to Alex. Sigh.
“Is it too much to ask of your parents to be predictable?” I ask.
“Yes!” Cassandra and Henry call in unison from the living room.
“Little ingrates,” I shout back. “Supper in five!”
I make it through the evening, bedtime and beyond without starting up Facebook, or even picking up my phone.
But I still don’t sleep.
next: Day 4–Fatherhood
Can’t wait? You can still get Tell Me in time for Christmas from Chapters/Indigo: Tell Me (paperback).
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:
Is that what you’re going to wear? YOU. LOOK. GORGEOUS. I am not going to be able to keep my eyes off of you…