20. Lennox
20
LENNOX
“ H i,” she squeals out, entering the car. Her sweet perfume invades my nostrils, and I realize that she’s been in this car almost as many times as I have.
“Hi. Fair warning before we get there—I did a lot of work on my house, but it’s still a long way from being done.”
“I think it’s incredible you’re doing everything on your own. I can barely change my own lightbulb.”
“I could teach you.”
“Really?”
My eyes are on the road, but just by her voice I know she’s smiling that innocent, ‘too good for this rotten world’ smile.
“Sure. It’s an important part of being self-sustainable.” I shrug.
“I agree. My father never let me try any of it, not that he did any work on his own. But he always said that a man in my life will take care of it.” I shoot her a quick glance, just in time to see her roll her eyes. “So, tell me what you did.”
“Erm, I finished the bedroom first.” She pulls in a sharp breath. “And after it, I redid the living room and demolished the bathroom. The dirty work in the kitchen is done, but I needed to clean up the garage so I could do the cabinets. So that’s where I’m at.”
“Wow, that’s a lot of work. But it seems like you’re close to being done.”
“Not by a mile.” I chuckle. “There is still the dining room, the second bedroom and bathroom, the garage, and the garage bathroom. But I like it. It keeps me busy.”
“Is someone helping you with it?”
“Connor came by a couple of times, but mostly I do everything on my own. It’s how I prefer it, anyway.”
“Hmm,” she says, not elaborating.
We pull up into my garage ten minutes later.
“Wow. This is huge.” Her eyes are wide as she looks around.
I suppress the ‘that’s what she said’ joke that wishes to exit and clear my throat. “It’s supposed to be a full-on shop.”
She walks around the dull, gray space in her baggy, peach-colored blouse with hair the color of fire, looking at everything with childlike curiosity. Her fingers graze the seat of my bike, the subtle move shooting straight to my dick.
“It’s gorgeous.” Her eyes snap up to mine. “I know nothing about bikes, but I guess this is a good one?”
Her question makes me laugh. “Yeah. It’s pretty rare. There are bikes today that are faster or more advanced, but this—this is a classic.”
“I get that.” She points to the door and I nod, unlocking it and walking up the stairs.
The tones of my apartment are neutral, and it’s nowhere near as cozy as her place but I think it looks good. It’s clean and new, my furniture comfortable, my TV huge. Does she notice the picture frame that’s slightly askew, or the drop of paint on the TV stand? Does she notice that while most of my books are facing the right side, some of them are turned backward?
Those are all easy fixes. But ones I don’t plan to fix. Brand new spaces give me chills. They are usually staged to perfection, and I can’t stand it. So, instead of breaking a window or fucking up the paint job, I decided on more subtle ways to make my home less perfect.
“You read,” she states, like the thought is both surprising and not surprising. My hands itch as her eyes track my bookshelf. “Is that my book?” Her brows lift.
“Wh…?”
“Did you steal my book?” She rushes to the shelf, and I’m too in my thoughts to catch up to her. “This is my book. I was wondering where it was.” Her eyes are playful, like she can’t believe this happened.
“You planned to read it?”
“It’s one of my favorite books,” she says. “Why is it here?”
I scratch the back of my neck, thinking of a response. “It looked interesting, so I took a peek, and it accidentally ended up in my jacket.”
“You read it.” The color drains from her face as realization hits her.
“I did.”
“Oh, my god.” She slumps onto the couch, burying her face in her hands. “This is mortifying.”
“What is?”
“That book. We both know what’s in it.” She still hasn’t looked up.
“We do. But look at it this way—it turned into a great ice breaker for our talk tonight.” She groans in response. Looking at the bright side isn’t my usual forte, but I want to cheer her up. “Can I offer you something to drink?”
“What’s the strongest drink you’ve got?”
I huff a laugh. “I got you hooked on whiskey, huh?” I joke. “But how about some wine?” She nods. “Red or white?”
“Red, please.”
I get to my free-standing fridge and take out a bottle of wine.
“Sorry, I only have cups. No wineglasses yet.” Shit, I haven’t thought this through.
“That’s fine. I love drinking out of cups.” She waves me off.
I pour us each a cup of wine, lol , and sit down next to her.
“So, for tonight, I want us to go over some things.”
“Oh, OK.” She takes a shy sip of her drink before setting the cup down on the coffee table.
“I think we should talk about expectations that we both have.”
“Like what?”
“Things like protection, exclusivity or non-exclusivity, etc. Whatever else you can think of.”
“I would prefer us to be exclusive. I know it’s a lot to ask, but I would feel icky if I knew you were sleeping with other women.” Her gaze darts to the side, like she’s embarrassed to ask that of me.
“I completely agree. We should be exclusive.” Her eyes lift, full of hope and for a second, the fear of hurting her returns.
Being faithful was never a problem to me. In fact, any time I was in any type of friends with benefits situation, I was content being exclusive. The emotion part is where I’m blocking.
“When it comes to protection, I got tested after Bryce. Though a big part of me believed he didn’t cheat, another nagging part was telling me the opposite. And I’m on the pill.”
I nod. “I get tested regularly. I can email you my results. But we can still use condoms for your comfort, of course.”
“I think”—her fingers fidget in her lap—“I would prefer to go without. I’ve never tried it.”
Fuck, now I’m thinking about sliding into her wet heat. Bare. Swallowing, I continue, “We should also talk about your limits and wishes.”
“Limits?”
“Yes. What are you interested in and what’s a definite ‘no’ for you.”
“Oh. I kind of thought we would just…” her voice trails off, “do it.”
“Sorry, but I wouldn’t feel comfortable with that. You said you wanted to explore which can mean a million of different things. In kink communities”—I slightly cough—“consent is the top priority. We go over everything in advance to make sure both parties are consenting to everything that happens. I think we should do the same.” I motion between us. “I actually have one of the kink checklists here, but I think it’s a bit too advanced for what we’re doing here.”
Taking a longer sip of wine, she asks, “Can I see it? The checklist.”
“Erm... I guess.” I walk up to the TV cabinet and grab the form from the first drawer. “But just so you know, none of these things are something that we need to do. Most of these terms will probably be unfamiliar to you.”
She takes the A4 piece of paper I got from L&L and skims her eyes over it. Her eyes widen with recognition.
“You”—she swallows—“do these things?”
“Some of them. But like I said, we don’t have to do any of them. Most people don’t.”
She nods. “So what did you have in mind?”
“I think the first step is for you to figure out your desires. And the path to that is”—another cough—“masturbation.” Her eyes widen again, this time with panic as she rushes to down her wine. I don’t know why I’m weird about this, taking about wants and limits is a prerequisite of almost every encounter in the clubs I frequent. But Anne… Anne is pure and inexperienced, and she must be terrified. The least I can do is be awkward, as well. “So, how do you typically masturbate? What do you use?”
“Use?” she stutters. She’s caught off guard, her neck breaking out in hives.
“Yeah, use. Like toys, or porn, or whatever.”
“Oh. I don’t have any toys. I rarely do it, anyway.” She shakes her head. “It’s embarrassing.”
“What is?”
“It’s embarrassing to do it ,” she whispers. “It’s like, you are so unappealing that you can’t find someone to do those things to you, so you need to do it yourself.”
“Sorry, but that is a load of bullshit.” She stares at me, blinking rapidly. “I mean it. That is your body and you’re the most important person to love it and to bring it pleasure. Even when you do have someone to fulfill those needs, your body still needs the self-love.”
“I don’t know.” Her gaze drops to the side. “After it, I always feel like shit. I feel the opposite of self-loved.”
“And what about me? Is it OK for me to masturbate?”
Her eyes shoot back up to mine, before dropping again. “That’s different. You’re a guy.”
I nod. There’s a wall in her head. A wall made of purity culture and repressing female sexuality. It makes me furious to know she’s been stuck in her own body for twenty-eight years, dissociating from it because, in her mind, it’s not hers to own.
It also motivates me. She deserves this. More than anyone I know, she deserves this. And I’ll do it the only way I know how. By making her.
“Here’s what we’re going to do. Your first lesson will be self-love. Your task is to figure out exactly what makes you tick, exactly what turns you on.” Her mouth falls open. “What gets you wet.” Her head draws back. “And what makes you come.” She swallows audibly.
“And how should I do that?” she says on a shaky voice.
“You’ll wait for my instructions. I’ll help you with it. You’ll be on your own, but I’ll help you with it.”
She nods apprehensively.
“I need to hear you say it,” I add.
“OK.” Her voice is barely above a whisper.
“And if at any point you become uncomfortable, just say the word and I’ll stop. All right?”
“Yes.” Her voice is just a tiny bit louder now.
We finish our wine, chatting some more before I take her back home. As I go to clean up the wine cups from the coffee table, I notice the checklist isn’t there anymore.
Son of a bitch, she took it.
I guess I deserved that after reading her book, but I honestly hope she doesn’t traumatize herself researching things on that list.