20. Chapter 20 Staley
Chapter 20 Staley
B egging. This is what I have reduced myself to. I’ll get on my knees if need be. But I knew the minute I called Theo out on his little secret, he’d have two choices: admit he’s been getting me off all along or deny, deny, deny.
Theo looks at me, stunned. Shiny curls frame his face, making his eyes stand out more than ever before, and now, when I close my eyes, I’ll never be able to picture anyone else aside from Theo’s face when listening to Luca. We’re locked in a stare off where neither of us challenges the other to blink or disrupt the unspoken want or the messy state of our feelings for one another. My gut instinct is to grab one of my dad’s bowling trophies and say something cheeky, And the winner of the best smolder goes to—Theo Sullivan, but I’ve never been more serious in my whole life.
“What did y-you say?” Theo’s voice is barely audible, a meek ghost of the living, breathing man before me.
“Oh, no, sir. Don’t play shy. You heard me.” I’m taunting him, and maybe this is unfair of me, but the audacity of this man is too damn much for my lady parts.
Theo fiddles with the side of his pants, but his eyes never waver from mine. We’re locked in, and I’m okay with it because I am nothing short of being unrelenting when it comes to telling the truth.
“I did,” he admits.
“Good, because good boys should always submit to questioning. Loud and clear.”
As much fun as it is to let Theo stew, it would be a relief for the both of us if we got to the touching part of time together. Because touching him again or being touched by him would be a biological reward my stressed body could benefit from. Theo could easily correct the irregularity of my heartbeat. Lord knows he’s done it a million times in my headphones without me even knowing it was him.
Theo’s touch is a resting heart rate.
“Staley, I can explain.” This is straightforward Theo. One who is short with his words but intentional in a different way, like Luca but not. It doesn’t matter how Theo says anything because it’s all attractive. I don’t let him explain. Instead, I plant myself in front of him, close enough to admire the small groove underneath his nose. When he smiles, it becomes more pronounced, and damn, it’s tempting to ignore the noisy nerves in my body telling me not to reach for him.
Temptation exists to demonstrate one’s ability to resist, and I’m in a feisty mood. I run my finger along the small valley of his face, outlining his lips as an audible gulp echoes throughout the room.
“Theo, I expect you to. You let me embarrass myself the first day we met. You’ve known this entire time that I listen to you in a sexual way.” And because there’s a small part of me wanting to torture him, I step back a few feet.
He cuts me off while hesitantly reaching at my elbow. “I wanted to t-tell you so many times. I was embarrassed for myself, and you probably think I’m absolute t-trash for not confessing sooner.”
Soft wisps of ink stain the sides of his fingers, and I dig for a reason to stay upset with him. When I do the math, he’s a socially introverted person with a lot of feelings about how other people view his speech disability. Valid feelings. This isn’t a betrayal on his part. I would know if it were because his face is painted with worry.
“You should stay.”
Theo shakes off my suggestion.
“You came all this way and endured Leslie. We have a cuddle session, and maybe I can work on forgiving you while I work.”
Theo clears his throat as a little line between his eyebrows forms.
“You want to c-cuddle? Here? But ... I lied to you.”
Respect for my situation and job oozes off of Theo without him even having to say anything, and it makes him twice as attractive.
“Or I could make you some tea. Noah probably left Earl Grey in the cupboard. I don’t suppose tea bags go bad, do they?”
Theo shrugs with a sweet smile.
“We can cuddle. Sounds ni-nice. Do you know how s-sorry I am? I never meant to deceive or embarrass you. I’ve never m-met a fan before.”
The lub-dub of my heart betrays how calm I’m trying to remain right now. If Theo looks closely enough, he’ll see my pulse is raging through every clenched junction of my body, vagina-land included.
“There’s a great couch in my room.”
Brazen behavior is my new normal as I throw my thumb over my shoulder toward my room. What does it matter if we mince words now since Theo knows I know he’s Luca?
“Your room?” He gulps. “Sure.”
Time to put my money where my couch is and give Theo the best cuddle of his damn life.
Okay, my room is a little eclectic, and by eclectic, I mean the blankets are rumpled from my morning activities. The memory heats my face over. A mix of clean and dirty laundry is shoved into the corner of the couch, accentuated by the bendy table lamp shining on a pair of my lacy underwear.
“Sorry, lemme clean up a few things.”
Your life, start by cleaning it up.
He scans the room, taking in the posters covering the walls from floor to ceiling. I register the smile on his face he smirks, pointing at the badass redhead Scully from The X-Files . “Believer?”
“Hey! Don’t make fun. The Scully Effect single-handedly influenced many women to pursue a line of work in STEM.” I shove my lacy panties underneath the pillow on my bed after I realize I’m waving them around passionately, talking about Dana Scully. “And yes, I’m a Believer.”
Theo laughs and surrenders both hands as if I’m a threat to him.
“I wasn’t m-making fun. And if it’s any consolation, I believe too.”
And then he winks because, of course, he does. He oscillates between standoffish and silent—a fan setting, barely touching the hot spots on my body—and high speed, blasting in my face, leaving me unable to catch my breath from all of the winks and casual whisperings.
“Today started as a shipwreck, Theo, and thinking feels too hard. Any positions come to mind?”
Jesus, be a fence and drive me into the ground with a post rammer because I am unsteady at the sight of Theo licking his lips. Hard things are aplenty in my life, but the mere sight of how thick and sturdy his entire presence is wants me to beg again. Smother me like a campfire. Put me out.
“Lap Position.” His timbre resonates across the room, hitting me right in the heart.
Well, okay. The man is prepared.
The lap cuddle usually goes one of two ways:
My head in the client’s lap. Because that’s what I need: to be inches away from his penis.
The client’s head in my lap. Because that’s what I need: him inches away from your vagina.
Clients tend to prefer my head in their laps. When their love lives are upended, they can give and nourish another by twirling their fingers through another’s hair or caressing a jawline without expecting to be touched by someone else. In all the times I’ve been the receiver, the touch itself is intimate but never sexual, and it has led me to an accidental nap on occasion.
Physical touch is about the biological need to be loved and made to feel safe. On the days when my caffeine reserves are low and the stress of my dad’s health is high, having my head cradled is a nice reprieve from it all.
Without assuming which option Theo would prefer, I explain his choices.
Theo cuts me off. “Are we going to t-talk about the Luca thing more?”
I wave his question off because I’ll cry if this man and I don’t cuddle in the next five seconds.
“Fine. My h-head in your lap.”
Nerves fistfight in my body as the anxiety builds, threatening to sucker punch this entire event in the proverbial nose before it begins. Angst is familiar, welcomed, and anticipated, but the chaos of longing for something I cannot have is choking away my ability to breathe and think clearly.
I have responsibilities (and ethics because I cannot lose this job).
I want to confess to Theo how much I’d love to climb his sturdy body, layered in citrus and ink, if he will let me. I might—and it’s a big might—even substitute Theo reading me poetry over the musings of Luca Blue because I want to hear his voice in all of the ways and all of the positions as Theo and Luca. To come or not to come, is there any question?
I can only blame one person for my sense of sensibility and rationale: Dad. A father’s job is to teach right from wrong, and Russell Monroe ensured that. Am I jeopardizing my job security by allowing myself to step into this gray area? I’m not sure.
Theo waits for me to get into position as I place a small throw pillow across my lap to rest his head on. I offer him a nervous smile. Welcome to Vaginaland! Please keep all hands inside of the vehicle at all times. (Or don’t.)
He sits an arm’s length away. Theo is shy and maybe overly worried about what people think of his stutter, but he’s gorgeous, intelligent, and has a secret identity where he says all of the sexy things. How is he girlfriend-less?
“You can lie down whenever you want. Many of my clients take this cuddle position as a time to close their eyes and rest. But it’s your session. Choose what feels best for you.”
Theo stays facing forward. I admire how his three o’clock shadow strengthens his jawline. Daydreaming has gotten me nowhere thus far, but I cannot help but imagine what the scruff of his face nestled between my legs or in the crook of my neck would feel like. My fingers locked in his hair as he devours the heart of me. It’s easy to picture his eyes peeking above my waistline, searching for acknowledgment that this feels as good for me as it does for him. He’s a kind lover but eager. I’m sure of this.
He wrenches his hands together as if I’m the temptation here, not vice versa. I graze his shoulder to assure him he’s safe to explore, hoping his energy and mine will mix and settle me into assurance. The decision happens instantly as he wipes his palms on the tops of his pants.
Theo rolls to his side so the back of his head rests against the softness of my belly. With everyone else, I’d not feel self-conscious about my stomach, but I force my muscles into a clenched state with Theo. It takes every ounce of strength not to worship him from above, catch his jaw in my hand, claiming his mouth with mine. Sometimes, anxiety pushes me to control things first.
Theo moves his head back and forth fitfully.
“Are you okay? We can change positions.”
“No, this is good. The p-pillow, do you mind if we remove it?”
He gazes at me waiting for me to shut him down for asking, and I return the request with a moony-eyed look. If translated, I’ll hang the stars for you, Theo. Of course, we can move this dumb decorative pillow.
Theo slips it to the floor and settles back into my lap, letting the heat from his breath hit the thin fabric of my leggings. I am unfocused. Withholding a sigh of pleasure is far more complicated than I expect it to be.
I’m no poet, but the urge to write about his eyes or his ability to make me fall in lust with him even though he is entirely off-limits overwhelms me. In another simulation, Theodore Sullivan is grade-A boyfriend material, and I get to reenact some of his Luca Blue scenes, but in this one, he’s my client.
His lips aren’t mine, but if they were ...
Morning beams pry through the cottony curtains hanging over my window, landing on Theo’s hands. The sun must be of the feminine persuasion because she seeks Theo out in the same way I do when we’re in a room together.
His well-loved flannel hugs his thickset waist, acting as an equator to his Henley and acid-washed black denim jeans. His length fills the rest of the couch, leaving his legs scrunched up and bent at the knee. If the English department were to release a calendar filled with hot professors, Theo would land himself an entire month, probably October. Theo’s whole aesthetic is not alternative but cozy, dark, and most importantly, poetically hot.
The weight of silence pulls at my lungs. I thought I’d be okay holding him here, but I need noise and engagement to get through this.
“How’d you become Luca Blue?”
Theo turns his head to stare at me with such interest that my insides knit themselves into an entire blanket. The worsted weight of his attention on me is warm and cozy, and he knows I’m stalling somehow. A smile breaches his face as I feel the pressure of his pleasant face pressing against me, ignoring my nervous tactics.
“It was an accident.”
I let my fingers swipe past the crown of his head.
“Well, go on. Tell me.”
Theo presses into my fingers.
“Therapy.”
“Is that the story? Therapy turned you into a sultry voice actor?”
“More or less, yes.”
The urge to ramble away my nerves is overwhelming.
“Is it loud in there?”
Theo’s breathing slows.
“Rambunctiously loud.” Theo smiles and I hate not knowing more of his story. Who just stumbles into erotic audio as a career path?
“I’m sorry. Sometimes, I need to chatter for a little while and give my brain a rest from trying to control everything.” I wave my hands about, signaling to my life.
“Do you need control right now?”
What a loaded question.
I shrug and think about how I regulate my anxiety. Naming things I feel, smell, hear, taste, and see is one way to start: his soft hair between my fingers ... the smell of citrus and ink ... the steady in and out of his breath ... residual mouthwash ... and the way he fits perfectly into my lap.
If I were braver I’d ask him why he’s this shy, adorable man in everyday life and a dirty, filthy, sweet talker behind a microphone. I want to know all of him.
This is anxiety in its prime, though. I forecast all kinds of worst-case scenarios and imaginary things I’d say or questions I might want to ask, made-up tales about why my life is the way it is; it gives me a sense of predictability.
Caught red-handed from the head-tripping, Theo holds my chin between his fingers.
“T-tell me what you need, Staley.” He states this with a steadiness in his chest. I feel his back muscles gather together on the tops of my thighs.
If he thinks this is giving me a lick of control or a sense of security, he’s showing me how much of a tease he is, here to toss my heart around.
“Do you moonlight as Luca Blue because you’re a ladies’ man who doesn’t need any practice at all?”
Insecurity is a seatbelt, and I am buckled in.
Theo dips his head with a chuckle. The vibration of his laughter moves through my center, making me clench my thighs together. I worry perhaps I’ve gone too far.
“You know what, forget I said anything.”
Theo smiles, righting everything in my world.
“You’re right ... but n-not about the ladies’ man part.” There’s a strangled pause at his confession, and I’m seconds away from shaking it loose from him with a tickle session. “I might be Luca, but I am fraught with the need to pr-practice.”
For all I know, Luca could save puppies from burning buildings every weekend. But this notion doesn’t stop me from the sass I spit out next.
“You’ve known this whole time. Was the last recording about me?” I whisper this last part as if it’s a secret.
My hands clamor to my mouth to scoop the careless honesty back into the petulant hellhole from which it came. Theo’s cheeks bloom into pink ribboned edges of grocery store carnations.
“Staley, I knew, but I could barely sp-speak to you, let alone explain to you I am the voice on the inside of those headphones of y-yours. And I had no idea you were a cuddler. None. This is all coincidence.”
Embarrassment will be the leading cause of death for women my age. Accusing Theo of using his knowledge of my sexual enjoyment against me for his gain wasn’t fair. He’s shown me kindness and respect since we started this cuddle relationship.
The tension in his jaw builds. His eyes darken when he’s caught between emotions, as if clouds are passing through them, preparing for a storm, warning anyone in his vicinity to get to shelter as soon as possible. It’s too late because I’m all kinds of wet.
“Then tell me something true about you, St-staley.” The storm mellows, but there’s still a cloudiness to him pulling me in, and I confess.
“I wake up every morning filled with anxiety. I’m convinced everyone around me can see it spilling from every part of me. Breathing is hard when my dad is having a hard time; he got this diagnosis, and in some ways, I did too. I don’t mean in a comparative suffering sort of way; what he’s living with—if you can call it living—is far worse than any stupid panic attack I might have. His diagnosis is an internal prison he can’t describe, and meanwhile, I’m left to watch him be less and less of him every single day. You want true, Theo? Watching a parent die slowly, a little each day, is a different kind of death sentence.”
It comes out all at once because, for once, I don’t feel the need to hold back the truth. Theo asked, and I delivered it to him in a ripped-open, recycled box with no gift receipt. This truth of mine is for him to do with what he will.
He lays in my lap, watching my hands wave and face pinch, and at the end of it, his face softens.
“I wish I could m-make it better, make you feel better ... I can only imagine what it’s like.”
His response melts the tension in my body. I am chaos, and he is a clear sky.
Theo closes his eyes, removing my ability to lock him into a staring contest. It’s ballsy, but I thread my whole hand through the curls on his head, and I finger through the defined loops and whorls. It’s what I do for all my clients.
The tension in his jaw melts, and his eyes follow. He feels lighter in my lap, and it is as if I am understood simply because I’m giving him some hair play. Drawing infinity symbols across his scalp rewards me with a moan of pleasure, hitting my ears. I made Theo moan. It’s different from Luca’s moan but better.
“Staley. If you keep doing that, you’ll understand how w-wrong you are about living and dying.”
But what could I be wrong about? I ignore Theo’s warning and move my hand to the back of his neck, applying pressure while taunting his skin with mine until his eyes shoot open. I might as well be buck naked the way he’s eyeing me.
Shifting underneath him, the swell of my sex nudges the weight of his head, and he must know it because Theo’s face turns toward the exact spot I’ve been trying to keep him away from, not because I don’t want him between my legs, but because of ethics ! And contracts!
Theo waits for me to stop him, and when I don’t, he nudges his nose into my middle with an unsteady breath, eyes cast up, asking me for permission.
And because my vagina is a sly devil, she prods me to speak.
“Show me, Theo.”