Chapter Nine #3
For a moment, my heart would race, I’d brace myself for terrible news.
And then she would sigh. A long sigh. Then she would launch into a list of grievances the world had leveled against her—a flat tire, a petty casting director who for some reason was out to get her, a lousy date who stiffed her with the bill.
She’d speak and the heat would spread through my body.
I hated listening to all the ways the world had wronged her.
And still, none of it ever felt so dire that she couldn’t also make time for her granddaughter.
By the time we hung up, my hands would be shaking in anger. I fell for it. For her. Again.
“She’s part of you,” Oliver says quietly.
“Just not the part I like.”
“I like all parts of you.” He kisses my shoulder and reads, “What’s one ingredient you put in everything?”
“Garlic salt.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Go on.”
“What three people living or dead would you like to make dinner for?”
“Your great-grandmother. Joan Mitchell, the painter. And…come back to me.”
“What’s your biggest fear in life?”
“Going backward.”
“Window or aisle seat?”
“Aisle.”
“What’s your secret talent?” Before I can answer Oliver offers, “Making erotica?”
“Painting.”
“Most adventurous thing you’ve done in your life?”
“Making erotica,” we answer in unison.
“Dolphins or koalas?”
“That’s not seriously the question?”
“I swear.”
“Red pandas.”
“Blow-dry or air-dry?”
“Someone was getting tired of writing these…”
“We’re almost done. Best thing to happen to you today?”
“Sex in this beautiful house.”
“Worst thing to happen to you today?”
“Leaving this beautiful house.”
“Best compliment you’re ever received.”
“?‘I still love you. It never went away. Even when I told you it had.’?”
“Hey. I said that. Okay, last one. What is your fantasy?”
“Come back to it?”
“This one was written specifically for you. The finale.”
“No pressure.”
“You’ve interviewed so many women. You’ve never shared yours?”
“Sex on the floor of the midcentury house my husband is renovating?”
Oliver shakes his head in faux dismay. “Phoning it in.” He tosses the quiz aside and rolls onto me, then pins my arms above my head.
“Placating.” He kisses my neck, down to my breasts.
A shiver runs through my body. “I’ll accept it.
” I feel his erection, hard and urgent, pressing into my thigh.
“For now.” He brushes the hair from my neck and kisses my bare skin.
“But later, you’ll tell me your real one. ”
Oliver kisses me all the way down to my stomach, parting my legs and kissing my inner thighs. I fight the reflex to close them. There are so many windows. There is nowhere to hide.
“I want to know what you like,” he says.
“You know what I like,” I tease.
“Not really.”
I try to stay in the present. I don’t want to remember that we never asked each other.
That we tiptoed around sex as if it were an impolite topic.
When we were in trouble, it felt like homework.
But now, on the floor of this house, his chest hovering above me, it feels like an adventure we’re embarking on together.
“Give me your fingers,” I whisper. “Two.”
He positions himself between my legs and I guide his hand to the opening of my vagina, which is already wet with anticipation.
“Slowly,” I say.
He moves exactly as I tell him, entering me slowly with his fingers. My body wraps around him, thickening as he slides in and out ofme.
“Oh, Diana,” he says, as if letting him do this is the greatest gift I could give him. His erection presses against me, but he is only focused on me. He slides his fingers in and out of me, gliding them along my tender skin—each time they leave my body, my hips reach out for his touch again.
“You’re so wet,” he says, admiring every fold, every soft corner ofme.
“Now rub my clit,” I tell him, and his eyes light up.
“You want me to rub your clit?” he asks, showing me that he can say it too. That people can change. They can still surprise and delight you.
“Yes.”
He uses his thumb to press into me. I’m a puddle now. He watches my every movement.
“Keep touching me,” I tell him. Every word I say out loud gives me an unexpected charge. “Three fingers now.”
He is deeper inside me. “Here?”
“Lower.”
“Here,” he says. My hips rise. “You like it when I do this?” He knows the answer. He just wants me to say it out loud.
“Yes.”
He’s stroking himself now. “Do you want me inside you?” He is still stroking us both.
“Yes.”
He flips me over so my breasts are pressed against the floor. My body is so open, so ready for him.
“Tell me you need my cock,” he breathes into my ear as he pushes in and out of me. The words coming out of Oliver’s mouth make me spin. I lift myself up so I am on all fours and Oliver is kneeling behind me.
“Pull my hair,” I tell him.
He grabs a handful of my hair and yanks it hard enough to make my head fall back. We’re moaning together, pleasure coursing through us. My breasts, wet with perspiration, rise and fall as he plunges inside me, and I still need more. I want more pressure, more tension, more of this Oliver.
“I love your cock,” I tell him. I can feel Oliver blush, heat radiating off his body. “I love it so much,” I say.
And then he explodes inside me. “Keep going,” I say, and he moves against me in and out until I cry out.
—
On Monday morning, Oliver and I sit in the cab of his truck, in the parking lot of Miriam’s office, rehearsing our story.
“We had a fun time at the concert and drove home. I absolutely did not say ‘I love your cock.’ Not once,” I instruct. It’s fun to make him blush. Which he does.
“That’s been my mantra all morning. I haven’t stopped replaying it in my head.”
“It’s true.” I beam. It is impossible not to recognize that we’ve slept with each other. We are like kids that absolutely did not just put a whoopee cushion under the teacher’s seat.
Sharing the same observation, Oliver says “We should talk about a specific song maybe?”
“But what if they didn’t play it?”
“You think she’ll check the set list?”
We are half kidding/half serious and not wanting to be a disappointment to Miriam. “This is crazy,” I say. “We should just sit down and ask her, ‘Miriam, when can we have sex?’?”
“No. She’ll know we failed. We have to go in there and lie through our teeth.”
“She’ll tell us we’re not ready.”
“But we are ready. We were. We did. We have to tell her.”
“You and I know we’re ready, but she wanted us to date for much longer.”
“We failed. Maybe we admit we failed.”
Oliver pulls me into him and kisses me tenderly.
“Saturday did not feel like a failure. In fact, I’ve been thinking about it all morning.”
“Our appointment is three minutes ago.”
“What if we tell her we’re planning to have sex on Friday. If all goes well. And then by our next appointment, we won’t have to lie.”
“Okay. Good plan.”
We pull ourselves from the car and drift through the parking lot, careful not to walk too close or let any pieces of our bodies touch. When we both reach for the elevator button at the same time, Oliver quickly pulls his hand away like it’s on fire. “Sorry,” I mumble.
We smile gently, appropriately, when Miriam ushers us onto her couch.
We sit in unison.
And when she asks us how we’re doing, we answer in unison.
“We had sex.”