by Harper Bliss
I knock on the door, my impatience coming through clearly in the intensity of my knock. I want to break down the door like I ripped off her panties the other day.
The door flies open and Camille stands in front of me. It’s like I haven’t seen her in weeks instead of hours. She’s freshly out of the shower and her hair is wet and falls heavily on her shoulders. She’s barefoot and wrapped in a towel. She’s so slight, it can wrap around her twice.
She drags me inside by the hand and slams the door shut behind me. She doesn’t say anything, just pulls me closer, looks into my eyes, and kisses me. Her tongue invades my mouth from the get-go. Her wet hair slides across my face. Her hands pull me closer by the back of my head.
When we break apart, she looks at me, breathlessly, and says, “I can’t remember ever feeling this way.”
I lick my lips, buying time. What I say next will make a difference. But all I have is this question I’ve been dragging along with me all day. “What is happening to us?”
She shakes her head, sinks her teeth into her bottom lip the way she does. “We must be losing our minds.”
“There’s no better way to describe it.” I lunge for her again. Before I kiss her, I tear at the towel and it drops to the floor. I can’t stop myself. I need to have her. Need my hands over her breasts, my lips against the skin of her neck. It seems that all those discussions I had with Rebecca about lacking passion belong to another lifetime. A life before Camille. I dread to think what might have happened if Rebecca had remained in charge of the rental, if she hadn’t thrust it upon me like a toy she no longer cared for—kind of like she treated me. If she had met Camille. I push the thought away, never wanting to entertain it ever again. Fuck Rebecca. Or no, actually, if she hadn’t left me, I wouldn’t be standing here being overcome by all of this either.
“We should talk,” Camille says.
I drag my lips away from her neck for a second, only to see her head is thrown back all the way—like she’s offering herself to me.
“We will,” I mumble, my mouth lost somewhere in her hair. I push her down onto the crumpled towel, which can’t be very comfortable, but comfort is the last thing on my mind. I kneel in front of her, pull her close, and let my lips roam freely—widely—over her skin. I inhale her, taste her, sink my teeth into her where I can.
I push her down more, until she’s leaning back onto her elbows. Her knees are chastely shut in front of me and I push them apart, starting gently but soon overwhelmed by animalistic desire to just have her. Own her. Feel her near as much as I can as long as I still can. I look down at her. The light outside is already fading but I see all I need to see. Camille Rousseau spread out before me. Her eyes eager, pleading. She’s been waiting all day as well.
I bow down to kiss her inner thigh, but I’m drawn too much to her sex to spend much time away from it. I want it all. All of her. There’s still so much to take, so much to do, so much to find out. As I lean in closer and smell her desire for me, I think about recording this version of myself. About seeing myself in this very moment, ready to devour this woman I… what? Am falling so ridiculously, deliciously, painfully in love with. In that moment, where, granted, I don’t have use of all my faculties, I know I will do it. Because there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for her. I’ll travel to Paris. Take the long journey every few months. Stay up late into the night to Skype with her. It all doesn’t matter. All that matters is this. My tongue landing on her wet pussy lips. Her taste already so familiar, like I’ve tasted nothing else over the course of my life. I drag my tongue along her lips. This is no time to be gentle. I barely made it into the door. We’re on the kitchen floor. Right underneath the smoke detector.
I lick along her clit, suck it into my mouth greedily. I want this to last but I also want her to come. I want everything. All these impossible things I can’t possibly have. Be in the moment, I remind myself. This is now. Later comes later. I dig my hands underneath her bottom and push my fingers into her soft flesh. I lock my mouth onto her clit and just let go. I give her all the power my tongue has, unleashed in a frenzy of licks. If I were to see this woman on a video, I wouldn’t recognize her. Of that I’m convinced. Because this doesn’t feel like me. With Camille, I feel too alive, too beautiful, too passionate to be the woman whom Rebecca left. Too much the opposite of all the reasons she said she was leaving me for.
“Mon dieu.” Camille’s fingertips dig into my scalp in return. The more I dig into her, the more she digs into me. We are both lost in this together. Because she might be at the receiving end of my tongue, but I’m just as gone as she is. I’m floating somewhere above, looking down, not believing what I’m seeing. Maybe I need a video for that purpose alone. To merely prove to myself that this is happening, it’s possible. It’s not some fever dream. We are two real women of flesh and blood, with their hearts on their sleeves. Reduced to nothing but emotion, lust, this incontournable desire for each other. For us, there is no other way but this.
“Oh, Zoya.” When Camille pronounces my name, she puts the emphasis on the last part. Nobody says it like she does. “Oh,” she moans.
She doesn’t ask me for anything else, for anything more. No fingers. No directions. As though the desire in my heart has a direct line to hers. We’re connected. And I know all of this sounds ludicrous. Like teenagers under the influence of their cruel hormones. Yet, this is how it is. And as Camille shudders beneath me, her body giving itself up to me, her sex pushing into me, I know that Jason was right. I’m in love with her.
Chapter Ten
The next day, when Camille and I are on the way to the restaurant to meet Caitlin and Josephine for dinner, Camille asks me all kinds of questions about them, while all I do is regret agreeing to this, because it might only be dinner, and yes, we have to eat, but it cuts brusquely into my time alone with her.
“So, Caitlin is a writer and she works for television as well, and she used to be a professor in the United States,” Camille summarizes what I’ve just told her.
When Caitlin and I set up this dinner on Monday morning—not even forty-eight hours ago—I had no idea that my feelings would intensify even more. That every minute spent away from Camille would feel like trying to write something without the use of my fingers. Not just an inconvenience but like vital parts of me were missing.
“Seeing as you love to google so much, you should google Caitlin some time. She’s quite a big deal in the US. Although us Aussies quite like her as well.”
“I’ll friend her on Facebook. Then I will know all about her,” Camille jokes.
Last night, after we couldn’t touch anymore of each other because we were raw from too much, I gave her my thoughts on Facebook and social media in general, and how I abhor that the TV network I work for insists we send out a certain number of tweets every week. I never make my quota. When my contract is up for renegotiation, I will have a clause added that stipulates nobody can make me use any social media.
I bump my shoulder into her, relishing in the simple act of walking to a restaurant with her. A simple life with a woman I love. It’s all I want. All I need, I think. But life is not simple. And I should really stop using the L word. It makes me feel like I belong to the same demographic as Micky’s children.
“When are you going to accept my friend request?” Camille is not done making fun of my, what she called archaic and rigid, stance on Facebook. “I promise I won’t invade your privacy any more than I already have.”
“I told you. Next time I go on it. On Friday afternoon just before I leave the office.”
Camille chuckles, then asks, “Tell me about Josephine.”
“Ah, Josephine… Well, you know she works at the Pink Bean part-time. She’s also a PhD student. She and Caitlin are co-writing a book. And, perhaps most impressive of all, she’s the most wonderful singer.” When I think of Josephine singing, I can’t help but smile. “I remember the first time we all had dinner together. The entire group. Josephine was so shy. She clearly had
the biggest crush on Caitlin. It took her a bit of time to get over the fact that her crush was mutual. It’s quite a story.”
“And they’re in a non-monogamous relationship?”
I shake my head. “I don’t think so. Not last I heard, anyway.”
“But you said that Caitlin knew all about non-monogamy.”
“Oh, she does. Caitlin knows a lot about a great many things.” I pull Camille closer to me, wanting everyone we pass to see we are together. “They’ve only been seeing each other a few months. From what I understand, the beginning of a relationship is usually quite monogamous. But really, if you ask Caitlin, she will tell you all about it. She has made a career of talking about things like this.”
Camille leans into me. “I’ve met them both. There’s a bit of an age difference, isn’t there?”
“Oh yes. Josephine is only twenty-eight.”
“That’s barely older than Flo.”
“Yes, well, love knows no boundaries or rules or age, I guess.”
“Or borders, or distance,” Camille adds wistfully.
“I guess we’ll have to see about that.” We’ve arrived at the restaurant so there’s no time to get into the subject we’ve been avoiding like the plague. What’s going to happen next? We’ve made our feelings clear to each other in more ways than one, but concrete talk about the future is, for now, still a bridge too far.
Camille gives my hand a good squeeze before we enter. Caitlin and Josephine are already seated. Maybe Camille and I walked slower without knowing, hoping it would slow time as well.
Greetings and kisses are exchanged and then we sit across from each other. Camille sits opposite Caitlin. I’ll want to hear every word they exchange. Even though I feel like time is slipping away too quickly, I’m also glad to have this meal with my friends. That way Camille doesn’t only exist for me. She will also make an impression on Caitlin and Jo and we can remember this evening together later, when she’s gone. It’s also nice for Camille to be a part of this aspect of my life. To be embedded in ordinary conversations I have with my friends.
“Okay, first things first,” Caitlin says. “I have to tell you something.” She looks at me. “When you first hear it, you’re not going to like it. That’s a given. But I think you might be grateful to me once it sinks in.”
I arch up my eyebrows. “What is it?”
“I went behind your back at work. I talked to Jack, found out who this week’s guest was on your show. Was relieved to learn it was Harriet Wilton because she and I were on this panel together not long ago. Long story short, I asked her if, as a personal favor to me, she would be willing to postpone the recording of her interview until Friday. She said yes. It’s all arranged. You can take Thursday morning off. I know you’re going to despise me for this for all of five minutes, after which you will want to hug me for five days. Only you won’t be able to because you will be otherwise engaged.”
My mouth droops open of its own accord. “You did what?”
Caitlin turns to Josephine. “I told you so.”
“Caitlin, this is my work. You can’t just mess with that. You can’t just talk to Jack, let alone Harriet Wilton and arrange all of this behind my back. That is just completely…” I’m more stupefied than angry.
“The only reason I did it is because I knew you would never do it yourself and you would surely regret it,” Caitlin says. “Some things are more important than work. They just are, Zo.” She locks her eyes on mine. “And yes, I know I had no right. But I did it anyway. I did it for you, because you are my friend.”
“Am I understanding this correctly?” Camille asks. “You will have Thursday morning off?” Her smile is so wide but at the same time, if the dim lights of the restaurant are not playing tricks on me, I can spot the onset of tears in her eyes.
“Looks like it.” I can’t say anything else. I can’t tell Caitlin off when Camille looks at me like this as a result of her actions. I’ll hash it out with her later.
“What did you tell Jack?”
“I just told him I needed you for something very personal on Thursday morning, which isn’t even a lie.”
I shake my head. “I still can’t believe you would go behind my back like that.” I look at Josephine to gauge what she thinks of all of this, but she just sits there smiling as broadly as Caitlin. They must have concocted this plan together.
“Thank you very much,” Camille says. “I would have been happy with even an hour extra.”
Caitlin tips her head, like a magician who has just performed a successful trick. I guess she has. She doesn’t even have me up in arms about it, because, I too, would have been happy with only an hour extra with Camille. Now I’ll have an entire morning. We can wake up together. Have breakfast. I can take her to the airport. Wave her off. God, no, I don’t want to think about that part just yet. I refocus my attention on the three women I’m having dinner with tonight. Time may be running out, but it doesn’t mean I can’t make the most of it.
“I can’t believe you never had a civilized conversation with him,” Caitlin says. Wine has flowed freely and we’ve just all ordered a pousse-café, which Camille has taught us to pronounce without any residue of our native accents. It still doesn’t sound as convincing as when she says it. “It could have saved you so much hassle.”
“I don’t think you quite understand the situation I was in.” Camille has given Caitlin and Josephine the short version of her life story—the one I already know by heart. “Yes, at first, it hurt, because I felt like Jean-Claude had broken all our wedding vows in one fell swoop. Until I realized he hadn’t. And the one he did break wasn’t worth that much to me anyway. Because if not in deed, I had been breaking it in thought for much longer.”
Caitlin purses her lips together. “I’m not judging you, Camille. I know things were different back then. And everyone has their own story. I’m just saying that a little honesty can go a long way.”
“Let’s change the subject,” Camille says. “I’ve talked about my ex-husband enough for one lifetime. Give me some juicy gossip on Zoya instead.” She turns to me and winks.
“Zoya is a saint,” Caitlin says. “Truly a woman too kind-hearted for her own good.”
“Oh, please.” I roll my eyes.
The waiter arrives with our drinks. Grand Marnier for Camille and Josephine. Whiskey for Caitlin and me. I’m glad for the interruption. Perhaps bolstered by the favor she has done me by getting me some time off work on Thursday, Caitlin is in a combative mood tonight. Surely what she just said will be followed up by an actual piece of juicy gossip on me.
“Santé!” Camille raises her glass. “It’s a pleasure getting to know you all.” She swivels in her seat to face me again. “Especially this kind-hearted saint.” She leans forward and kisses me on the lips. There’s a hint of sadness in the way her lips are folded when her head retreats. I feel it too. I know from experience that great, sweeping emotions like these are often the precursor of an equally great loss.
“The honor has been all ours,” Josephine says. “We’ve all reduced our six degrees of separation to President Dominique Laroche to just the one.”
I’m glad I’m not the only Laroche fan girl.
“She is a true modern-day feminist icon,” Caitlin says. “If we all come to Paris one day, can you hook us up?”
My mind gets too caught up in the thought of actually going to Paris to see Camille to focus much on the Laroche part. If I were to go, I wouldn’t give up a second of my time to spend it with even the most feminist president in the world.
“I can’t make any promises, but I could try.” Camille is such a tease.
“That’s settled then. We’re booking our flights tomorrow,” Caitlin says. “Zoya must have been creaming her panties ever since you told her about your connection.”
I expel a mock sigh and send her a shut-up-already look.
“I think it might be just as interesting to sit down and have a chat with her partner,” Josephine s
ays.
Caitlin glances at her and smiles. “The younger partner of a powerful woman. You must be able to identify.”
“As far as degrees of power go, honey, you have some catching up to do.” She blows Caitlin a kiss.
“True, but it doesn’t stop me from thinking,” Caitlin muses. “There must be someone in this country we can back. Some feminist hopeful who will finally, just for starters, have the balls to make same-sex marriage happen. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg.”
“Politics is at least half ego,” Camille says. “You need it to stand for office, to take a swing at grabbing that kind of power. I know many politicians and I can count the truly humble ones on the fingers of half a hand. Even Dominique is not exempt from that.”
“There’s nothing wrong with a little bit of ego,” I say. “As long as you don’t surround yourself with yay-sayers and you don’t crave perpetual boosting of it.”
“That’s why Zoya and I are such good friends. When she needs taking down a peg, she calls me.” Caitlin raises her almost-empty glass in my direction. “I always take care of her.”
Camille turns to me. “For a celebrity, you have very few airs and graces.”
“My show doesn’t exactly draw huge ratings. I’m mostly well-known among a crowd who wouldn’t be caught dead taking a selfie or asking for an autograph.”
“Hey,” Josephine says, “there’s absolutely nothing wrong with respectfully asking for someone’s autograph.”
“Regardless of that.” Camille doesn’t know all the details of Caitlin and Josephine’s story and keeps her focus on me. “You appear on television on a weekly basis. For quite a few people that’s enough of an excuse to behave obnoxiously.”