Daydreamer

by Brea Brown

  “But you’re hiding something,” he says, quickly picking up on my proviso.

  “No,” I lie. “I’m not. You know everything there is to know about me right now. Do you want to know what brand of underwear I wore in the seventh grade? Or some other pointless detail about my past? Why?”

  He shrugs. “No. I don’t care about your adolescent knickers.”

  “Do you care about my grown-up knickers?” I set Sandberg aside so I can roll over and lie half on top of Jude, kissing his mouth.

  He smiles and returns my kisses. “Perhaps. Especially if they’re lacy.”

  I unbutton and unzip my jeans, giving us both a sneak peek. “Will you look at that? They are!”

  He chuckles against my mouth. “You are just gagging for it! What would your mother say?”

  I know this is his way of distracting me while at the same time trying to get information from me, so I pretend to give him half of what he wants. Between kisses on his neck, I say, “I don’t talk to my parents.”

  Rubbing my back, he asks seriously, “Why not?”

  I won’t be deterred this time as I unbutton his shirt, then his shorts. “I just don’t. It’s a long, boring story. They haven’t been there for me.” Sliding my hand down the front of his pants, I look up at him beseechingly. “I promise I’ll tell you about it some other time, but I’ve heard it’s bad form to talk about your parents during sex.”

  He flares his nostrils, his eyes drooping as my hand curls around him. It’s the first time I’ve ever made skin-to-skin contact with… it. He’s hard and bigger than I thought he’d be. Not that I thought he was hiding a baby carrot in there, but I’m trying to picture him fitting inside me, considering how many times bigger he is than, say, a tampon. Before I lose my nerve (and his attention), I pull off my t-shirt one-handed. I rub my chest against his and suck on his bottom lip.

  “Wibby…”

  “Shh… You’re only allowed to talk if it’s dirty. Or you’re moaning,” I say playfully.

  To my satisfaction and delight, he grunts what I take as his agreement, and he becomes an active participant in the deed. “God,” he breathes in my ear as he removes my bra. He sounds tortured almost, which I’d feel bad about if I could feel any emotion other than lust. “I can’t say ‘no’ anymore!”

  I laugh a little. “Good. I’m… uh… ready. Don’t move. Unless you’re going to take your clothes off, which would be a great help.”

  He complies while I reach into my nightstand for a condom. I can’t believe this is really happening. I see my hand close over the foil packet. I watch it pass the packet to Jude, who quickly rips it open and pulls out the rolled-up piece of latex. As he unrolls it down his… oh, gosh! I can’t watch that! Instead, I busy myself removing my clothes, tossing them away.

  Jude’s fingers flutter against my belly as he places his hands on my waist. “Are you sure about this?” he asks one last time.

  Careful to keep my eyes above waist level, I nod. He pushes me onto my back and guides himself into me slowly. Instinctively, I tense. He stops. “No?”

  “Keep going,” I beg. I squeeze his shoulders, gripping them harder as the pressure increases. I’m really scared, suddenly, that this isn’t going to work. We’re not the same size, maybe. I’ve read about people being sexually incompatible, which is one of my biggest arguments against abstinence before marriage. I mean, what if you get to the honeymoon, and the key doesn’t fit into the lock? You can’t just replace the cylinder or grind down the key. And then you’re stuck. For life.

  He stops trying to go in, backing out a fraction. “Aaahhh…” I’m trying so hard not to react to the pain, because I don’t want him to give up. I don’t want to fail my first time out. This has to work! And “work” it is. It’s definitely not turning out to be the magical fireworks display I’d envisioned.

  “Relax,” he says softly, withdrawing completely.

  “No! Where are you going?” I can’t believe he’s abandoning me already.

  Touching his nose to mine, he smiles. “Nowhere. But you need to relax some more.”

  “I am. I will. I promise. Try again.”

  “What’s your rush?” He kisses my nose, then my mouth, slowly, deeply, gently. I arch my back as he kisses my breasts, then my belly. I thread my fingers through his hair and play with it as his mouth travels further and further down my body. When he kisses one of my inner thighs, I feel a zing in my core that almost brings me off the bed. He kisses the other one after making a comment about possibly needing a helmet for this job.

  “You have to get back inside me,” I plead.

  “Not yet,” he answers. “Almost.”

  He wraps his hand around my ankle and pushes on my foot until I bend my knee. He could probably twist me into a pretzel right now without any resistance on my part.

  But I’m a little worried about what’s going on down there, suddenly. I think he might be about to do something that I’ve read about and seen on HBO, but I’m not sure I prepped correctly for that. Plus, there are things he may see in that region that would raise even more questions. Some of the psychological tension I’m feeling transfers itself into my muscles near his face, because he looks up at me through his eyelashes. “You’re not relaxing.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Trust me. You’ll like it.”

  “Okay. But will you like it?”

  My question catches him off-guard, and he starts laughing. When he stops, he says, “Would I be down here if I didn’t like it?”

  Mousily, I answer, “I guess not.”

  “I thought the rule was no talking unless it’s dirty or moaning.”

  “I’m just not sure about this part,” I defend myself. “I was expecting something a little more… basic… my first time.”

  He joins me up on the pillows, brushing a piece of hair away from my face. “Libby?”

  “Yes?”

  “Shut up.”

  I smile shakily. “Okay.”

  “Before I come to my senses and put my clothes back on.”

  “Don’t do that,” I urge him, grasping his upper arm, just in case.

  “All right, then. I’ll be back in half a mo.”

  He resumes his earlier position, and I try to focus on what I’m feeling while at the same time clearing my mind of any doubts. In a matter of seconds, I don’t have to try at all to do either of those things. It becomes an involuntary, physiological… thing.

  “Oh, God,” I moan. “That’s just… Oh! God!” Repeat that about fifty times, and you get the extent of my vocabulary for the next several minutes. Then I mix things up a little bit at the end, when I pepper in a few f-bombs, “oh yeah”s, and an “Oh, baby!” I’m so dizzy and elated when he lies on top of me again that I almost can’t breathe.

  He grabs my hands and threads his fingers through mine, pushing my arms over my head.

  “Thank you!” I gasp at him in the same surprised tone of voice I’d have for someone who’s picked up and returned a fifty-dollar bill I’ve dropped.

  It amuses him. “You’re very welcome.”

  “You were right.”

  “You have no idea how much I get off on hearing that.”

  He moves, and I realize he’s inside me again. When did that happen?

  “How come it doesn’t hurt anymore?”

  “Who cares?” he retorts, thrusting gently.

  “Good point.”

  “You just needed to relax, like I said.” He buries his face in my neck, nipping at the skin there while he moves in and out, going slightly deeper with each thrust. As he quickens his pace, he says, “I’m sorry if this hurts.”

  Before I can even steel myself for it, it’s over. I jerk a little, but I’m distracted by the kisses Jude’s placing up and down my arm as he experiences his orgasm. When it’s over, he kisses my mouth and says up against it, “Are you okay? You flinched. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m fine,” I reassure him, rubbing the back of his neck. �
��I’m so fine. Let’s do it again.”

  He laughs and rolls onto his back, catching his breath. “Give me a few moments. It’s not quite like in the movies.”

  “I know that!” I reply defensively. “I’m not a complete moron.”

  When he pats his chest conciliatorily, I scoot over and put my head on it. I doze as he plays with my hair. I don’t know how much time passes before he wakes me up by shifting under me.

  Panicked at the thought of him leaving, I sit up, clutching the sheet to my chest. “Where are you going? You can stay here tonight.” Despite my best intentions, it comes out sounding about as pathetic as a mewing wet kitten.

  Smirking, he looks over his shoulder at me as he sits on the edge of the bed. “I thought I’d go to the toilet, if that’s all right with you.”

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  I give him the courtesy of not staring openly as he walks stark naked to the bathroom, but I do watch him from the corner of my eye. He tiptoes his way through his clothes, almost tripping on his bunched-up shorts, the used condom dangling from between his thumb and forefinger.

  After he’s shut the door, I realize something very important: there’s no going back. I’ve crossed one of those thresholds that the door slams shut behind you and locks from the other side. My old life is dead to me, no matter what happens next. I’ll never again be content to sit home alone on a weekend, watching WGN, petting Sandberg, and eating crappy frozen dinners. I’ve seen how other (a.k.a., “normal”) people live.

  And I like it. A lot.

  16

  I’m having a really hard time at work. I have the attention span of someone who’s just discovered sex (that’s a little shorter than the attention span of a flea). I don’t think it’s affected my work performance yet (otherwise Lisa would have pointed it out), but I leave work every day exhausted from the effort I’ve had to put forth to keep my back to Jude’s office windows. The other day he was wearing a suit with a vest and he had his jacket off, his back to me as he stood at his drafting table. I finally had to go into his office, close his blinds, then leave again.

  He immediately IMed me.

  MONDAY, AUGUST 17, 2:36 P.M.

  Jude.Weatherington:

  ??

  Libby.Foster:

  Never mind. It’s for the good of the entire company, trust me

  Later, back at my place, I let him in on the whole story, and he laughed. “Well, I can’t very well sequester myself all day so you can do your job.”

  “Yes, you can,” I argued. “You used to stay in there for eight hour stretches; you’ll just have to go back to doing that.”

  Things are a little better now that we’re not keeping our relationship a secret. Not that we were ever very successful at it. But now that it’s official with both of our bosses, I feel a lot less paranoid about every visit he makes to my desk. Since there’s nothing to speculate about anymore, people have stopped staring so much at us and have gone back to their own lives.

  Except for Leslie, of course. She likes to make snide comments as often and as publicly as possible, the jealous whore. Jude thinks it’s funny and just laughs it off, but I’m a little more self-conscious about what people are thinking. Half the time I feel like I have a blinking sign over my head that says, “Freshly laid.”

  It doesn’t help that everything seems to be about sex. I mean, I thought it was bad before, when I was sexually frustrated, but now it’s ten times worse. Songs that I never interpreted to be sexual I now understand to be basically lyrical porn. I look at the billboards around town, whether they’re hawking shoes or hair care products, and blush, picturing whatever Jude and I did the night before (or that morning or afternoon). I’m afraid I might be a sex addict.

  Of course, I keep most of my thoughts to myself. And I try to play it cool with Jude, restraining myself and allowing him to make the first move at least half the time. I don’t want him to know he’s created a monster.

  Speaking of monsters, Marvin emerges from his cave today for the first time I’ve seen him in weeks. He stops by my desk, standing next to Jude, who’s leaning against my cubicle wall, waiting for me to collect my things so we can leave for the day.

  “Uh… hey,” he says to Jude, “Gary told me he wanted me to do another animation for one of your projects. You got a minute to talk about it?”

  Jude stands up straight. “Ace. Right now?”

  Marvin nods. “Yeah, dude. I gotta get started on it right away. You guys are really starting to annoy the piss outta me with your last minute shit. Always on Fridays.”

  “Did you tell Gary that?” I tease.

  He shoots me a dirty look. “No. But I can say it to you two.”

  “Whaddya say?” Jude asks me. “Can we postpone sofa shopping for a few minutes whilst I have a chin wag with Marv, here?”

  Marvin stares disgustedly at us. “Sofa shopping? Again? What is that, like, a euphemism, a cute little inside joke for you two?”

  “I wish,” Jude mumbles.

  “Go,” I say, pushing his shoulder. “I’ll wait for you here. The couches can wait until tomorrow.”

  In an effort to get out of bed more often, I’ve started manufacturing errands for us to run. The latest is the quest for a perfect couch—for real this time (sort of). I’ve dragged Jude to half a dozen furniture stores; we’ve sat, bounced, lounged, and cuddled on more than fifty sofas; but I haven’t found the right one yet. Probably because it’s a bogus mission designed to curb my carnal urges. I guess I’ll either have to pick one or come clean sooner or later. But for now, it’s a decent distraction.

  As they’re walking away, I hear Jude say to Marvin, “I owe you one again, mate. This sofa business is getting on my wick.”

  I feel guilty, but it’s either couch-hunting or I’ll be on his wick.

  It’s so cold. The snow is melting under my cheek, which is quickly going numb. But I can’t move. Well, I can, but when I do, everything hurts.

  Where are Mom and Dad? I can’t move enough to look for them, but I know, deep down, where they are without seeing them. I can sense them seeping into the soil.

  Maybe this time is different…

  “You’re going to be okay. Here comes the ambulance. Over here! She’s still breathing!”

  The red, white, and blue lights lend an almost celebratory mood to the scene. Like patriotic strobe lights at a Fourth of July party. They’re also mesmerizing, and I find myself unable to keep my eyes open.

  “Stay awake, now! What’s you’re name, honey?”

  “’Lizbeth.” My voice doesn’t sound like mine. It’s gravelly, raspy, and wet.

  “Elizabeth?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “That’s a beautiful name, Elizabeth. Now, you just stay awake for me.”

  “Sleepy…”

  “I know, I know. But it’s important that you stay awake. Does a pretty girl like you have a boyfriend, Elizabeth?”

  “Jude.”

  “Very good.”

  “Where’s Jude?”

  “Was he with you? There may be another one somewhere!”

  “Dunno.” I’m so confused…

  “Stay awake. Dammit, I need a board over here! What’s taking so goddamn long?! Elizabeth, wake up! Libby, wake up…”

  Jude’s nudging me in the small of my back with his foot. “Libby… wake up,” he groans more than says. “You’re dreaming again.”

  I’m curled up in my usual ball on the extreme side of my bed. It doesn’t matter how snuggled up we are when we fall asleep; by the morning, I’ve edged as far away from him as possible. More than once I’ve woken up as I’m falling onto the floor. I can’t explain it. When I’m awake, I can’t seem to get close enough to him. But something about sleeping brings out the mostly dormant hermit in me.

  Now his gentle foot-bump is making me totter dangerously on the edge of the mattress. I slide the extra inch it’ll take me to not be in the bed anymore and set my feet on the floor. “Sorry,” I say, twisting a li
ttle to look at him behind me, but he’s already asleep again, his mouth half-open and his hands tucked angelically under his head on the pillow.

  The cold sweat is drying on my skin, making me shiver in my t-shirt. I groggily shuffle to the bathroom, where I turn on the shower, mixing as little cold water in as I can without scalding myself. I can’t stop shivering. It’s always like this, though. I’m used to the dream and its after-effects—how I feel worse than I did even on that first day I woke up in the hospital—because at least then I was on a cocktail of narcotics and couldn’t really process the truth.

  What I’m not used to, however, is the presence of Jude in the dream. Or at least the notion of him. That’s new. And terrifying. A blending of my past and present into one horrifying psychological stew. My hands shake as I squeeze shampoo onto my upturned palm. Nausea claws at my stomach until I fear I’ll throw up in the shower. Chills run up and down my arms and the backs of my thighs. The feeling only abates after several minutes of steady, deliberate breathing.

  It’s going to be fine, I tell myself over and over as I scrub my hair and body. The two things aren’t related. They’re completely separate. One has nothing to do with the other. It’s just my brain getting a little confused, piling all the important things in my life into one “bin,” if you will. That’s all. It’s time to ’fess up to Dr. Marsh so he can help me work through some of this.

  After my shower, I feel much better, but as I’m toweling off, I freeze, hearing voices on the other side of the door. Two men, one of whom is obviously Jude. The other I also recognize immediately: Hank.

  “Shit!” I whisper. Quickly, I wrap the towel around me. Not expecting company, I hadn’t brought my clothes into the bathroom with me. And this isn’t the biggest towel in the world, but I make do, ensuring everything important is covered before I rush from the bathroom.

  Both of them look at me accusingly as I stand in the doorway, but I don’t think it has anything to do with the fact that I’m still dripping from some places.