by Brian Barton
ALSO BY BRIAN BARTON
Brooklyn Girls Don’t Cuddle
The Girl Curves
A Novel
by
Brian Barton
Lovely Flawed is a registered trademark.
ASIN: B00K4K73II
Copyright © 2014 by Brian Barton
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any means without permission in writing from the copyright holder.
LEGAL: This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and events are figments of the author’s imagination. Any similarities to people (living or dead), including characters, places, or events is purely coincidental.
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For D.M.T.
Contents
Also by Brian Barton
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
HE FIRST TIME I FELL IN LOVE, I COULDN’T STOP CRYING. I WOULD LIE IN BED listening to Heaven by the Psychedelic Furs, tears streaming down my face. I tried to control myself. I’d be fine at the beginning of the song, holding my emotions in check. But by the time the chorus came around, so did the tears. I’d never been so overcome by joy, so happy a tide of emotion would wash over me. Like an addict, I’d return to the song for a fix, replaying it for the high.
As I watched the music video, I’d study the faces of the band. They, too, were filled with joy. Heaven moved me that spring. Maybe it was due to the happiness I’d found, or all those tears I shed for pop music. I was in love.
I played lots of music videos that spring, marveling at how these musicians swept me into their worlds. I was in awe of the power of pop and how it could move me, transform my heart in a way I used to think was only possible through classical music.
It was 2009; I was 30, and he was 37. It may seem odd that I’d never been in love before, but how could I feel what I’d never known? I loved my parents and sister and pets growing up. I’d seen love in the movies and on TV. I thought I knew what love was. But this was different from the lust-fueled crushes of my past.
He was passionate about folk music; about playing guitar, lifting barbells, and running. He carried a sensitive boy’s heart in a jarhead’s body. He had wrinkly brown eyes and permanent bed head. Thrift store jeans and T-shirts were his style because he was cheap. He wasn’t trying to be a schlub—he just was one. His style could best be described as upscale bicycle shop employee. He loved strumming his acoustic guitar, but looked out of place next to his scrawny bandmates, with his Popeye arms and squat legs. He looked more soldier than poet, more tough guy than troubadour. When he could find work, he was a freelance editor. Like all musicians, he could barely pay his rent. I can’t remember him ever picking up a check.
I fell for him because he was fragile. He reminded me of what I missed growing up. He could wax philosophical about the merits of old toys or the virtues of ice cream. He loved animals more than people and stalked the pets at his local dog park. Anything for some extra love and attention. Petting the creatures and chatting up their owners connected him to the world.
How we met was anything but fairytale. No flirty glances across a crowded room. No innocent conversation over a Kandinsky or Koons. We had no meet-cute. We were a cliché, whelped by an evil modern plague: online dating.
That spring, I watched music videos to keep me company. These musicians were my friends when he and I were apart. Sticky with emotion, thick with sentiment; these songs changed me. On those nights, when it was just my laptop and me alone in bed, pop music soothed me. It reminded me of the feeling of being together.
Heaven reminded me of our marathon makeout sessions. Of being pressed up against the cinderblock walls of SoHo apartment complexes. And of freezing in his Chelsea apartment.
After our romps, I was sated, but I laid in bed with him in a state of low anxiety. Everything was fine as long as our bodies were intertwined. But as soon as I moved to my side of the bed, the chill came. The thermostat in his unit was—big surprise—broken, so he couldn’t control the freezing tide of arctic air. Permanently on full blast. The result made a wine cellar seem cozy.
I imagined that we were subjects of a wintertime nature documentary. I could hear the voice of a British narrator in my head: “Post-coitus, the female homo sapiens clings tightly to the male to avoid the nocturnal frost.” My boyfriend didn’t own anything beyond a thin blanket to cover his bed. To make matters worse, I’d need to pee after sex. Leaving the comfort of his warm body was misery. I’d brace for the chill, pull back his blanket, then make a mad dash for the bathroom, high-stepping on the parquet floors. I’m sure I saw my breath those nights. At least I could run back to bed and crawl back into his arms. I had the ritual down: Bed. Kissing. Touching. Sex. Orgasm. Sweaty. Freezing. Bathroom. Freezing. Repeat.
Listening to pop songs made me think about our kissing, our lovemaking, and the places he took me. From mashing on the railing of the Hudson in Hoboken, to locking lips by the gas station near his apartment on Eighth Avenue. And to nibbling on his neck in front of every blowout bar in SoHo and Union Square. The man didn’t even know what a blowout was. I loved running my fingers through his hair as we kissed. I liked watching his eyes close slowly every time I caressed his cheek with my hand. I never tired of kissing him.
That spring, my heart opened. Without my knowledge, happiness snuck up on me. The pop music proved to me that my heart had changed. He proved to me that someone could finally reach my soul.
When he ended our relationship after six months, the pain broke me. We found each other when I was desperate for love. I grew to depend on his affection to replenish me. I poured myself into him, and he into me. A small gift, a touch, or an embrace from him was all it took to send me. He knew how to reach my core. I didn’t just want his love in my life—I craved it.
The end came in an email, and that was that. My calls and texts begging for an explanation went unanswered. I was inconsolable. Every day, I wanted to die. I tried coping in healthy ways: exercise, meditation, therapy, reading, seeing friends. None of it worked. Soon, I embraced the dark side. I tried drinking away the pain, masking my behavior by calling it an appreciation for wine. I turned any social event into an excuse for a boozy celebration—or a hookup. I didn’t turn down a single sexual come on for an entire year. I swore to myself that I would be more careful in the future. I wasn’t afraid of love. I was afraid of what came after. There was always an after.
• • •
Right now, I’m hopeful. But I hate being on display like this. I feel like a puppy in a pet store window. I don’t like waiting. If it happens, it happens. I wish meeting people wasn’t like this. I’m such a cliché just sitting here. Relax, Li Hua. I’d rather drink alone. Okay, maybe SOME company. I can see the wolves circling. It really has come to this.
“This isn’t a line, I swear,” says a nasal voice behind me. “It really isn’t. But, I’ve seen you here before. You’re a violinist, right?”
I tap my index finger on my violin case. “Outstanding powers of observation. The pinot here suits me. You’ve probably seen me here with my friend.” The words tumble out, but I’m already spent. I have no desire for bar talk. I’m desperate for something real. My interloper can buzz off. Bar pickup avoided.
The man steps into my peripheral vision and I glance over.
He’s handsome, bespectacled, thirty-something-years old with a sizable waist. His stomach droops over his belt, stretching the limits of both fashion and his button-down oxford. He looks me up and down, lingering on my long legs. He ogles me lasciviously, like a hungry cartoon character imagining a hot meal. I can almost see the thought bubble over his head. I’m a warm Thanksgiving turkey served on a platter.
“Hi, I’m Doug.”
“Quan.” That’s my bar name. I feign a smile and shake his hand with a single pump. Now leave me alone.
“Gung Hei Fat Choy.”
“That’s ‘Wish you the best of wealth.’ We only say that like once a year.” God, I’m lonely.
“I’ve seen you and your friend drinking here before. Your husband?” He leans his body on the stool next to me, presently occupied by my jacket and purse.
“No. A musician friend. Sorry, he’s married.” I pause. “In case you’re interested.”
He laughs. “Nice smile, good butt. But he’s not my type. Can I buy you a drink?”
“Sure.” I should have paused before accepting.
He looks over at my drink and surmises the contents. “Two more vodka tonics, please,” he says to the bartender.
I tip an ice cube from my tumbler, sucking it into my mouth. I tease the cube into some acrobatics with my tongue, doing a few backflips and somersaults. I crunch down on it and swallow.
Doug wears a wedding band on his left hand. He’s got a preppy sort of vibe with salt-and-pepper hair, glasses, a pink shirt, khakis, and penny loafers. What woman lets her husband wear penny loafers? He’s swarthy, with Eastern European features and a prominent nose. Great smile, nice arms.
He moves to sit down on the stool with my stuff, so I move it hastily. As he settles, he starts on a tear. He tells me about his photography career and his celebrity portraiture days. I learn he’s a music photographer of some acclaim. Glam rockers and hair metal bands have sat for his lens, he says. He rests his hand on my knee as he talks, occasionally touching my back or arm. He seems harmless enough, and exhales warm alcohol as he laughs. I nod my head at his exploits, feigning interest. His hand inches up my thigh as he monologues, fingers nearing the hem of my skirt. I make a habit of moving his hand away. He’s a little handsy.
I fantasize as he talks. I think about Doug on top of me. We’re naked in bed, skin on skin. He takes me in his arms and kisses me as I wrap my hands around his waist. I wonder what it would be like to be that close to him. To have his warmth on me, inside me. Is he affectionate and loving? Brusque and mechanical? I wonder if being naked with him would help me. Would I be less lonely? Less needy? How would he taste, his mouth on my lips? I fantasize that he’s in love with me. His arms are caressing my legs and hips now. He kisses me passionately, then pulls back and looks at me lovingly. “I love you,” he says.
Upper West Side husbands all seem the same—boring and eager to please. Doug’s no exception. His fashion sense is vanilla; and his patter, deferential. After every story, he looks to me for a head nod or comment. After every joke, a smile or a laugh. He wants to please. Looking him over, I assess his girth. His doughy middle tells me he hasn’t seen a treadmill since the Clinton administration. He’s probably a bored, alcoholic husband with a cheating wife, a nanny, and a tween in private school. That’s my guess.
Doug carefully increases his encroachment on my personal space. He gives me a little touch here and a little rub there. His seduction moves are polished, not clumsy. He’s done this before. I like knowing men. Knowing how they try to seduce and manipulate. Intellectualizing a seduction keeps me in my head. It stops me from making mistakes. Those were the bad old days. I don’t do one-night stands any more.
I wait for the excuse. The way he’ll try to get me to leave the bar with him. Does he have to water his plants? Feed the dog? Rearrange his sock drawer? But, the excuse never comes. He orders us another round and asks me about myself. Wants to know more about me, he says. I tell him some truths and some lies.
“I know how to configure a wireless router,” I say. True. My geek cred runs deep. “But, I’m not a very good violinist.” False. I’m one of the best in the world. “My past is actually pretty boring.” Ridiculously false.
I hate to admit it, but I’m having fun. We’re laughing and teasing each other. He’s smart and funny. We finish our drinks and he orders us another round. The conversation is sparkling. We clink glasses and I grow more relaxed by the minute. He’s cute. In a vanilla sort of way.
I know I’m supposed to discourage his hand. The hand that’s creeping up my thigh. The hand that’s within striking distance of my inner thigh. I’m supposed to tell him to knock it off. That I’m not that kind of girl. But, the truth is, I like it when a man touches me. It tells me he’s interested. I like men who show you what they want. That doesn’t make me a slut. It makes me a woman. I miss having a man’s warm hands on my skin. Why is it easier to get laid in New York City than to get hugged?
Doug excuses himself to the bathroom and I take out my phone. I check my Claffer classical news feed to see the latest snippets of classical music news:
@NYCDELAGOTTARIORCHESTRA OUR NEW SEASON BEGINS NEXT MONTH. JOIN US. #NYCDELAGOTTARIORCHESTRA
Nothing new. Just the same orchestra marketing drivel.
Doug returns and plops on the stool. “So, I’m a big fan of classical music,” he says, looking at my violin case. “So, are you like a professional or something? Is this a Stradivarius?”
“How’d you know? Only forty bucks on Craigslist.” Please shoot me now.
“Maybe you could give me some advice on my classical music collection. My library needs a good once-over from a professional. I really need some new music.” And there it is. The man knows how to get a woman over to his place. “One of my favorite composers is Dudamel,” he continues. Did he really just say that?
“I think you mean ‘conductors,’ not ‘composers.’ Look, you’re nice, Doug.” I rub his hand in mine, then look up at his strong jaw and the stubble dotting his cheeks and chin. I lean closer, putting my lips near his. Kiss me. He kisses me and my body goes warm. I needed that. His mouth tastes like red wine. He’s definitely been here a while.
I look at his left hand and see his wedding band more closely. The band strains against his ring finger. The skin on his finger spills over the yellow gold, forming a little swell of flesh. The ring adds to his allure. It’s true. Single women find married men sexy. They’re hot because they’re forbidden fruit. I’ve fantasized about seducing another woman’s husband.
Doug slides his hand to my inner thigh, then leans over to kiss my neck. As he moves, he slides his fingers between my legs. The touch is too forward for our level of acquaintance, but I’m conflicted. Maybe some more kissing. I don’t want to be prudish—or discourteous. He fingers me under the bar just so, his hand obscured by our corner spot. I don’t recoil right away, so a proper thank you seems in order. I moan, then arch my back. Every man knows what that means. I catch the eye of the female bartender as I pantomime and die a little inside. Humiliation is temporary. After a few seconds, I push his arm away.
“Why don’t we hang out for a bit? You can advise me on what music to buy. We can listen to some music.”
“Look, Doug, you seem nice. But, you’re married. And I need to be somewhere in a couple of hours. I think I’ll just hang out here for a bit.” Why did I say that? I wouldn’t mind kissing him some more. But that’s all I want.
“How about some shots? We can toast our new friendship. To Quan!” Before I can respond, he orders us some tequila.
“I guess we can toast our first meeting.”
The drinks arrive in short order and we clink glasses. We both down the firewater in a single gulp, then look at each other. He leans in to kiss me some more. Touching always feels good. It’s been too long.
We continue our conversation and he reaches back between my legs. I grab his wrist to stop his progress. For some reason, I wait a few seconds before prote
sting. I note that his touch isn’t clumsy; in fact, it’s sensual, gentle, goes right to my core. The man knows his vagina.
We continue talking about books and movies until I’m climbing the walls with desire. He continues his stroking with my hand holding his wrist. I occasionally push his arm away, but he returns, taunting me with the lightest of touches. Finally, I push his arm away from me.
“On second thought, why don’t we listen to some music?” I say. “I could probably offer some suggestions.” He nods his head in agreement and pays the tab. I’m not going to do anything with him. We’re going to hang out. Maybe a little kissing.
I grab my case off the bar and we head around the corner to his place on West 73rd Street. He has a doorman and I smile at him on the way to the elevator. I wonder how many women he’s taken home this week?
“I have a conference call at 9 tonight with an editor and publisher that I need to prepare for,” he says. Translation: His wife will be home by 6. Message received loud and clear.
Once inside his apartment, I set down my case and purse. I walk two steps before he turns around and shoves his right hand between my legs. I grab his arm.
“Hold on. I thought you wanted me to look at your collection. Let’s listen to some music.” I’m not playing hard to get. I’m different now. I’m not going to do anything with him. I won’t go back to the way I used to be.
“Uh, sure.”
He turns away and walks down the hall. I take in the décor of the entranceway to his upscale apartment, then look at him more closely: his salt-and-pepper hair, the pink shirt, and the creases that run down the back of his khakis. I take this all in as he walks away. He’s stable.