by Carmen, Roya
Desire fills me as our bodies press together again. I feel the beat of my heart low in my core. I want this. Images of Joel fill my mind and I don’t push them away. I’ve had such a hard week, and I deserve this. I deserve to see what I want to see, and to feel pleasure at the skilled hands of my husband. All my anger and my worries are stashed away in a drawer, to be opened later.
There is only this moment, Brian’s touch, and Joel’s eyes.
I won’t feel guilty about this — it’s just a fantasy, and it’s the least I could give myself if I’m willing to forgive Brian’s deceit. I just want to get off, to reach that peak, to climb to that place where I forget everything, if only for a few seconds.
Our mouths still locked, I reach for Brian’s boxers. I reluctantly tear myself away to tug them off. When I’ve pulled them over his huge feet, I travel back up, climb on top and straddle him. When he rakes his hands through my hair, I’m brought back to the salon — Joel’s fingers digging into my wet hair, sending shivers through me.
As soon as he sinks into me, I close my eyes and enjoy the blissful moment. I indulge in Joel’s smile and warm eyes. They’ve stayed with me, like a beautiful painting you can’t forget.
Brian digs his fingers into the flesh of my hips and he thrusts deep into me. I press my hips hard against him, wanting him deeper. A shiver travels up my spine as I climb to my climax.
I’ve chosen to forget everything right now, but I know as soon as the pleasure recedes, I’ll be right back where I was.
* * *
Coffee with the girls — it’s just what I need. We meet every week, and alternate whose apartment we meet at. Since we all live in the building, this doesn’t even require putting on a jacket. Although I do like to dress up because I don’t get out much, and it gives me an excuse to wear one of my many skirts and heels — the walking is minimal so I can even wear my stilettos if the mood strikes — the girls always appreciate the effort, more so than Brian.
Today, we’re meeting at Gretchen’s on the second floor, one below me. I stare down at my flower-print skirt and rounded toe Nine West pumps as I take the stairs to get there.
As soon as Gretchen swings the door open, she’s all smiles. I love to see her happy because it’s not a common sight. Gretchen is going through a lot — not only does she have a two-year old, but she’s also raising him alone. Her husband, Donovan, a great guy, passed away two and a half years ago, following a car wreck when they were on holiday in Mexico. She was six months pregnant, and fortunately, she was sitting on the right side of the car, the side that didn’t get T-boned.
She never talks about it, and we know better than to pry. I know that we are her rock — she’s told us more than once. I do my best to be there for her. I text her and call her often. I bring her treats; chocolate, her favorite tea, comedies on DVD. I’m careful not to select romances of any kind, lest they remind her of Donovan. The truth is, I’m not great with these kind of situations, and when it first happened, I was an awkward mess around her.
She gives me a long squeeze. I’m not usually great with hugs and physical intimacy, but with Gretchen, it’s different. “Come in,” she says. “You look great. Love the skirt.”
“You too,” I say genuinely. Gretchen and I have similar tastes in clothing. Today, she’s wearing retro inspired green shorts with sailor buttons and a pretty white blouse. Her long brown hair is tousled casually.
Abigail and Claudia are already here, laughing and chatting. They greet me with quick hugs.
“I’m surprised you’re late,” Abigail says. “Thats not very Mischa,” she teases.
“Well, I haven’t been very Mischa lately,” I tell her. If she only knew.
“The usual, Mischa?” Gretchen calls out from the kitchen.
I’m on the floor, saying hello to little Ethan who is surrounded by his toys. He’s working hard on a wooden puzzle, and it tugs at my heart — reminds me so much of Trevor and Tristan at that age. “Sure,” I reply. My usual is chai tea these days. Until I get bored with it, and move onto something else.
I rise and head to the sectional to join Claudia and Abigail. Claudia’s talking about her date the night before — apparently, he was a dud. Claudia is recently separated, soon to be going through a divorce. Her son, Colton, is just two years younger than Tristan. I don’t think she has any trouble finding dates — she’s an absolute goddess — picture Salma Hayek.
“He asked me if I have ever tried anal,” Claudia is saying. “On the first date! Can you believe that shit?”
Abigail laughs. “So what did you reply?”
“None of your business, you creep,” Claudia tells her. “And none of your business either, Abby.”
“Aww… you’re no fun,” Abigail whines. “Don’t you know I live vicariously through you, Claudia?”
Claudia lifts her mug of tea to her lips. “I don’t know why. You and Daniel have been broken up for years now. Maybe it’s time to move on.”
Claudia can be quite direct sometimes, but she’s right. Abigail and her ex-husband have been divorced for two years, and Abigail’s been moping ever since.
“Men are all jerks,” Abigail deadpans, and the room falls silent. Truth be told, I’m the only one of the four of us who could be considered lucky in love. And considering that I’ve just discovered that my perfect husband not only cheated on me early in our relationship, but also has a secret daughter, perhaps I’m not so lucky either.
“Sooo….” Claudia says, breaking the silence. “How about you, Mischa. How’s your perfect life going?”
Everyone laughs. Everyone but me. I’m usually very private, but I’m dying to share. I just don’t know how to. I don’t want to say anything before I’ve spoken to Brian, before I know for sure. I don’t have all the answers yet.
“I went to a new hairdresser yesterday,” I cock a brow. “None of you noticed.”
Claudia laughs. “You look exactly the same. You always look flawless.”
I bring a hand to my bob. “It’s an inch shorter.”
“It looks fantastic,” Gretchen offers. “You really suit it.”
Oh, Gretchen… such a sweetie.
“So my new stylist is a man,” I go on. “He’s really good.”
“Hot?” Abigail asks.
My smile reaches my ears when I reply, “Very.”
“Gay?” Claudia asks.
I laugh. “No, married. He has two kids.”
“Well, that’s good, because you’re married with kids too,” Gretchen points out.
“Spank bank material then,” Claudia quips, “and she gets to know what his hands feel like when they’re playing with her hair… guilt-free.”
“You have a business card?” Abigail jokes.
“Uh… not on me.” He’s mine, only mine. No way my friends are seeing him too.
15
It’s happening again. It doesn’t happen often. It’s only happened five times in my thirty-six years of life. It’s like getting hit by lightning — it’s that quick. In the flash of a second, in the blink of an eye, as soon as gazes meet, I fall.
I not only fall. I become obsessed, and consumed with passion and desire.
I was eight years old when I first discovered love. His name was Connor Timmons, and he was adorable. He had golden hair which he always wore swept to the side, beautiful eyes which were either blue or green, depending on which shirt he wore, and a gap toothed smile I couldn’t resist.
He said “Hello,” once, and asked me my name. I said, “Mischa,” the word small.
“That’s a weird name,” he snickered, and my little vulnerable heart sank like a boat anchor.
Then he smiled. “But I like it.”
From that moment on, I was completely done for.
Despite the fact that we never actually talked, I’d spend my days unapologetically looking at him, so much so that once my teacher, the evil Mrs. Jackson, called me on it.
“Mischa,” she scoffed. “Are you paying attention
, or are you too busy staring at Connor?”
I blushed crimson as the whole third grade class turned their heads in my direction. I was breathless with mortification, until I saw him smiling at me. He didn’t mind, after all.
Then came the incessant scribbling and doodling. I had a whole notebook dedicated solely to my love for Connor — lots of hearts and rainbows, doodles of him and I, and my name written repeatedly in different designs: Mischa Timmons. Of course I was going to take his name — that much was decided already. I already had a vague idea as to what kind of wedding dress I wanted to wear, something classic, very much like Queen Elizabeth’s wedding gown. My mother had shown my sisters and I a photo from a magazine once and I was mesmerized. Of course I was planning to wear the long veil, pearls and tiara just like she did.
I knew we’d have to wait a long, long time for our special day, and I tried to picture Connor and I as grown-ups. I drew pictures of myself in my wedding gown, pink and yellow roses in my hands. I used up my new box of markers on my Connor notebook.
I hid it under my bed mattress. Unfortunately, my sisters were always nosy. Of course they found the Connor notebook and teased me incessantly, but I didn’t care too much — I was in love.
And I was getting itchy for more. I wanted our relationship to progress. I pictured us chatting about silly things, holding hands, and sharing snacks, specifically banana popsicles, each one of us enjoying our half. I wasn’t sure if he liked bananas, but who doesn’t love banana popsicles.
It was time to make a move. Never good with face-to-face interaction, I decided to write him a letter.
Dear Connor,
As you probably know already. I like you very, very much. I adore your eyes, your hair and your smile. And I think you like me too. You smile at me a lot.
I think we should officially be boyfriend and girlfriend. Can I tell everyone that you are my boyfriend? We could play and talk lots and I would like to hold hands too if that’s okay. And we could eat popsicles together. Do you like banana popsicles?
Anyway, I would very much like if we could talk after school. I will be waiting for you.
Sincerely,
Mischa Wilcox (future Mrs. Mischa Timmons)
The letter was flawless. I was a perfectionist and also a great writer, and I wouldn’t have had it any other way. Even the doodles I drew to frame my words were created with extreme care. Inked and colored, there were the two of us holding hands, eating popsicles, and getting married. I debated for the longest time on whether to include the wedding scene, because even at that young age, a part of me knew I was being a little crazy. Yet, I really wanted him to understand the intensity of my affection and commitment, so in the end, I decided to run with it.
I was a ball of nerves. I didn’t get a wink of sleep the night before. I couldn’t eat in the morning. My hands were shaking violently and my heart beating frantically when I folded the letter and discreetly handed it to him after lunch. I couldn’t concentrate on a single word Mrs. Jackson was saying, and I feverishly scribbled in my notebook, averting my gaze. I didn’t want to see him read it.
But I could only avert my eyes for so long. Soon enough, laughter and whispers could be heard all around me. I ventured a glance, and everyone was staring at me, mocking grins plastered on their faces. Madeline Scott squealed in laughter, and when I saw the letter in her hands, I crumpled. It was the worst moment of my young life.
I stared down at my notebook; drawings of unicorns, rainbows, ribbons, and the geometric patterns I favored from an early age. I brought my pen to paper and resumed my border of perfectly stacked triangles. I meticulously worked my way along the page as Mrs. Jackson went on about basic addition and subtraction, which was so beneath me. I was already into multiplications.
My pulse was racing. I felt light-headed and clammy, struggling to breathe. I felt trapped, like I was caught in a coffin, six feet under. I desperately wanted to escape, but I knew to do so would only bring more attention to myself. I kept my eyes on my notebook, and hoped that it would end soon.
Mrs. Jackson’s back was turned as she scribbled on the blackboard. I wasn’t looking up but I sensed her turn around and shuffle some papers on her desk. She handed us an exercise to do, and said she’d be out for just a minute or two.
Fear drowned me. Suddenly I couldn’t breathe. I knew exactly what this meant. No supervision meant that these kids were free to say or do whatever their wicked little minds wished. I ventured a glance up at Connor, and when he turned to me, my eyes pleaded with him.
Save me. Tell them you like me too.
As soon as our teacher stepped out, and the slam of the door was heard, it began. Madeline Scott was the first to mock me. “I adore your eyes, your hair and your smile,” she cooed, and topped it off with kissing sounds. The whole class erupted in laughter.
They’re just bullies, the whole lot of them, I reminded myself.
Christian Ward chimed in. “Can I tell everyone that you are my booooooyfriend?” His voice was an irritating squeal in an attempt to sound like me.
The class only laughed harder. My whole body was on fire. My ears were buzzing. I couldn’t breathe.
Someone else called out, “We could eat popsicles together. Do you like banana popsicles?”
“Yesss,” Connor broke in. “Banana popsicles are awesome.”
The fact that Connor was in on it was a blow for sure, but I wasn’t completely wrecked until, Sarah, my only friend, got in on it too.
“Can I borrow a pencil, future Mrs. Timmons?” She snickered, and in that moment, I realized that I had no one at all.
I fell into sobs. Until then, I’d been putting up a good fight, but I just couldn’t do it anymore.
When Sarah noticed me crying, she was quick to act. “Let’s stop. It’s not funny anymore. She’s crying.”
A horrible, uncomfortable silence floated above us all. I quickly grabbed all my things and scurried outside, my gaze stuck to the floor as I finally escaped the hell of my third grade class.
The aftermath was almost as horrible as those few minutes in Mrs. Jackson’s class. I was forced to go to school, despite my strong objections. My mother thought it was just “Mischa being Mischa”, and I was too embarrassed to tell them what had happened. I didn’t want my sisters to know that Connor had rejected me.
Connor never spoke to me, never acknowledged my letter. He could have made everything right just by accepting my request, and telling the world that he liked me too. But he didn’t. And I realized then that I was a delusional fool. I ripped up every single page of my notebook. I threw the scraps in our old steel pink bathtub, stole some matches from the kitchen, and burned every single page.
The teasing persisted for a least a week, but I held my head up high. Someone even gave me a half melted banana popsicle, and I took it politely and ate it, feigning enjoyment until it was gone. I refused to cry or sulk. I was still embarrassed and devastated but never let it show. The next week, everyone was making fun of Janice Mitchell who showed up at school with her Strawberry Shortcake underwear stuck to the back of her pants. I suppose her mother wasn’t familiar with fabric softener. I felt bad for Janice and never participated in the mocking, but I was so relieved that they were all finally off my back.
Turns out I not only discovered love that year, but I also learned all about heartbreak.
16
The second time it happened was when I was fifteen. Andrew Phillips was my second love. A blond haired, blue eyed boy who loved chess like I did. I fell for him as soon as he played his first move. He had a girlfriend named Samantha at the time, a cute little thing who wore her brown hair in braids. She was as nerdy as I was, but perhaps not as pretty.
But once I entered the picture, she didn’t last long. I knew stealing another girl’s boy was wrong, but I was driven by a desperate need to have him for myself, by an uncontrollable romantic obsession. I was shocked but how powerful this fixation was, by how it could so easily transform me from a mi
ld mannered good girl to a little vixen. I didn’t recognize myself.
We shared our first kiss behind a 7-eleven, and I let him feel me up a week later. Two weeks later, I gave him a hand job. But that’s as far as I was willing to go. The idea of sex, be it intercourse or oral scared me. All the diseases out there filled my head with horrible images of rashes, warts and sickness. I knew that Andrew wasn’t a virgin like I was — he and Samantha had had sex before and I wondered how many partners Samantha had had before Andrew. She seemed sweet as pie, but I knew looks could be deceiving. I looked sweet as pie too, but I was anything but.
A few months later, I still wouldn’t give it up, and he broke up with me. He crawled back to Samantha with his tail between his legs. That’s when I became really obsessed. I called him obsessively, showed up at his house at all hours, even sent him a scrapbook I made about the both of us. It didn’t take long for the news of my insanity and stalker tendencies to make the rounds around the school. From then on, I was officially the school psycho, and boys wouldn’t come near me. Neither did the girls for that matter.
The third time I got hit by cupid’s bow, I was sixteen, and the boy in question was Brian. Thankfully, this story had a happy ending, for the most part, current discoveries notwithstanding.
Then there was Anthony. Anthony was a chapter in my life I’d rather forget.
And now, Joel. I know I need to break out of this early if I have any chance of not falling down the rabbit hole again. But is it too late? I already know too much about him. I know what he eats for breakfast. I know he hates pickles. I know he wears slippers. He likes the Chicago Bulls and classic rock. All the time, when I thought I was innocently creeping his Facebook feed, he was becoming more real for me, he was digging his way into my heart, stamping himself onto my brain.