“Oh my God,” she whispers. “Oh my God, what did we just do?”
“Ally…” I step towards her with my arm outstretched, but don’t dare to touch her. “Ally, it’s ok. It’s not as bad as you think.”
She finally looks at me for the first time since before I stood her in front of the mirror. The first falling stars melt and slide down her cheeks, her lip trembling. “I’m married, Justice! This is exactly as bad as I think. I’m not some kinda…whore…that just kisses guys that are not her husband. That’s not me! None of this…none of this is me!”
This time I grip her shoulders, commanding her attention. “Ally, this is you. This is who you are. You can be as awkward and silly and goofy as you want with me. I don’t care about your hair looking perfect or what labels you wear. I don’t give a damn who you know or what school you went to. And I definitely don’t give a fuck about Evan, who wouldn’t know how to be loyal and honest even if he had a fucking gun to his head. So fuck him. And fuck feeling guilty for finally taking control of your desires. You wanted to kiss me, Ally. You wanted to kiss me just as badly as I wanted to kiss you.”
“No,” she says shaking her head adamantly. She brushes my hands away and turns, giving me her back. “I don’t want this. I don’t want to be a cheater.”
“You’re not a bad person, Ally. There’s nothing wrong with feeling the way that you do.”
She shakes her head again and nearly runs out of my bedroom. I’m right on her heels, refusing to let her dismiss the living, breathing desire that’s been between us since day one. “You can’t run from this. You can’t just act like there’s nothing between us.”
She bends down to collect her sweater, still shaking her head, refusing to face me. She’s not just dismissing the kiss—she’s dismissing me. She’s done with me. I’m not even worth a response or even a glance. I’ve been discharged from her service. She doesn’t need me anymore.
Pain-laced rage boils just under the surface of my skin, and I stalk behind her as she tries to scurry to the door.
“Really, Ally? After all the time we’ve sat here–right here in this fucking living room– talking, laughing, and just being, you want to act like I don’t even matter? Like what we both felt didn’t matter? Tell me it didn’t matter, Ally. Turn the fuck around and tell me you didn’t want that to happen back there!”
Her hand is on the door handle and she leans forward, her forehead pressed against the door. I can’t help it. I can’t stand this distance between us. I can’t lose this angel only to be forever cast into hell alone. In a final act of desperation and insanity, I wrap my arms around her, completely covering her body with mine. I want her just as immersed in me as I am in her.
“Please, Ally. Just stay,” I whisper urgently, kissing the shell of her ear. “Stay, or tell me you don’t want this. That I’m a fool for wanting you like I do.”
I hear the click of the door handle and hope splinters like broken glass, falling away into the land of broken dreams and stolen moments. A land where Ally’s smiles are brighter than the sun, and her laughs are the soundtrack of pure, untainted happiness.
“You’re a fool,” she croaks, pulling away from my arms. From me. “And I don’t want this.”
Part of me stands at the door, waiting for her to come back. Hoping that she’ll change her mind and choose me. Choose us.
The other part of me lies at the bottom of the pool drowning, while a million tiny stars look down at me in pity.
“TODAY’S LESSON IS actually very simple. So let’s get straight to the point, shall we? Open the cases in front of you.”
I wait for the sounds of metal latches and the horrified intake of eleven breaths, but I don’t look at any of them. I don’t make eye contact. Not today.
“What are we supposed to do with these?” Lorinda. Or maybe Maryanne. Or…fuck if I care.
“Suck them.”
“What?” Another Mrs. Fucktease von Clueless.
“You’re going to learn how to suck them,” I say louder, my voice carrying throughout the room. I close my eyes and count to ten in an attempt to get a handle on my shit.
“Now if you’ll all be so kind as to remove the dildos from your case and, using the suction at the bottom, attach them to the table in front of you, we can begin.”
“You really expect us to do this?” another asks, her whiney voice making me cringe. “It’s disgusting and degrading.”
“And that’s exactly the train of thought that forces your husband’s dick into your nanny’s mouth.”
“That’s sick!”
“That’s the fucking truth.” I massage the back of my neck and take a leveling breath. It’s completely silent, save for the sound of incessant pounding in my skull.
I’m hungover.
And not, like, a little hungover.
I’m a lot hungover.
Plus, I look like shit. I didn’t shave and only had time to hit the hot spots in the shower before class started. My simple tan slacks and white linen shirt are unpressed and my hair is just finger-combed. And my mouth tastes like a raw oyster that’s been sitting under the desert sun all day.
Like I said, I look like shit. And I probably smell like I bathed in that fifth of Jack instead of drinking it, now that it’s seeping out of my pores.
I swallow against the dryness on my tongue, but to no avail. “Look, if you want to learn how to do this shit and do it right, I’ll teach you. If you’re too hung up on stereotypes, or think Jesus won’t love you over giving a little head, then there’s the door. So what’s it gonna be, ladies? You want your husband to look at you as a housewife? Or as his own, personal whore? You choose.”
No one answers, yet they all stay deathly still in their seats, staring in delightful horror at the 8-inch, flesh-toned dildos in front of them.
“Good,” I nod with a grimace. Fuck, that hurts. “Let’s begin.”
“DON’T BE AFRAID of it, Maryanne. It won’t bite you.”
I watch as the matronly woman slides her trembling lips over the tip of the silicone penis. Her pink tongue gives it a lick before she eases her head down, taking it into her mouth completely.
“Good. That’s good. Let it touch the back of your throat and gently suck as you pull out slowly.”
She complies, looking up at me with big, brown eyes, seeking validation. I pat her on the back and nod before moving on to the next housewife.
“Shayla, use your tongue, baby,” I croon, resting a warm hand on her shoulder as I squat down next to her. “Lick the tip when you pull up. Swirl it around the head. Imagine tasting those little drops of precum. That’s how you know he’s ready for you; you’re making him feel good. Now, when you ease it back into your mouth, put pressure on the underside of his shaft.”
Just like Maryanne, Shayla does exactly what I say, even letting her eyes close as she imagines the feel of a hot, pulsing cock sliding between her lips. I almost smile with pride, when a moan rumbles the back of her throat. She feels it too. The thought bringing a man to his knees with her mouth is getting her hot. Shit, it’s even getting me a little hot.
Beside Shayla, Lacey is trying to suck the plastic off her rent-a-dick.
“Slow down, Lacey. Slow. Sensual. Take your time.” I place my hand on the back of her head and push it down slowly, forcing her to match my tempo. “Slow, sweetheart. Just like that. Taste every inch; savor it. Put more of it in your mouth, baby. Yeah…all the way to the back of your throat.”
I gently grip her hair when she lets out a muffled groan. “Ok, now a little faster. Suck it harder, baby, but still be soft. Put that pretty, wet mouth all over it.”
Pulling her hair a bit, I speed up until Lacey’s head steadily bobs up and down. When she takes hold of the dildo and begins fisting it enthusiastically as she sucks, I let go and take a step back, admiring the little monster I’ve created.
I actively engage the women as they explore the art of oral copulation, getting off on their obvious discomfort and inexperience. This is
exactly what I need to distract me from the pressure at my temples, and the rage resting at the back of my neck. Not to mention the niggling ache in my chest. I shut it out. I shut it all out, focusing only on my work. Which is exactly what the fuck I should have been doing all along. Not humoring a silly woman while she cries about her cheating bastard of a husband and failed fraud of a marriage. Not sitting through dozens of episodes of mindless drivel and eating lard while she nestles against my side like the cocktease that she is. And not letting her lead me to believe that I was anything more than the hired help, damn near the equivalent of a gay BFF.
How did I get to this? How in the fuck did I lose sight of what I am and what I stand for so easily?
I can’t even really blame her. She’s simple and vapid and shallow. She couldn’t drown in the depth of her petty thoughts. So I can’t hold her responsible for the state that I’m in. I let this happen. I let her in when I swore that would never happen. I should’ve known better. I knew what type of person she was since the day she made it clear that I was an outsider. A nobody. Not even good enough to be fucking honest with. I was a shiny new toy to play with, then discard when she grew tired of me.
My thoughts lead me to the mahogany desk she’s stationed at, but I don’t look at her. I only know it’s her by her shoes—those same sandals that would slap against the pavement when she’d intrude on my nights by the pool. The same sandals that she’d slip off before tucking her feet under her ass and curling her body next to mine.
I hate those fucking sandals. I should have told her that. No man wants a woman that wears sandals. They want women that wear heels. Platform stilettos. Heels that look damn sexy when they’re sitting on our shoulders or wrapped around our waists. Ain’t shit sexy about sandals. They’re one tier up from flip-flops, which are barely a step away from Crocs.
Fucking Crocs.
“You’re doing it wrong,” I blurt out gruffly, before my little reflective moment takes a turn for the worst.
“What?”
I still don’t look at her. I just keep my eyes trained on those sandals and her little, pink-tipped toes peeking out of them. Even her toes are adorable.
Hmph. Adorable.
I’ve never been a fan of adorable. Chubby-cheeked babies are adorable. Puppies are adorable. Sometimes even little old ladies named Ethel. None of those things equate sexy. So neither should she.
“I said, you’re doing it wrong,” I say more sternly.
“I heard that.” Her voice is small and sad. Just like she is. A small, sad, adorable woman. “What am I doing wrong?”
“Everything.”
“Everything?” She sounds defeated. Like she wanted so bad to succeed at this so she could give Evan the blowjob of his life, ensuring that he’d never stray. Like she wanted to be the Superhead of the Upper East Side and boast her talents on a billboard in Times Square.
“Yeah. You’re doing everything wrong.” Sorry, Superhead Junior. No book deal for you.
I start to turn away, somewhat satisfied with myself, when her small, sad voice stops me in my tracks.
“Can you teach me how?”
Can I teach her how?
Can I teach her how?
I bite back my initial response—which would probably consist of me telling her exactly where she could go, how, and with what shoved up her tight, frigid ass—and take a moment to breathe before formulating a more professional response. “If you need extra help, Mrs. Carr, I suggest you make an appointment during business hours.”
“An appointment?” I can hear the confusion and hurt in her voice.
“Yes. An appointment. That’s what clients make when they find that they require more assistance than usual. When their inexperience stifles their progression. I can’t give you extra attention just because you seek it, and take precious class time away from others. That would be foolish of me, don’t you think?” I answer tersely, giving her back her own words.
Her face contorts as if I’ve just slapped her, her eyes twice their size and mouth agape. “What are you doing?” she whispers, though it’s already too late. We have an audience. And right now, these gossip mongers smell fresh shit to stir. Still, I lean in close, invading her personal space and stealing her air. I want her as uncomfortable as I am. I want her just as exposed and humiliated and wounded as she’s made me.
“I’m doing my job, Mrs. Carr. Exactly what your husband paid me for.”
BY THE TIME I dismiss the ladies for the day, I’m exhausted, both mentally and physically. Everything hurts. I can’t think of one part of me that doesn’t ache with every step I take back to the refuge of my home. And it’s not just my body that feels it. I’m too tense, too edgy. I feel like I could explode at any given moment.
I know I fucked up in class at the way I spoke to Ally, but shit, she needed it. She needed to see who I am…and what she’s left of me. As much as I hate it, she caused the mess that I am right now. So, Bravo, Allison Elliot-Carr. You’ve single-handedly fucked up my day and given me blue balls. And you’ve reminded me why I despise people like you…why I hate the world you come from, and why I’ve emancipated myself from it.
Thank you, Ally. It’s bitches like you that create coldhearted bastards like me.
“Hey!”
I hear the slap of those damn sandals again, and my skin goes clammy and hot. I try to shake it off and keep walking, ignoring her approach.
“I said, Hey! You wanna tell me what the hell your problem is?”
“Make an appointment, Mrs. Carr,” I bark out without turning to address her as I fumble with the lock at my front door. Goddammit, I don’t have time for this shit.
“I don’t give a damn about your appointments, Justice. Why are you acting like this?” Her voice is right here, right behind me. I can nearly feel her warm breath at my back. With her this close, her heat mingling with mine, I can’t even respond. I’m too tired for this shit. Too exhausted to even try to make sense of what’s happened between us. Maybe I imagined it all. Maybe Ally was completely innocent and platonic with me. I could’ve misread her signals. Shit, maybe she really did look at me as her gay BFF.
“Hey,” she says softly, placing a hand on my sweat-dampened back. “Talk to me.”
I didn’t realize how much I could miss a simple touch until I didn’t have it anymore. It’s so easy to let her back in. To let her wiggle her way back into my arms and smile up at me like she is the sun and I am every star in her sky.
When you spend your life in the dark, looking up and wishing for something better—something brighter—you don’t realize just how lonely you are. Not until the sun shines, shedding light on all the empty spaces and filling them with beautiful warmth. But when the sun abandons you, everything seems darker and colder than before.
Emptier.
Lonelier.
I force myself to push open the door and step inside, not even sure if she’s trailing behind me. When I turn around, she’s standing in my living room. I want her to stay; I want those smiles and that maniacal laugh and her cheesy jokes. But I don’t want this feeling that will return full force when she leaves again. I can only do this once, so for all intents and purposes, I’m going to do it right.
“What do you want, Allison?”
She hesitates, looking around the room to stall. I turn back around and begin to make my way to the bedroom. “Let yourself out.”
“Wait,” she calls out. “I just…please, Justice. I can’t leave things like this.”
I face her with a huff, my annoyance as palpable as the friction hanging between us. “Like what?”
“I know I hurt you and-”
“I’m not hurt.”
“Oh.” She looks surprised, like she expected to have wounded me. Like she just knew that she was that fucking important to my happiness. She nods as if she’s just realizing that she isn’t. Not even close. “Well, I know I shouldn’t have led you on to believe we…that there could be more than friendship between us.”
“What do you mean?” she frowns.
“What—you thought I was your friend? You thought I actually liked you? That I wanted us to grow into something more?” I laugh sardonically, the sound harsh and too loud even to my own ears. “Allison, you are a client. An obligation. Not my friend. I don’t have friends, and if I did, I surely wouldn’t seek one in you.”
“What?”
I move in fast, anger and aggravation guiding each step, until I’m a meager inch from her face. Fear sparks those turquoise eyes and she gasps in surprise, those soft, sweet lips trembling. I imagine biting them, sucking them into my mouth and tasting that trepidation.
“Did I fucking stutter? You’re not my friend, and you never will be. Are you friends with your maids? Your driver? The person that walks your rat of a fucking dog and picks up its shit? You paid me for a service, and I provided it. End of story.”
She finally finds the good sense to take a step back, disgust etched in that beautifully blemished face. “Why are you acting like this? How can you say that we were never friends, Justice? I told you things. Personal things. And you acted like you genuinely cared. You were so attentive and nice-”
“Nice? Nice?” I shout, the sound piercing my cranium. The pain is nothing compared to the ache spreading in that cold, hollow space in my chest. The space the sun no longer touches. “I’m not fucking nice, Ally. Ain’t shit nice about me.”
She squints like she’s just now seeing me for the very first time. “So it seems.”
“Good.” I turn back around, expecting to feel triumphant. Yet, that empty ache just keeps spreading until it’s in my throat, choking me. I can barely breathe, but I can’t let her see that. I can’t show her what she’s done to me… what she’s doing to me now. “You can leave,” I croak, through the pressure on my vocal cords.
I stand stock-still until I hear the click of the door behind me. I exhale, releasing a sound that’s too broken and ragged to have possibly come from me. I don’t feel like myself. I feel like an imposter has crawled its way into my body, sheathed my skin, and controlled my bones like shifting gears. He said those things to Ally, not me. Yet I’m the one left with the fallout.
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