Shine: Wild Love Series

by Red L. Jameson

  But I don’t feel like I’m too much for Chris. Then again I haven’t told him many details about myself, so maybe my feelings are all a fantasy. Ah, but I can’t help but want to cling to whatever this feeling is—fantasy or not. Beautiful Chris is inside me because of the way he looks at me. I think he adores me. I feel adored. I know I adore him.

  But do I deserve that? How can I—the woman who wants to have sex with more than one man at once—deserve him?

  I finish class by talking about the Britons. The Romans wrote about those wild tribes and their wild love, polyamorous love. I pose the question to my unsuspecting students: can there be love with more than one partner? Or are we monogamous as our laws want us to be?

  A smart girl with blue hair who sits in the front row bravely answers cerebrally, how we’re primates and there have been few recorded cases of monogamous primates. Another girl, third row with a brutal bun at the nape of her neck, vehemently protests. We might be considered primates, but we have higher brain capacities.

  For using tools, a boy in the back row chimes in, like dildos, he says.

  The class laughs, but I die down the chuckles so Megan, the third-row girl, can continue. She makes the point that we can choose to be monogamous. And many people are very content to do just that. A man, a few years older than most of my students and I’d guess a former soldier by the look of him, says that some people are content, but take a look at America’s divorce statistics.

  Wendy, a new grandmother and the knitter of my class, speaks up softly, asking if the Romans or the Greeks ever defined happy love, unconditional love. While knitting, sometimes peeking up to look at me as I lean against my desk, she says she’s been married twice. The first time she didn’t know what she was doing. She was young and probably in love. She was giddy about the boy. But she grew up. And sometime, while growing up, she fell out of love with her husband. She knows he did too. Rather than reconnect, they grew bitter and resentful of each other. The divorce was a dismal affair. But with her second husband she’d learned so much—how to be giving, how to truly listen, how to not think she could change another person. She met her second husband and liked him for him. Not because of what she wanted him to be.

  Wendy thinks too many young people commit to each other without realizing they can’t change a person. They have to love that person for exactly who they are and how that person treats them. Not how they wish that person would treat them.

  Class is quiet and still after Wendy’s speech. She’s so brave and I wish I could tell her as much. I hide behind my academia, never saying anything so personal. But I’d probably embarrass her if I said how much I admire her. I glance at the clock. We’ve run five minutes over. But the class is silent, thinking. I tell them they can leave. Then they scramble toward the door as if they can’t stand the heaviness of the classroom.

  When most of the students have left, I approach Wendy, thanking her for sharing so much.

  She smiles and glances at the young, warm bodies making a beeline out the door. “I wish I knew when I was their age what I know now.”

  “Thanks to you, they’ll learn.”

  She laughs. “No, they won’t.”

  I wander into my office bewildered. No office hours today, thank god. I doubt I have the brain capacity to be of any help to anyone.

  Will I learn what love is? Will I learn how to give it? Will I always wonder if I’m good enough? I despise the idea of hair shirts and self-flagellation. Punishing oneself for love, at least that’s what it seems like to me. And I can’t help but wonder how long I’m going to punish myself for being born from a fanatic man who killed my mother, for not being able to save her, for running, for running to Anne who loved me for me. I worry I never spent much time getting to know the kind of man Tim was, instead, just committing to him, because I secretly knew he wouldn’t love me the way I craved.

  But do any of us deserve to be loved the way we desire?

  “Hey.”

  I pivot my head at the velvety voice of Paul. He walks into my office and closes the door. Once he locks it, I’m in his arms before I can think. He’s holding me, holding me so tight. I realize then I’m shaking.

  “Chris called, said you had a bad day.”

  I nod against his shoulder. I fit differently against Paul than I do with Chris. I can lean my head down on Paul’s neck.

  “Bethany needs a biopsy.” My voice is reedy. Maybe needy too. I cling to him, telling myself I shouldn’t.

  He holds me tighter.

  Paul has been teaching here for the last two years. I met him not too soon after Tim died. I think I was wearing black and looked the part of a widow. I remember overhearing someone say to him, in a hushed tone, that Tim had recently passed away. I remember the look on Paul’s face. He gave me a genuine smile. It was small and it seemed to say, “I know. It hurts, doesn’t it?” I liked him from that day forward.

  When he asked me out, I thought he meant just as colleagues. So I talked about classes and the university. He smiled patiently. After our dates and the coffee together, I concluded he didn’t want me. So I began to feel indifferent about him. Almost cold, even though I was considering him as my lover.

  It was a defense—to feel cool about him, protecting me from the fact that, similar to Tim, I thought I liked Paul more than he liked me. I was more attracted to him than I cared to be. I was uncomfortable with my feelings because I thought, again like Tim, what he did feel wasn’t as much as what I felt.

  But right now, in my office, he’s growing hard against me. I’m sure he acts aloof because he’s scared too. I know this, because I do the same thing.

  I look up at him, his brown eyes darkening into exotic pools I’d like to dive into.

  He’s wincing. “Sorry.” He tries to pull his lower half away from me, but I grab him by the waist, pulling him near.

  “It’s just…oh,” he moans. “I remember your body, what we did. But I’m trying to be a good friend.” He, again, leans away from me.

  I pull him back. Looking up at him, I ask, “Do you like me, Paul?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  He smiles down, now comfortable to press his erection against me. “Your mind attracted me first. I know that sounds like a cliché, but it’s true. When I moved here, I sat in the back of one of your 101 classes. It was a huge class. One of the most popular on campus. And I realized why. You were bright, funny, irreverent in a way that made no one uncomfortable, and I loved your clever mind. I liked the way you thought, how insightful you were.”

  I grin. “You really did sit in on one of my classes?”

  “Not one. I got addicted to you. You’re hell to break free from.”

  “I didn’t see you once.”

  “I can be clever too.”

  I laugh. “But you stopped coming to my classes?”

  He slowly inhales. “I knew you were a widow. I didn’t want to make a move until…until it was right.”

  “You waited two years for me?”

  He blinks and doesn’t look at me.

  I cup his face, loving the coarse whiskers along his sunken cheeks and sharp jawline. “That’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”

  He shrugs. “I still make it to a class of yours from time to time.”

  I smile then confess. “After you asked me to dinner, I stood outside your Shakespearean class.”

  He softly chuckles. “Stalker.”

  “Yes.” I kiss him briefly. “I loved the way you recited love sonnets. I thought you were funny and brilliant, but, oh, how I wanted you to recite something like that to me.”

  “Really? You don’t think that too over-the-top?”

  “Of course I do, but I want that anyway.” I tilt my head. “Do you think me silly? Childish?”

  He shakes his head slowly. “I’m embarrassed how…I am.” What he’s telling me is the truth. He’s authentically being himself. He’s showing me his very soul. He’s so honest it crushes my heart. Even
though everything under my ribs feels like pulp, he continues. “I’m ashamed of how much I want to…read someone my own poetry. I’m ashamed of how much I want…someone to love it, even though I know it’s crap, and to love me.”

  I’m so honored, so enchanted by his words, by the dark sizzle in his gaze, by him, I lunge for his lips. I don’t know if I kissed him first or if it was him. We just kiss. And kiss. I’m tunneling my fingers into his thick dark hair. It’s surprisingly soft. I thought he’d wear a lot of hair product for the slightly crazy style he’s got going on. But he naturally looks like a nineteenth-century poet. I love caressing his hair. I love touching it when he’s sleeping.

  Reminding myself of this weekend with him, I moan, feeling the apex of my legs grow tingly with need. I’m with Paul in my office where I exposed my glistening sex to him. My pussy is wet.

  I clutch and claw at him until we’re somehow on the floor of my tiny office. There’s hardly enough space for him to lie down, but I’m on top of him, grinding myself against his erection. We’re still clothed and how I wish for Ericka Jong’s zipless fuck. I wish my clothes would melt away so he could already be inside me.

  “Jane,” he whispers, then maneuvers his hand to rub my clit.

  “Oh, Paul.”

  His other hand rips at my shirt and buttons fly. I don’t care. I do the same with his plain white oxford. We smile at each other when his chest is exposed. Leaning down, I touch him, skin to skin. He removes his hand from me and cups my cheeks, deepening the kiss. We have to roll around to remove our clothes. Somehow I don’t have my pants on, but my heels are still on my feet, and he rips my panties from me. Again.

  “I think you like doing that,” I whisper in his ear then bite his lobe.

  He softly caresses my folds. “You have no idea what it does to me.”

  I rub against cock. “I might have an inkling of an idea.”

  He smiles, kisses me, then adjusts me again. I’m sitting on his face, looking down at his contracting stomach, his erection tenting his pants, and then he licks me. He tastes my opening and plunges in. It’s a shock to be penetrated. I’m not sure why my body feels so surprised, why I feel so new to this. I just had sex with Chris. This last weekend Paul was inside me for hours at a time. Still, this feels so different. So thrilling.

  His tongue is both soft and hard, relenting and soothing. And I’m frantic by the time he starts licking my clitoris.

  I tear into his pants, unbuckling, unbuttoning, unzipping. And I find him. I extract his lovely cock then stroke him. His stomach muscles contract even more. He’s making me think I might orgasm just from looking at him. I know I will when he’s in my mouth. He’s making me go wild with his tongue and he’s inserting his fingers in me, but it’s him that’s going to make me tip over the edge.

  I touch the black hair at the base of his cock. His balls are tight. He wants to come and I see the proof at the tip of him. A little pearl of moisture beads. The fact that he wants me this much, that I’m barely touching him and he still wants me, has me so close to the edge.

  I lick around his head and he moans.

  I can’t help it. I’m too indulgent. I can’t wait. Opening wide, I suck him in and I come.

  He moans again, and I love feeling his cock in my mouth, I love the pulse of him, how hard he is.

  My orgasm is making me clumsy and lethargic. I’m not doing enough for him. He’s rocking into my mouth and I don’t mind. I like that too.

  But he stops and has me rolling on the floor again, readjusting so his head meets mine.

  “I’m sorry,” I pant as he’s hovering over me.

  “For what?” He rears back and fishes through his pants pockets. Extracting a condom, he smiles up at me.

  “For coming so soon,” I moan. “I ruined it. It’s just, I like you in my mouth.”

  After he rolls on the condom hurriedly, he opens my legs with his thigh, then hovers over me again. “No, honey, you made it so perfect.”

  He’s at my sex—the tip of his cock to my opening. I’m so excited another wave of my orgasm crashes over me. I roll my hips forward and push him in.

  He shutters his lids closed.

  I do it again and again until he’s all the way inside me.

  “Fuck, you’re still coming.”

  “I’m sorry,” I moan.

  “No, honey, you’re really stoking my ego right now. I love that you’re still coming.”

  He thrusts and thrusts as I can’t seem to stop my orgasm. It’s almost too much. I can’t quite breathe. I can’t open my eyes. I can’t seem to shut up either. I know I’m moaning and making embarrassing noises. Finding my shredded panties, I stuff what I can into my mouth.

  “Jesus, that’s hot,” he whispers and kisses my ear, then down my throat.

  He keeps thrusting into me, and I’m shaking and lifting my knees up around him, but I’m not sure I can handle much more. My orgasm is cusping into too many sensations. I’m afraid I might…I don’t know what…explode, even though I already am.

  He makes this growling masculine noise, his thrusts getting faster, harder. I can feel he’ll come soon. I know it. And my orgasm rips me apart.

  As I hear him make his final grunt-groan when he thrusts deeply into me, coming, I black out. I don’t know how long I’m unconscious, but the next thing I know is Paul looking down at me, worried.

  His arms are around me, and he sags from his shoulders, sighing. “Jesus, I was worried you’d suffocated from your panties.”

  “I think I passed out.”

  He smiles. “Seriously, honey, you don’t need to stoke my ego like this. I know I’m not the biggest man. Or the most experienced—”

  I cover his lips. “You’re perfect to me. This was so perfect, but I might orgasm again with you still inside me.”

  He pushes his hips just a tiny bit more, and I do come again.

  Honestly, I’ve never been like this. Oh, I liked sex before my three men happened into my life. I liked it a lot. But I’d never felt…free like this. To play, to have fun, to just feel. I’ve always felt an overwhelming pressure to…to be prettier than whoever it was Tim was fucking around with. To be sexier than whoever she was. I wanted to be the ultimate. So I could be safe from Tim ever choosing a lover over me.

  There is no safe, is there?

  But as Paul softly thrusts inside me again, I wonder why I feel so safe with him. I wonder if I’m setting myself up for heartache.

  The way I feel about Paul is vastly different from the way I feel about Chris. I want Chris’s smile, I want his warmth, I want to feel that life is that easy. But with Paul, he knows my soul without ever telling him. He knows me. He acts like me. He does the same tricks. And he wants the same things I do: to be loved.

  We’re both so terrified of it. We’ve both been so burned. I know there’s more to Paul than just his junkie of a mother, stealing from him. I’m fairly certain there were other women in his life that broke his heart, perhaps broke him too. And when we’re looking into each other’s eyes as he’s pumping into me, our hearts are healing. Well, mine is.

  I caress his whiskered jaw, loving the scrape against my palm.

  Finally, my orgasm is subsiding.

  “I’m going to come again,” he whispers.

  When he does, somehow I do too. We clutch at each other the way survivors do, we cling and I’m not sure, but I think I’m crying.

  He knows me and doesn’t judge me. At least that’s how I feel in his arms. The warmth I feel from Chris is always threatened when I think of my past. The connection I feel with Gabe is also ominous when I think of the fourteen year-old girl who ran away from a murderer who used God as a weapon. I worry they wouldn’t understand. I worry they would pity me.

  But I don’t think Paul would.

  But I could be wrong.

  19

  I hang up my cell phone, disconnecting after I left a message on Bethany’s voicemail. I’ve never gotten her voicemail before. She’s always answer
ed. Always. I hate to admit how I feel abandoned by my friend. That’s idiotic for me to feel. However, what might not be so foolish is this overwhelming sense of confusion about the men in my life.

  I want to know how the men feel about me.

  But I’m too much a coward to ask.

  I want to know how I feel about them.

  But…I did mention I’m a coward, right? I’m too afraid to examine my own emotions.

  It’s snowing. The first snow of the year. It’s one of those light storms, more like a dusting of dry teeny white flakes, looking like sparkling sugar falling from the sky with the late-afternoon pink-lemonade sun popping out from the puffy clouds hanging low.

  I love this kind of snow. Sure, it’s cold. But the dryness of the flakes, the dazzle from the peek-a-boo sun—it’s just fun. So I decide to go for a run. While suiting up, I hope someone will call my cell before I go out. But no one does.

  I just had sex with two great guys. That should be enough. That really should. I shouldn’t want more. I shouldn’t want one of the guys to call. And I really shouldn’t want Bethany to call. I shouldn’t be this needy.

  Leaving my cell behind, I’m angry at myself because I’ve turned into a prima donna, needing attention every moment of the day.

  I don’t give myself the usual warm-up but just sprint down my street, then turn and race down other sidewalks. Laramie is a small town. I know where to jog when dusk is settling in, like it is now. I know where I’ll be safe. Winding between alleys and roads, I find myself close to a family park that’s desolate, except for the sunset, which is pure pink. It’s such a sweet pink with the frosting of snow. I stop, panting, and look at the sun’s blushing rays, smiling.

  Maybe pink is the color of love. I’ve always thought crackling orange ambers were. But I could be wrong. This sunset is so gorgeous it enters my heart. My eyes sting from the beauty. I’m sweating and my anger is assuaged. I might be okay alone. Actually, I’m good at being alone. After all, I’ve been alone for a long time.