by Lisa Ferrari
“Are you kidding? I loved it. I’ve never wanted to get fucked so bad in my whole life. What was all that stuff that came out of me? I’ve never seen that before. Was it pee?”
“I’m not sure. Some people insist it’s pee. Other people say women have special glands that get stimulated. Probably a female analog to the male prostate. It certainly doesn’t smell like pee.”
“What’s it smell like?”
“It doesn’t really have a smell. It’s just kinda musky.”
“What does it taste like?”
“I don’t know, I’ve never really tasted it. But if you want, next time you can do it in my mouth.”
“Really? You’d let me?”
“Of course. You can do anything you want to me, Claire.”
“Really?”
Kellan seems timid all of a sudden, kneeling between my legs. Hardly the incredible, sexy, millionaire-businessman hunk of muscle I was pounding on with my fists a few minutes ago.
Kellan nods and gives me a little smile.
“Really?” I ask.
“Yes, really. Within reason, of course. I’m not going to let you light me on fire or take a dump on my chest or anything like that.”
“Can I fist you?” I’m not entirely certain why I ask this. I think it’s because I’m angry and it’s an extreme example in order to test his professed cooperation.
“You mean, like, right now?”
“Well no, not right now. I meant sometime in the future.”
“Um…I guess. If that’s what you really want.”
Holy fist-in-the-butt. “Seriously?”
“Yes. I don’t even know if it would work. Your hands aren’t exactly small. But if you have a deep, dark fantasy about fisting a guy, I’d be willing to help you explore that. Honestly, though, is that something you want to do?”
“I don’t know. Probably not. I might want to milk your prostate, though. Or make love to you with a big strap-on dildo. So you have an opportunity to see what it’s like to have someone ramming their cock into you. Dominating you. In control of you.”
Kellan grins. “I like the idea of you being in control of me.”
This is a lousy way to broach the subject of fetishes, here and now in the context of I-may-never-see-you-again.
Kellan takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, heavily. “So, if we can get back to the present and put the anal fisting and prostate milking and strap-on dildos on hold for a second, I need to know what it is you want.”
“What do you mean what I want?”
“I mean do you want to continue seeing me or are we breaking up? When I last saw you at the airport, everything was perfect. We had an amazing kiss that I haven’t stopped thinking about. I haven’t even jerked off while I was gone. I’ve been saving it for you. My balls are killing me.
“But we’re apart three days and I come back and everything has changed. I told you before that I don’t play games. And I have no patience for drama and all that he-said-she-said, should-I call-him-or-wait-for-him-to-call-me, what-do-my-friends-think crap. I’ll tell you straight up, no bullshit, that I really like you and I want to continue seeing you. But if you don’t feel the same way, tell me.
“But it has to come from you. It can’t be because it’s what your mom or your sister or Denise or Stacy want. It has to be because it’s what you want. You need to decide one way or another. I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but I take rejection pretty hard and I don’t like confrontation. I’m a world-class passive aggressive. My survival instincts are strong. Strong enough to keep me away from you if you say that’s what you want. I’m not the on-again-off-again, friends-with-benefits, Saturday-night-booty-call type. I’ve told you that. I was serious when I said it. The past few days in North Carolina were fun but they would’ve been a whole lot more fun if you’d been there with me. Even if we were running ourselves ragged and barely sleeping and were too exhausted to fool around, the way we were in L.A.
“I really wanted to come back and see you. I always enjoy my trips and meeting people and guest posing but to be perfectly honest, I wanted it to hurry up and be over so I could fly home to see you.
“Granted, this is not entirely what I had in mind. But that’s life, I guess.
“So, with all that being said, please have the balls to be honest with me and make a decision. If you want me to stay and hang out and watch TV or us go to my place or out to eat or whatever, I would like that.
“But if you think it’s best that I get up and walk out that door because your mom and your sister and your friends don’t understand or are themselves a bunch of chicken-shit troublemakers who are knowingly undermining your happiness, and now they’ve got you all twisted up in the head, then so be it. I guess I’ll say have a nice life and maybe I’ll see you around the gym sometime. But don’t be surprised if you don’t see me for a while.”
“How can you walk out of a person’s life if they’re allegedly so important to you? How come we couldn’t just be friends for a while until we get to know each other better, and then see what happens?”
“I don’t usually remain friends with my exes.”
“Why not? Isn’t that kind of childish and dysfunctional?”
“Probably.”
“So why not change it?”
Kellan shrugs. “I don’t take rejection well.”
He rests his head upon my stomach. I can feel his breath on my pubic hair. It makes me want him.
But it still makes no sense. We are so mismatched. None of his answers have satisfied me. Lord knows why, but that’s just the way I feel. And I do NOT want to wind up a mewling, clingy, pathetic little girl sitting around pining for the mighty Kellan Kearns the way Stacy clearly is. I don’t want to be just somebody that he used to know.
Maybe my mom is right; maybe someone like Chris is more my speed. He’s sweet, stable, and he’s persistent. I wouldn’t have to spend my life wondering about his fidelity. The fact is, Chris is no lady’s man.
Kellan the Killer Kearns, on the other hand, is the textbook definition of trouble.
Everywhere we go, women throw themselves at him.
Won’t it be only a matter of time before he caves under the pressure?
At some point, he’ll be out on the road, posing in friggin Alaska or someplace, and some hot Eskimo fitness chick will ask him back to her hotel room, and that will be that.
I could never allow myself to be the fool sitting at home pining for a man who was 3000 miles away with his penis in some whore’s twat or shooting his load all over her ridiculous DDD implants.
“Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all, right?” I say; I’m not sure why; it merely comes out.
“I wouldn’t know. I’ve only ever loved once. At least, I think it was love.”
“Who was she?”
“The squirter. We were together almost two years. I enjoyed it but it was certainly nothing like being with you, I can tell you that.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing, just that it’s been really nice being with you and I’ve enjoyed it. Why are you still so angry with me, Claire? I brought you flowers, I let you punch me, I just made you come. You’re still half naked for Pete’s sake.”
“What does that expression even mean?” I ask. For some reason, I’m irritated. “Who the fuck is Pete?”
“I don’t know. I would think maybe you would know, given your English Literature background.”
“You know I hated reading all that old shit. Way to throw it back in my face as the dumb wannabe writer girl who never read any of the classics and doesn’t know what ‘for Pete’s Sake’ means.”
“I’m not doing that. Claire…” Kellan sits up and moves back away from me.
He whispers, “It’s okay.”
He kisses my bare thigh very gently.
For some reason, it annoys me.
“I think you should go.”
“Really? You’re ending this?
”
“Why does this have to be the end? Why can’t we be friends? Why can’t you stop pretending that you see me as something I’m not? Why can’t you just be real?”
“Why don’t you stop letting other people run your life?”
“I’m not letting other people run my life.”
“Bullshit. That’s exactly what you’re doing. I leave for North Carolina and you and I are happy as clams and we can’t keep our hands off each other. Three days later, you’re a different person. You’ve allowed everyone around you to poison your mind with all this fear and doubt and mistrust and it’s all bullshit. You know it is. You and I are great together. We have fun. We laugh. We understand each other’s stupid jokes and obscure, archaic film references. And the sex is…”
“Is what? Nonexistent because of your little no-penetration clause? Do you use that with all the girls or just with the ones you don’t really like all that much so you can still get your rocks off without having to worry about knocking them up or heaven forbid getting some disease? What’s the matter, Killer, am I so revolting that you won’t even stick your dick in me?”
“No. What…. What are you talking about?”
“Stacy told me all about how you had your no-penetration clause with her just like you have with me. What the hell is wrong with you, anyway? You have Stacy on one hand, who is gorgeous like Miss America Playboy Playmate material, and on the other hand you have me, who is pretty much the complete opposite of that, and you won’t go all the way and actually have sex with either one of us. Is it some sort of sick game you like to play, to see how many women you can get on the line and then keep them hanging around so you can call when you’re bored or horny or feeling lonely? I want to know what it is. Is there something fundamentally unfuckable about me? Does my pussy smell funny?”
“No…”
“Oh wait, I know; you’re gay.”
“I’m not gay.”
“It’s okay if you are. It’s not like it was a hundred years ago. No one is going to murder you for being a big fag. That’s called a hate crime. You can prance around like a pony with one of those things in your butt if you want. I’m sure all the guys at Koo Koo Roo would love it. Kellan the Killer Kearns comes out! The hunky bodybuilder finally admitted to TMfuckingZ that the big fat girl sitting in his precious Aventador like a beached whale was merely his fag-hag gal-pal and failed writer friend from Nowheresville. Not to worry, boys, this piece of meat is ready to party. Hollywood would eat that shit up. You’d definitely get that movie role if you tell those two producer guys that you’re a homo. They’d probably take you back to their mansion in Bel Air and throw hundred dollar bills at you while you stand on their coffee table jerking that huge cock of yours. You can shoot one of your huge loads all over their big Al Pacino Scarface pile of coke and they can snort it all up, because to hell with getting high on your own supply when you’re filthy rich and Kellan the Killer Kearns has his huge balls in your face telling you all about macros and insulin and drop sets and super sets and running the rack.”
I glance down at myself and realize I’m still half naked. “Sorry if my female genitalia disgust you. Would you like to fuck me before you go? I’ll turn over so you can fuck me in the ass and pretend I’m a guy if that makes me more attractive to you. I’ll have a great time watching Game of Thrones tonight eating Ben and Jerry’s and farting your semen out of my asshole.”
Kellan is staring at me. Very softly, he says, “You know, some things, when they’re done, can never be undone. Ever.”
“Oh? Really? Like picking up a fat girl at the gym and making her fall in love with you so you can dump her a month later when you get bored?”
“You fell in love with me?”
Oh shit.
Shit shit shit shit shit.
I said it.
In the midst of my rant, it popped out.
But there it was; just as Kellan said: unable to be unsaid.
And now Kellan is outright asking. No bullshit.
Naturally, I chicken out.
“No.”
He doesn’t believe me. I can tell by the look on his face. He knows. I haven’t actually admitted it to myself yet, not fully, but Kellan knows.
But it’s too late; I already said all those things. And I don’t even know why I said them.
Kellan stands and goes slowly to the door.
“See you around, Iron Born.”
He leaves.
Chapter 15
An hour later, I haven’t moved.
I’m still sitting on the sofa.
I have managed to pull up my pants and mostly dress myself. But that’s it.
Kellan is gone.
What did I just do?
What the great Bloody Mary with Celery on Saturday morning did I do?
Well, Claire, you said a bunch of really mean and nasty shit in order to hurt his feelings bad enough that he decided to get the heck away from you. Nice going, dumb ass. Really good job, girl.
Shit. That is exactly what happened.
I regret it immediately.
Or do I?
FUCK! Why am I so wishy-washy? Why am I always back and forth on every single thing in my life?
Why do I have to be that way on this? With Kellan? I’ve said it more than once: Kellan is the best thing that ever happened to me. I auditioned for a Hollywood movie, for God’s sake. I flew First Class. I helped buy a very, very, very expensive car. And we nicknamed it the Mister Beaumont, just like Joey’s boat.
I jerked him off while he drove it. And even made Denise envious for once.
I did all of that. Thanks to Kellan.
And now I’ve blown it.
I made him leave.
I made him leave in grand fashion, too. I didn’t simply tell him I couldn’t do it. No, I went whole hog as usual and laid it on nice and thick until he was so hurt that he decided the pain of not being with me was better than the pain of sitting there listening to me hurl invectives at him.
And now he’s gone.
Gone gone.
Out of my life.
Before, when he was in North Carolina, it was one thing, knowing he was coming back in a few days.
It’s something else entirely knowing he’s in town but is out of my life.
THE NEXT SEVERAL days, I don’t do anything.
I hole up in my apartment like a recluse.
I don’t bathe.
I barely eat.
I just sit on my mom’s old, hand-me-down pity-couch looking at pics on my phone of my adventures with Kellan.
On the third day, Denise comes by and bangs on my door but I don’t answer.
I eventually devour the ice cream.
One-two-three-four pints in one sitting.
Afterwards, I’m watching the Kardashians and Kim is once again at the gas station putting gas in her big black SUV, which by this point I can only conclude is one giant metaphor for a black man’s penis.
I swear I can feel my heart skip several beats, trying to pump blood so full of fat from the ice cream.
I remember seeing online that Chris Penn ate himself to death at a restaurant in Santa Monica. I wonder if that’s what I’m doing.
THE NEXT DAY, I get my ass up, shower, dress, and drive my filthy piece of crap car to Denise’s.
Denise opens the door and hugs me.
“Jesus, Claire bear, I thought you were dead. I’ve been thinking about calling the police. I was even thinking about calling your mom.”
Wow, that is bad.
We go inside and Denise offers me everything from coffee or tea to shots of Jaeger.
I decline.
We sit on the sofa and I recount the whole sordid affair of how I annihilated Kellan.
When I’m finished, Denise tells me I’m better off without Kellan and blah blah blah. I find myself not able to so much as listen. Denise was one of the people filling my head with negativity, after all. I think she meant well, and still does, but ever since Kellan walked ou
t my door, one thought has haunted me:
I messed up.
When I was with Kellan these past two weeks, I was happy. Maybe even happier than I ever remember being for as long as I’ve lived, at least since I was a kid and I got excited about things only kids get excited about, like weekends and summer vacations and dressing up on Halloween, and Christmas and Santa bringing me an Easy Bake Oven and a Lite-Brite.
I explain all of this to Denise.
She’s only half listening, it seems. She’s sexting with Mark and glancing at the muted TV.
As I sit there on the couch, I grasp what a huge mistake I’ve made.
“Look,” Denise says, as her thumbs continue to fly across her phone, “if you want to keep seeing him, text him and say sorry and see what he says. If he replies back at all.”
That’s a surprisingly obvious yet utterly terrifying idea.
“I’ll do it,” says Denise. “Give me your phone.”
I don’t give her my phone. This is my life. I have to do it myself.
Hi. It’s me. Um…
I’m sorry.
With my heart pounding and terror making me want to barf, I hit Send.
Oh God.
Will he see it right away?
He’s always got his phone close for business purposes. He’s on the phone a lot.
Will he write back?
His reply comes in a minute later:
Fuck off.
Everything. Stops.
I’M NOT SURE how much time elapses, but eventually when I’m sitting there, totally catatonic, not replying to Denise’s typically-inane and, frankly, vapid observations regarding each individual television commercial, she deigns to look over at me.
“Did he write back?”
That’s when she sees the look on my face.
She comes over and grabs my phone and reads my text to Kellan and Kellan’s reply.
“Dude,” says Denise, “that’s harsh.”
“I deserve it.”
And in every fiber of my doomed being, I know that I do.
Chapter 16
I DRIVE HOME not long after getting the text.