by Harper Bliss
“Please take your seats.” Kristin is talking into the mic. “The fun is about to begin.” She glances at the piece of paper in her hands. “First up, we have Meredith, who has become quite the regular. She will be reading from her poetry. Let’s give her a big round of applause.”
I’m unable to focus much of my attention on Meredith’s poem, unlike Caitlin, who seems to be absorbed by it. From the corner of my eye I glance at her. Our chairs are pushed close together and her elbow is only millimeters away from my arm. She is sure to ask me again at the end of this night. Will I say yes?
This isn’t really a date, but it feels like a transition between the first one and what could be the actual second one. She’s trying so hard for me and I don’t know why. Could it be that she actually likes me? I glance at her again. Her dark hair is held together in a ponytail. She’s dressed quite casually in jeans but her lips are painted red again, like they were on our date, and a wave of heat swoops through me at the memory of those lips kissing me for the first time.
I want nothing more than to go out with her again, but I’m so scared. Then it comes to me: I’ll propose a date. It can even be at her house. But I’ll go home after. I won’t stay the night. We’ll take things slowly. What was I even thinking falling into bed with her so quickly? I was too enthralled by her, too transfixed by the idea of being out with Caitlin. Too fooled by my obvious arousal for her. I won’t let that happen again—I won’t make the same mistake twice.
Everyone claps, so I follow suit, even though I have no idea what the poem was about. Behind me, Robin whoops. Robin, with the body made entirely out of muscle, or so it seems when she shows up to the Pink Bean in her workout gear.
“Next up, our very own Caitlin James,” Kristin announces.
“Go, Caitlin!” Sheryl shouts.
Caitlin briefly puts a hand on my knee—is she nervous? If she is, it’s the very first sign I’ve ever seen of it on her. She rises to her full length and pulls her lips into a wide smile. On the contrary, I guess. She’s enjoying every second of this. She must feed off this kind of energy to be able to do the things she does. She’s extroversion personified, while me, with my big body and all my angst, I’m the very picture of fear. Of someone who is always waiting for life to get a little bit better before taking a chance.
If I wanted to, I could be on that stage. I let the thought sit in my mind for the briefest of moments, then let it go. Everyone is different. Teaching is enough spotlight for me. If I tried to sing into that microphone, chances are not a single note would make it out of my throat.
I watch Caitlin as she strides to the front.
“Hi everyone,” she says with enviable ease. “My name is Caitlin James.” A few cheers from the tiny crowd. “And I’m going to read a poem I wrote quite recently, actually.” She delves a hand into her jeans pocket and digs up a wrinkled sheet of paper folded into squares. She unfolds it while she holds the crowd’s gaze. It reminds me of how she looked at me when she asked me what I liked in bed. It’s not just sheer desire I feel when I look back at her now. It’s infatuation mixed with respect and, always, unmistakable dread. As though I know in my heart of hearts that this kind of life—the kind of woman Caitlin represents—is not for me.
“It’s called ‘The Truth’.” Caitlin clears her throat and starts reading her poem.
I hang on to her every word. I’m not well-versed in poetry but I’m guessing the most important criteria for it to be good is that it moves the person listening to it, and I am deeply moved. I’m very biased, of course, but I can’t help but wonder when she wrote these words.
Her voice is crisp and clear and she reads with a kind bravado that is driving me mad—that is making me want to recant the promise I just made to myself of not sleeping with her again any time soon.
Some people are meant for the stage, I think, as Caitlin ends her poem and I wish she could stay up there a little while longer so I could just look at her, take her in as she makes herself vulnerable, as she gives herself up to the moment like she so easily did when we were in bed together. Is it a learned skill or nature? Maybe a bit of both. I clap my hands together vigorously and she gives us a little bow.
“Thank you,” she says, a hand clasped to her chest. “I really appreciate it.” She’s a woman who knows how to accept applause, who deals with compliments gracefully.
“That was actually quite good.” Sheryl pats Caitlin on the shoulder. Robin gives her a wolf whistle as Caitlin sits back down at our table.
“What did you think?” Her eyes seem to search my face for something.
“You’re a woman of many talents,” I manage to say.
“I thought about letting you read it first,” she whispers in my ear, “but the circumstances weren’t really right for it.”
Kristin calls us to attention again. Someone reads a short story and there are a few more poems and one woman raps while her companion beatboxes and the night passes in a blur of applause and performance. Caitlin’s energy radiates onto me and I’m sitting at a table with these wonderful women who are sort of becoming my friends.
“Did Caitlin tell you she’s doing my yoga class tomorrow?” Amber says after the performance part of the evening is over. “Only Micky and Robin are not up to it, but Sheryl and Kristin are coming as well. I’ve even managed to convince Martha to join.”
“That’s great.”
“How about you, Josephine?” Amber asks.
“Oh, I don’t think so.”
“Maybe you could stop by some time next week? For that private lesson?”
“I’ll think about it.”
We are joined by Martha, who puts a hand on Amber’s shoulder. “You can’t convert all of us,” she says. “It’s just not statistically possible.”
“Doesn’t mean I can’t try.” Amber gives Martha a warm smile.
“You are pretty hard to resist.” Martha leans into her a little. “At least for me.”
I’m quickly beginning to feel like a fifth wheel. They must have taken their relationship to the next level. So this is what that looks like. I’m sure they’re both seeing stars when they go to bed together. They seem to glow in each other’s company. They look like a couple that makes perfect sense.
“I’m dying for a glass of wine.” Caitlin has walked up to us. “Who’s up for it?”
“I’m teaching tomorrow morning,” Amber says.
“I’m with her,” Martha adds.
“Micky? Robin? How about you?”
“We have the kids and, er, kind of a big weekend planned.”
I’ve been so caught up in my own frustrations that I forgot Micky was going to ask Robin to move in with her. Is she alluding to that? If she is, I’m sure I’ll hear all about it on Monday.
“Come on up to ours,” Sheryl says. “I’ll pour you a nice glass while Kristin finishes up here.”
“Oh, no. That’s all right,” Caitlin says, her lips stiffening a bit. “You don’t have to do that.”
“How many times do we need to have this conversation? Yes, I’m a recovering alcoholic, but yes, we still have wine in the fridge for Kristin and our guests. Come on, Kristin will be happy to have someone to share a bottle with in the comfort of her own home.” She looks at me. “Are you coming up, Josephine?”
“I would love to, but I really can’t.” How many times have I said no to people tonight? I’m beginning to notice it a bit too much. “I have a lot of work to do tomorrow.” I give an apologetic shrug, expecting Sheryl will understand.
“You work this girl too hard, Sheryl,” Caitlin says. She glances at Sheryl, and takes a step in my direction. “Give me a minute. I’ll be right up.”
She takes me aside, her hands lingering near mine. “Can I see you this weekend?”
“Er, yes.” Butterflies storm my belly as she looks into my eyes. “Sunday?”
“Your place?” She sends me a crooked smile.
“Why not?” I laugh at her persistence. “Come for lunch?”
“I
look forward to it already.” Her fingers brush against mine as she presses a hot kiss to my cheek.
After I get home and find the apartment empty, I pour myself a glass of wine and retreat to my room. When I put down the glass on my nightstand and my eye falls on the drawer where I keep a very small collection of sex toys, I get a tingle in my belly. I remember Caitlin’s fingers briefly intertwining with mine. The imprint of her lips on my cheek. I bring my hand to my cheek, as if wanting to catch whatever is left of her kiss—capturing the memory of it.
All her actions toward me are so sensual, so full of her desire for me. And tonight, after seeing her read that poem out loud, I don’t want to analyze whether I’m worthy of Caitlin’s affections. I want to do something else with my thoughts of her. I couldn’t get her off my mind even if I wanted to. Her presence is here with me, in my room, where she has never set foot. When I close my eyes, I can remember the smell of her perfume. I can see her looking at me. I can see her talking into the mic with a confidence that not only astounds me, but greatly arouses me as well.
I open the drawer and take out my ‘neck massager’, which I’ve only tried on my actual neck once, but has a much more relaxing effect when used elsewhere. I can only use this particular object when I’m home alone because the noise it produces makes me feel too self-conscious. Eva would put two and two together quickly if she heard its distinct hum from my room in the middle of the night.
She and Declan might be coming home soon. I have no idea. All I know is that I’m in a rush, which adds to my arousal.
I take a sip of wine, plug in the appliance and lay it on my bed, ready to go. I slip out of my jeans and panties quickly, already imagining it’s Caitlin taking them off. The effect is instant.
I spread my legs wide and I don’t have to try very hard to conjure up Caitlin between them. She has spent time there after all. I switch on the vibrator and the whirring sound, the prospect it promises, intensifies the tingle in my belly. I want her so much, yet there’s so much standing between us. All the things in my head, all my fears and doubts and body issues. None of them will bother me now. Because it’s just me and my trusted machine. I bring the head between my legs and then it’s all Caitlin in my mind again.
It’s so easy to come like this. It’s a matter of mere minutes. As the vibrator buzzes against my clit, I imagine my finger slipping inside of Caitlin again. I remember her reaction, how she begged me. Then I imagine her finger doing the same to me. Two. Three. Caitlin spreading me wide. And I come hard, every cell of me filled to the brim with thoughts of Caitlin. My body convulses, my legs twitch and I all but cry out her name.
Chapter Nineteen
When I open the door Caitlin’s face is hidden behind a bunch of flowers. She drops them to her belly and gives me a wide smile.
“I brought a bottle of wine as well.” She holds it up. “Didn’t know which one you would prefer.”
I usher her in, accepting both gifts with a funny feeling in my tummy. Will I be able to stand my ground and keep this from going too fast again? When I kiss her on the cheek, she turns her face so that I almost kiss her on the lips. To me, it might feel like starting over, but maybe to her it just feels like moving things swiftly along.
I show her the living room which is the size of her hallway.
“Exactly how I had imagined it,” she says. She’s wearing jeans and a button-down shirt and even though her outfit is quite casual, she still looks too glamorous for this apartment.
“Trip down memory lane?” We both sit down in the sofa that has become Eva and Declan’s terrain of late. When I told Eva who was coming over, she got so excited it was difficult to get her to stick to her promise of giving me the place to myself for a couple of hours like every Sunday.
“It seems like a lifetime ago.” Caitlin sits close to me, our knees almost touching.
“Are you hungry?” I ask. “I made a salad.”
“Where do you eat?” She looks around. We don’t have room for a dining table in the lounge.
“Often in front of the television,” I confess. “But we do have a small table in the kitchen.”
“For some reason, being here makes me feel so… advanced in age.”
“You insisted on coming here.”
“I did.” She lets her glance wander around. “I wanted to see how you live. See your things. Your books. Your room.”
“All in good time.” I push myself up. Knowing this couch very well, I know how to rise from it semi-gracefully. “Let’s eat and drink first.”
Caitlin follows me into the kitchen, which might actually be the nicest place in the entire apartment. The landlord had a cheap but brand new kitchen installed before Eva and I moved in and we’ve managed to keep it in pretty pristine condition.
There’s a small table with three chairs around it by the window. The view is a bunch of rooftops, which is better than a brick wall. I often sit at this table to work, staring out of the window when taking a break, waiting for the occasional bird to fly by. Never in my wildest dreams had I imagined I’d one day be sitting here with Caitlin James.
I pour us some drinks, serve the salad and slice some bread. Then I sit gazing at Caitlin’s face. There’s a silence I don’t immediately know how to fill. All I hear is the clatter of cutlery against plates, then we both start to say something at the same time.
“I’m sure what you were about to say is much more interesting.” I raise a suggestive eyebrow.
“You assume too much.” She puts her fork down. “Thanks for inviting me here and thanks for lunch.” She takes a sip of water. “Is this a date, then?”
“I don’t see how it could not be.”
She picks up her fork again. “Good. I was hoping you would see it that way.”
“I really liked that poem you read on Friday. It was very…” I pause to look for the right word. “Emotional.”
“You think so? I wrote it after things fell apart with Michelle. I was feeling pretty emotional at the time.”
“Have you written many?” We’ve finished lunch and are lounging at the kitchen table.
“Not really. Only when the muse strikes me. She tends to only visit me when I’m down in the dumps.”
After Caitlin told me about Michelle, I googled various combinations of their names together, but I didn’t find any mention of them on the internet.
“So the less poetry you write, the better your life is going?”
“If you put it that way.” She slants her head.
“What was she like? Michelle?”
Caitlin purses her lips together. “Pretty formidable. Impossible to ignore. Typical New York loudmouth.”
My curiosity is peaked. If only I could get her last name. It would make the googling so much easier.
“I don’t really want to talk about Michelle. I was sad when it ended and it definitely contributed to my decision to move back to Australia, but these things happen. Our arrangement didn’t suit her anymore and there’s only so much talking you can do about things like that. Moreover, I didn’t want to be with someone who I had to convince over and over again to be with me—all of me.”
“You mean have an open relationship with you?”
“Open. Non-monogamous. Certainly non-traditional. Call it what you will.” She takes a sip of the wine I poured earlier. “Monogamy works for very few people. It’s a fact that’s clear as day. Yet so many people resist it.”
“Is it really, though?” I can think of plenty of examples of monogamous relationships that seem to work perfectly fine.
“I don’t want to paint the wrong picture here. We weren’t sleeping with other people every other week. We had very clear rules.”
“I’m quite curious about the rules.”
“They tend to change organically over time and I don’t believe there should be too many.” Caitlin goes into the charismatic teacher mode I saw her deploy when she guest lectured at the university. “Basically, it’s just a matter of respect for your pa
rtner. I would never trade time with her for time with anyone else. And because we lived in different cities, we had the rule of never being with anyone else when we were in the same city. It was all pretty straightforward.”
“Hm.” I nod.
“What’s your position on the subject?” She brings her elbows to the table and leans over.
I was afraid this question would come up sooner rather than later. “My relationship track record hasn’t really given me much cause to contemplate the matter.”
“You’re an academic. Surely you can theorize.”
“I distinctly remember having a conversation about non-monogamous relationships a few months ago with Sheryl. She claimed that when she was doing her PhD she knew quite a few people who very strongly believed in keeping relationships wide open but that she had the impression that in the past decade especially, young people hanker more for a traditional relationship.”
“I know very well how Sheryl feels about open relationships. I’m more curious about how you feel about them.”
“I’m not sure. I mean, er, I’m really not someone who’s into one-night stands. I much prefer to know the person I’m about to go to bed with.”
“So I gathered.” Her smile is sweet. “But what if that changed?”
“What do you mean?”
“What if you were perfectly capable of having very satisfying sex with a woman you’d just met and are very attracted to?”
I huff out a breath. It only takes a split second for my cheeks to burn bright red. “Ouch,” I say.
“Oh, no. I really didn’t mean it like that. That came out wrong.”
“Tell me honestly, Caitlin. Do you see me as a younger, less evolved version of yourself?”
“What? No.” She pushes her chair back. “Where did you get that?”
“You’re asking me to ‘theorize’”—I curl my fingers into air quotes—“about open relationships, while you know very well that I…” I can’t say it.
“Hey.” She crouches next to me. “Open relationships do not equal orgasms with strangers.”