by Einat Segal
The Ty Warner Suite, that's what we get. The walls are apparently made of pearl, and the ceiling is, according to Francis, cathedral—which means it looms far, far above our heads.
Everywhere I look, New York City is smeared in all its twinkling glory below my feet, pressed with heavy grey rainclouds that are even now wetting its busy streets. The vaulted windows rise to the ceiling, the glass looking so clean, I can't even tell it's there.
Francis shows us the extravagant living room and the elegant library where a black grand piano on a dais flanked by huge windows makes me feel like playing the melody for New York, New York, if only I knew anything about pianos.
We do a lot of walking for a hotel room. This suite is big enough to be the lobby, and I think I'm too pigheaded to actually know the artistic significance of anything I'm seeing here.
We see a lot of bedrooms and a very promising bath before we go back to the living room where a table by the window is set for a romantic dinner. "So, what do you think?" Landon asks me once Francis leaves us alone. The lights have been dimmed to their “romantic” setting, and the candles on the table are alight.
"Pretty weird that places like this exist," I say, watching his face as he grins. Light and darkness play across his features in a way that fascinates me. "But I'll roll with it."
My phone buzzes in my purse, and I have a look at who's calling. I don't usually go against my parents' wishes, but when I do, they keep their distance, hoping that my small rebellions mean I’m a normal person. We have a weird relationship.
I wonder if it's them calling.
DON'T ANSWER, says my screen. Not my parents.
I take my phone’s advice and don’t answer the call.
I get a text message right after, but I don't read it. I just turn off my phone.
Bye, Shawn. You lose.
I throw the phone aside. Landon pulls up a chair for me. I take off my jacket, tossing it over the back of one of the sofas, and walk up to the table.
"I hope you're hungry," he whispers in my ear as he pushes in my chair after I sit. His mouth slides from my ear to the side of my neck while his hands run down from my shoulders to my waist.
"Famished," I reply.
* * *
We eat eight tiny courses of artistically crafted food with long elaborate names and tastes that teach me the entire topography of my tongue.
Francis places the dessert before me. It's served on a square matte-black glass plate and looks like a geometric sculpture made out of bittersweet chocolate.
I don't like sweets, but dark chocolate works for me. Landon gets a dessert that's bright red with strawberries. He doesn't touch it, though. He pulls up his chair so he's sitting close next to me. He picks up my spoon and, without the slightest bit of hesitation, breaks the beautiful chocolate marvel.
He lifts the spoon to my lips, and I open my mouth to eat. The rich, strong chocolate flavor combined with a touch of black pepper and some sort of sweet liquor assaults my taste buds, melting on my tongue and rising with a powerful bang right to my head.
Landon bends his head to mine, his tongue entering my mouth, mixing with the chocolate. Soft and smooth and hot. My toes begin to tingle, but then he moves away.
"That's so bitter," he says.
"It's real chocolate," I reply, loading the spoon with another piece of heaven. "What? You can't handle it?" I offer it to him.
He lets me feed him, but then grabs my waist, pulling me in for another deep, chocolatey kiss.
"The bath is ready." Francis's voice materializes from somewhere. When I look up, he's gone, and Landon takes my hand, leading me to the next part of the night.
* * *
An infinity bath waits for us. The designer of this wonder deserves a Noble Prize.
Landon makes a show of almost surgically removing my clothes and setting them all in a neat, folded pile on the counter. He doesn't let me touch anything, although there's a lot about him that my hands are itching to touch. He taunts me with his idiotically marvelous dimpled grin as he removes his own clothes with deliberate slowness. I’m so comfortable naked, and I can tell he's very turned on.
I get into the bath while he’s taking off his socks, the hot water sloshing over the edges because that's what it's supposed to do. It gets collected by a larger basin and then pumped back into the tub in gentle massaging jets.
"You look happy," he says as he joins me.
"Shut up." I laugh dreamily. I grasp him, and no, I don't mean his hands.
* * *
The bed is an endless temple of joy. It’s like I'm wrapped in silk and my body's made of cotton as I slip into it, my muscles singing in comfort.
Back during the tour of the suite, Francis told us it was handmade, the whole bed. He also explained something about the wooden panels on the walls. All I could understand was that making them had cost a million dollars.
"You know, this isn't bad," I say. Who cares if all this is the very definition of materialistic? I would have slept with him anyway, but I can't begrudge the added bonus. I'm in for the ride.
He takes off his bathrobe and gets into the bed, and then he has to scoot over quite a distance until he's pressed against me. He un-does my own robe, toying with my chest as I slip my hands out of the sleeves and toss it aside.
"It's about to get really good," he promises.
And proceeds to keep his promise.
* * *
I bet not many girls lose their virginity in the Ty Warner Suite of the Four Seasons Hotel. The experience definitely left a good impression, although I have to admit, it wasn’t what I expected. I have trouble using a tampon, so my whole body was ready for pain.
I was more nervous than I thought I’d be.
I didn't have the fairytale first time where the girl can barely breathe between the multitude of earth-shattering orgasms that overtake her body. Landon's warm mouth and skilled tongue took care of that even before we started, making sure I was well satisfied. I eagerly returned the favor—I have a fetish for the phallus and love giving head.
The act itself didn’t hurt, but it did start out awkward. I tried to force myself to relax and not let on that part of me was longing for it to end. Landon was careful, slow, and considerate. His eyes filled with concern as he watched my face. He kept asking if I was okay, and I just wanted him to mind his own business and get on with it.
There was a moment, though, near the end, when my mind got distracted and something inside me let go. It felt good. Better than good. I was beginning to rise, fall into a rhythm, and got a taste of what this could be like with time and practice.
He gasped and held me close when it ended, pressing his face against the side of mine. I trembled for a moment, drunk on his smell, on the smoothness of his skin and how utterly close we were.
It wasn't grand, but it was liberating and beautiful. It confirmed to me that there's something in this world I absolutely love.
I love sex.
I want more, with Landon. I'm on the other side of my virginity now, and it's time to release my inner beast. I was always fascinated by the act, but now it's finally something that belongs to me.
I’ve unlocked my superpower.
I shower again afterward. As I wander back to the bed while toweling my hair, he stares at my bare body.
I pause before him, hitting what I assume is a sexy pose. Being naked makes me feel strong. With no barriers between myself and my surroundings, there's nothing to rein me in and keep me contained. I swear that when I live alone, I'll never put on clothes at home. He rises on his elbows and says, "Gorgeous."
"I try," I say, creeping into the bed and under the covers.
"You work out?"
"I run.”
"Fast?"
A smile curves my mouth, and I lean toward him, fixing him with a serious look. "Like the wind."
"That's pretty fast."
I roll inside the bed until I'm nestled against him and close my eyes.
"Sophie?"<
br />
"Let's try to sleep," I say.
"I like you," he says softly, with all these emotions in his voice as if he actually means it.
I don't move or look up right away. The best I can say is that it doesn't creep me out.
Landon's more of a mystery than an actual person. We spent hours talking about things that aren't us. He's extremely intelligent and funny. He knows a lot of things about a lot of things, and how to use sarcasm on them.
But I've never met a person who’s never even tried to slip in their life's story. Even I somehow managed to mention that my dad has a heart condition. With Landon, it's blank. Like there isn't even anything beyond what I know about him.
"You idiot," I mumble against his skin, "that's the sort of thing you're supposed to say when you're trying to get into my pants, not after."
"But I’m trying to get into your pants again," he says, pushing me onto my back. He doesn't even give me a moment to register this before his mouth—oh, and teeth—are teasing my breasts and making me arch my back, gasping.
"But . . . but I'm . . ." I can't string a sentence together. His fingers are down there, and what he's doing is completely disrupting my brainwaves. "I think . . . I'm sore," I finally say breathlessly. "We're . . . we're supposed to . . . to wait for me to heal."
"You'll magically be okay," he answers with confidence, directing my hand to his body. A surge of excitement runs through me when I feel him with my fingers. I don't even care whether it will hurt again.
I love this. I want this.
The second time doesn’t hurt. Landon is right; somehow, magically, it's okay.
Scratch that, it’s not okay.
It's groundbreaking, it's phenomenal, and Landon is a fucking devil.
After . . .
After, after. And yes, after that too—the number of used condoms in the trash is almost shocking—I begin to fall asleep, sweaty and exhausted. Moments before I'm in dreamland, it strikes me how strange it is that, despite having very, very recently lost my virginity, I have such an outrageous capacity.
As weird as it is, I don't really care.
* * *
The sleeping together part was nice too. It's funny how I can both dislike the notion of other human beings and then enjoy having someone sleeping naked right next to me. Maybe it's because we're sleeping.
The next morning, there's a midget—or whatever the politically correct term is—waiting for us downstairs next to the Porsche that the valet had just pulled up. He’s dark-haired and angry-looking—that’s all I can say about him. Landon pauses when he sees him, and the set of his shoulders suddenly becomes tense.
"Well, aren't you going to introduce us?" asks the little man, crossing his short arms. He looks up at me with a visible scowl.
I mirror his expression. No one stares me down—or up—like that.
Landon blows out a gust of air. "Charlie, this is Sophie. Sophie, this is Charlie, who’s about to leave."
"See? This is what happens when you don't pick up his calls. The boss wants to make sure you'll make it tonight and bring it with you, so he sent me all the way here."
I quirk an eyebrow. Holy shit, did this guy just call Landon's uncle “the boss”?
"He's behaving like such a drama queen," Landon mutters.
"'Cause he knows what's at stake, kid, and he doesn't play games." The little guy's small eyes move to ogle me again. He does a very evident scan of me from foot to head. "But as always, he's probably leading you on."
"What do you mean?" Landon's question is so quick, it almost sounds savage. My head snaps to look at him, and there's no mistaking it; he looks deadly, his gaze fixated on the little man as if he's capable, and intends to, rip him to pieces.
I find this hot.
"It's one of many things," Charlie says, and begins walking away. "That's how it is," he adds with a look over his shoulder.
A look directed right at me. It’s as if they’re talking about me.
“What was that about?" I ask before I can stop myself.
I look into Landon’s eyes. He’s going to answer with a lie, because I know by now that whatever else he is, he's a liar. "Just my uncle's endless drama."
But the fun part is that I don't mind that he's lying to me. It's part of what I like about him. He's unreal, a facade. That's why I'm still attracted to him.
I don't like doubting myself or having unexplained emotions running rampant through my heart. Therefore, even though this whole relationship is going well for me, I start to try to ruin it. We're inside his car. He's taking me home. "Do you miss your parents?" I ask.
It's the first real personal question I’ve asked him, and he knows it. He looks at me from the corner of his eye, and then his mouth forms a tight grin. "I don't know."
"How can you not know?"
"I just don't."
So much for trying to crack the mystery.
* * *
Today is gloriously sunny after yesterday's rain. Landon drops me off at my place. We don't part with a kiss, but he does caress my thigh suggestively, and I wink at him.
I walk up the path to our front door, hanging the plastic bag containing yesterday's dress over my shoulder. Apparently, I couldn't be seen leaving with the same clothes with which I came, so I had a pair of jeans my size—it says Ralph Lauren on the label—and a pretty chiffon blouse—Gucci—waiting for me in the morning. Another one of the perks of Francis the butler. I'm even wearing designer underwear now. They feel exactly like Walmart underwear.
Right before the steps that lead to the front porch, I notice something in the gravel off the path. I take a step, bend over, and pick it up.
One, two, three cigarette butts. They're new and didn't get wet from last night's rain, which means they're from this morning.
I called my parents last night. They were doubtlessly upset, but my mom was content to let me behave this way because I was being social for a change. I get it that my dad was placed in a tight spot with Bob. But this is unforgivable. There's no excuse. I barge into the house. My parents are in the kitchen fixing lunch. They look up when I walk in.
"It was a stupid study group of stupid people who needed my stupid help," I say, and place the cigarette butts on the kitchen table, shooting daggers right at my dad. "What's your excuse?"
I don't wait for an answer. I'm so mad at him. I run upstairs and close myself in my room.
I've got homework to do, anyway.
6
I Hate Not Knowing
“How do you feel?” Esmeralda asks. It’s Sunday, and we’re sitting in her living room eating edamame.
I lick salt from my fingers while I do a mental scan of my body and soul. “I feel great,” I finally conclude.
The argument with my parents has fizzled out and died. I had a talk with my mother and didn’t have one with my dad.
By the next day, like what always happens, we all forgot about it and moved on. That’s the only reason I think my family is as functional as we are. None of us has the energy to stay locked in the past.
Still, it drives me crazy that my dad is so irresponsible about his body. Doctor Brooks said that even if he just smokes one cigarette a day and doesn’t lose weight, he’s going to have another heart attack, and it won’t be pretty.
Being worried about your kid is part of being a parent. That doesn’t give him the right to smoke and endanger his health. Being worried about your dad suddenly dying shouldn’t be part of being a kid.
Yes, I lied to them about the study group and instead had sex, but hey, at least we were responsible enough to use protection.
Nothing bad actually happened to me, except maybe taking a step into adulthood.
But you can’t fight the clock, and I’m not Peter Pan.
“My mom was confused about who Landon is.” I pop edamame into my mouth and chew it slowly. “She actually asked me if I’m dating both of them,” I add.
“What did you say?”
“I said yes and that
Shawn knows.”
Esmeralda releases a surprised squeak. “How did she respond?”
“She told me that she dated two guys simultaneously while in high school, so I guess she approves.”
My mom’s the best.
* * *
“Wow, it’s cold in here,” I say as I throw my backpack by the door and remove my jacket.
“The heating’s all wonky,” Landon says, fiddling with the panel on the wall that controls his apartment’s heating system. It’s the middle of October, and the weather suddenly became cold these past two days. “A guy is coming to fix it tomorrow.”
“I’m going to make tea,” I say, heading toward the kitchen.
“I drink tea only when I’m ill.”
“But you told me you’re never sick.” I make sure there’s water inside before I turn on the kettle. If he doesn’t drink tea, why does he even have an electric kettle?
“That’s right, and so, I never drink tea.”
I open the cupboards, searching for tea bags. “Wait, so you don’t even have tea?”
“No.”
I give up my search. Couldn’t he have told me sooner? “What will I do? I didn’t have gloves, and my hands are like ice,” I complain as I walk up to him. “Here, feel them.” I take both my freezing hands and put them on the sides of his neck.
He squeals. He actually squeals. But then his face becomes hard and serious. I know what this means; he’s going for payback.
Laughing, I flee to the supposed safety of his bedroom, but soon he’s after me, armed with an ice cube he collected from the freezer.
* * *