53 Letters For My Lover

by Leylah Attar

  So many chances to walk away, so many reasons, but they fall like dominoes around me, one by one, until I am standing in a circle without sense, with my cheating heart and my cheating soul. I bow my head; my shoulders slumped in defeat.

  “Then leave him,” he says.

  “I can’t. I can’t just leave him. He needs me.”

  Troy’s jaw clenches. “You can’t leave him. You can’t leave me. You can’t handle the in-between. What do you want, Shayda?”

  They tell you that an affair destroys everything, that there are no winners, that there is only heartbreak. I know this. And still I do it. Still I take his face in my hands and kiss him until he returns my fierce, desperate kisses with a fervor that pushes everything else aside.

  “I’ll learn to deal with it.” I pick up the paper and throw it in the trash.

  We cling to each other, trying to keep it down, this cocktail of raging, tangled emotions. I know it’ll be like this every time I see him with someone else, like taking great, big nauseating gulps of poison, but I do it anyways.

  I open the door and let it all in.

  20. Show Me

  January 10th, 1996

  “What’s going on in there?” Troy sounds amused, like he’s ready to barge through the bathroom door.

  “Just a minute!” I reply, struggling with the garters on the sexy black number I picked up. The silk stockings go on easy enough, but these attachments...ugh.

  Next time practice, genius. I make a mental note.

  A few more tries and I give up. Good thing the stockings have a stay-up top. I draw a cat’s eye with black liquid liner and add a smudge of gloss to my lips. Then I slip into red patent stilettos.

  Sex in a shoe box, that’s what the sales lady said.

  How odd they looked in my closet, next to the line-up of plain, sensible flats. Like great, big exclamation points in the middle of a mundane sentence.

  I check my reflection. Someone else stares back at me—bigger, taller, sexier. Someone so selfish, I have to look away. I take a deep breath and step out.

  He’s not hovering outside the door. What was I thinking? Troy doesn’t hover. He expands, he occupies, he fills the space. And so, sitting on the bed, shirt off, laptop on, nothing but boxers and bare, smooth skin, he hits me with that rough, tender mix of masculinity even before he looks up. And then he does...

  I love the way his mouth just hangs open. His eyes roam the length of my body. This is what great masterpieces must feel like on museum walls—like sighing, like climbing out of their rigidly stretched frames, and falling, boneless, into a lover’s glance.

  “Come here,” he says.

  I take a step forward. Six inch heels are not my friend. My arms flail out, grabbing the door frame.

  The great works of art tut-tut their disapproval.

  “On second thought, stay right there.” He gets out of bed.

  Six inch heels and Troy Heathgate. Not a good combination for the knees.

  The heels bring me almost eye to eye with him. When I look at the sky, I will think of it like this—on fire, with crackling clouds of desire.

  He angles his head and leans in, his lips are almost touching mine. He looks at me like that until I gasp, until I’ve seen all the things we’re going to do, all the things that have already come alive, in the private corners of his mind.

  He strokes my face and lets one finger linger under my chin, guiding me to him in a whisper soft kiss. He pulls away far too soon and stands back, teasing me, goading me.

  I grab his bottom lip and suck on it greedily. Then I let go, catching it between my teeth before letting it slide out. He groans and pulls me hard against the muscled contours of his legs. My knees buckle, but he’s already lifting me off my feet, one hand cupping my bottom, the other guiding my legs around his hips.

  He pushes me against the wall, hard, and rocks against me, letting me feel every steel boned inch of him. I need his lips so bad, but he won’t let me have them, just this mad, grinding dance. I grab on to his shoulders, feeling myself burn from the inside out.

  “Please,” I plead.

  “Please what?”

  I don’t know what, so I rub my nose on his neck—my lips, my cheeks, my forehead. But it’s not enough. I squirm against him, arching against his hips in slow, rotating circles. I feel the short, shallow rush of his breath as he tears my face away from his neck with a triumphant gleam.

  Then he kisses me. The kiss I’ve been waiting for, mastering my mouth even as he carries me to bed.

  “You have no idea how incredibly sexy you look,” he growls, placing me on the sheets.

  He kneels between my legs and kisses the inside of my ankle, resting my sharp, pointy heels against his chest. His hands caress my skin, down to the back of my knees, thumbs moving back and forth over the soft, sensitive spot. My shoes dig deeper, leaving little round dents on his skin.

  “Planning on driving these straight through my heart, aren’t you?” He slides his fingers under the arch of my foot and removes one red stiletto.

  “You know...” He toys with the other one, clearly enamored. “Much as I adore these, I’d rather you skip them. I want to be the only thing that makes you all wobbly and weak-kneed.”

  The second shoe hits the floor.

  His lips run down the sole of my foot through a fine layer of seamed silk. I shudder as his tongue darts over my toes, touching but not touching.

  “Should we take these off?” His fingers splay over my stockings. “Hmmm?” He hums along the length of my leg until he gets to the band on my upper thigh. “Yes?” He starts peeling it off. “And this one too.” But he holds on to the second stocking, winding it around his hand.

  “Close your eyes, Shayda.”

  “What?”

  “Close. Your. Eyes.” He waits until they’re shut and then blindfolds me with the silk stocking, tying a soft knot in the back.

  “Now show me what you do.”

  “I...”

  “Yes you can,” he whispers. Soft kisses cover my eyes, my forehead, the corners of my mouth. “Yes you can.”

  With my eyes closed, all I can do is listen. And feel. The strength of his arms, the heart in his words. He’s got me. And there’s nothing I can’t share here, in the circle of his embrace.

  Still I hesitate, trembling like the last leaves of winter, until he starts whispering in my ear, words that make me twist and turn and fly with the wind.

  I turn to my side, crossing my legs at the thighs and then again at the ankles, hooking one foot around, squeezing, undulating, letting his voice paint hot, erotic worlds in dizzy, rushing strokes. He spoons me, sliding one hand between my legs, feeling every movement I make without stopping the sensual string of sentences.

  I push deeper into him. His thighs cradle the curve of my bottom. I feel him against me, excited, aroused, even as I start to lose control. His palm encircles my neck from behind and he tilts my head back, kissing me on the forehead. A sweet cord of tension snaps inside me. Ripples of mindless ecstasy flood through me. He holds on to me until he feels the tremors pass, until my body goes limp. Then he moves, letting me roll onto my back.

  “Wow. You just squeeze your thighs?” He pushes the blindfold aside.

  I cover my face with my hands as the reality of what I just did sinks in.

  “Shayda.” He nudges my palms aside with his face, his nose rubbing against mine. “Look at me.”

  I open my eyes.

  “How did you learn to do that?”

  “I don’t know. By accident. I was pretty young. My parents were fighting at the dinner table. I was clenching my thighs, rocking back and forth on the chair. It was a coping mechanism I used all the time, but that day...it just happened.”

  “So you got off, for the first time, in front of your parents?”

  “I never quite thought of it like that.”

  “Sneaky Beetroot.” He laughs. “I love it. And I love that you shared it with me. God, that was such a turn
on.” His kiss chases away the last of my embarrassment. “And now, there’s this rather...um...pressing matter at hand.” He gives me a wicked smile.

  “There is? I’m afraid I have to get going.”

  “Oh, you better get going all right.” He takes my hand and guides it to his boxers.

  “Troy?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “Does it bother you that we don’t have sex?”

  “We don’t?” He closes his eyes as my hand slides over him. “Because it’s always frigging awesome.”

  “Answer the question.” I rake my nails down his thigh.

  “Look at you. Digging your heels into my chest, scraping my skin off with your talons. What kind of beast have I unleashed?” He flips me over, letting me feel the hard, pulsating core of him. “Do you want to?”

  “Do you?” I ask, thinking how magnificent he looks when he’s turned on.

  “Like you wouldn’t believe.”

  “Are you afraid I’ll fight you off again?”

  He traces the line of my collarbone before his thumb circles my nipple. “I’m just breaking you in slowly.”

  “Breaking me in? What am I? A horse?”

  “Uh-huh. My prized filly. Let me get my crop so we can go a-ridin’.”

  “A crop, huh?” I grab my discarded stocking and whip him with it. “How do you like it now?”

  “That’s it, baby. Let your inner freak out.”

  We start laughing. Then his voice drops.

  “Come here, you.” He pulls me down for a long, searing kiss.

  It’s not funny anymore. It’s hot and urgent and throbbing.

  My lips explore the planes of his neck, the smooth, broad expanse of male chest, his tight, flat abs, down, down, down. I hear his sharp intake as my breath warms the part of him that’s twitching with need.

  “Payback time.” I smile, dodging the area altogether.

  His thighs clench as I reach for my black stocking and wrap it around the base of his shaft. I pull one end at a time, letting the soft, wispy fabric run first to the left, and then the right, caressing his flesh in a silken loop. He groans as I move the stocking up and down the length of him, tugging on him, pulling, teasing.

  “Yessss.” His head sinks back into the pillow.

  Watching him with his eyes closed, head tilted back and that look of utter rapture, I feel the heady thrill a woman feels, when a man who is always in control is about to lose it. Just for her.

  The moment I wrap my lips around him, he lets his breath out in a long, slow hiss. My hands stroke him as my tongue slides up and down, focusing on the points he showed me, until he cries out.

  When he’s spent, he flings one arm possessively across me. I nudge his leg over my belly, until I’m completely anchored by his weight.

  “Really?” he asks, eyes closed, a small smile playing on his lips. “You’re not going to freak?”

  “Really.”

  21. No Promises

  February 3rd, 1996

  “Syntribation.”

  “What’s that?” I open the pizza box and let the aroma invade Troy’s office.

  “Syntribation,” he repeats. “The technical term for the way you masturbate.”

  “What?” I almost drop the lid.

  “Masturbate.” He grabs a slice and bites into it. “Does that word make you uncomfortable, Shayda? Because everybody does it. You do it, I do it, the whole world does it.”

  “I...um...” I peer intently into the pie-chart of colorful slices.

  He pushes the curtain of hair from my face and laughs. “I wondered how long it would take today, Beetroot. I think we broke a record.”

  I pick a slice and put it on the napkin.

  “Here. Let me show you something,” he says.

  I look around while he logs into his computer. Most of the work in his new office is finished. There are some odds and ends, but I only notice because there’s no one around, none of the crazy hustle and bustle I hear when we’re on the phone. It’s a huge space, rows of cubicles, meeting rooms, and the white checkerboard of a commercial ceiling.

  “Here we are.” He turns the screen towards me.

  “What’s this?”

  “This, my dear, is the future. The internet. You type in a search and the results come up, almost instantaneously.” He pulls me into his lap. “See? Syntribate. When a woman masturbates by crossing her legs and rubbing her thighs together.”

  Somehow it doesn’t feel so weird anymore—that word—as I sit in a lush leather chair, with his arms around me.

  “So this internet...it’s like a dictionary? A library of sorts?”

  “It’s much more than that.” He lights up like he’s been watching a fantastic game and people are finally joining in and catching up. “You’ll be able to put your real estate listings on here, post photos, describe properties, reach out to a whole audience of people that you wouldn’t otherwise interact with. On the personal front, you can stay in touch with anyone in the world, without stamps or long distance phone bills or telegrams.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Well, it’s something called email. In fact, let’s set you up with an account right now.”

  “An account? I don’t think I’m ever going to use it.”

  “Maybe not right away, but now is the best time because you can get whatever name you want. This stuff is in its beta stages. You can be the first Shayda on Hotmail.”

  “On what? I don’t want my name out there.”

  “It won’t be out anywhere.” He laughs. “You just give it to people you want to stay in touch with. It’s like your phone number on the internet. You use it send and receive messages.”

  “I don’t know about this.”

  “We don’t have to go with your real name. Pick an alias.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like hotmamma or browniebaker or hey, how about syntribater?”

  I roll my eyes.

  “Okay. We’ll go with thesyntribater. It sounds more bad ass, like ‘The Terminator’, except in the bedroom.”

  “We’ll do no such thing,” I reply, but he’s already typing.

  “Username: beetrootbutterfly.” He pauses. “No. Something sexier.” “Beetbutt...yes, that’s it. Password...hmmmm ...hereweare. Let’s add some numbers...hereweare1996. You think you’ll remember that? Aaaaand...voila! Shayda Hijazi, you are now officially beetbutt@hotmail.com.”

  “Thanks. I can’t wait to give that out to everyone.”

  “Yeah, you should add it to your business card. Hey, maybe we should register beetbutt.com before anyone...uh...grabs it.”

  I slap his hand away from my tush. I haven’t giggled in years. “And what am I supposed to do with it now?”

  “Check it for dirty emails from me.”

  “You’re mad.” I shake my head. “And I have forty-five minutes before I pick up the kids.”

  “Right.” He looks at his watch. “Which means you have five minutes to finish your pizza and I have forty minutes to thoroughly, completely, utterly ravish you.”

  We reclaim our lunch, now cold and soggy, but it still tastes divine. Maybe it’s because we’re sitting on the floor, Troy leaning against the desk, me leaning against him, our feet stretched out in a double V before us.

  We watch dust motes in the sun, streaming through the windows before us. The city bustles beneath, soundless behind the glass, little cars zipping in and out of concrete blocks of lego land.

  “That’s me.” He points to the west, a distant spot near the lake. “Behind the tall building with the white roof.”

  I think of us in his loft, that sultry afternoon last summer; those five words he spoke.

  I’m dying to kiss you.

  We never meet there.

  “A neutral spot. Not mine, not yours. A space between,” he said.

  And so we meet in a hotel room, a luxurious suite with thick drapes and a soft carpet and a padded headboard, that muffle voices and footsteps and reality.
>
  “And that’s you.” His finger moves across the window, to the other end of town.

  “You can’t possibly make my place out.”

  “No.” He wipes his hands and hugs me from behind, resting his chin on my shoulder. “But I like to imagine you out there, one of the lights in the night.”

  I think of him, standing by the blue of his roof top pool, looking across the lake, to a suburban house with a red door and a swing set in the back. I know what it’s like to wonder because I do it all the time. Mundane things like the color of his bed sheets. When does he go for his run? What radio station does he tune in to? Is he in the car, listening to it, while he heads out to dinner with a date? Does he take her to his loft after wards? Does she hop in the shower with him in the morning? Does she dry herself on his towel?

  The papers have stopped reporting on him. A few interviews here and there, but nothing on his social life. I wonder if he made a few discreet calls after I barged in here about that photo. I don’t know which is better. Knowing or not knowing.

  “Troy?”

  “What?” He twirls a strand of my hair around his finger.

  “Promise me you’ll tell me if things start to get serious with someone.”

  “Why?” he asks. “Will you leave?”

  I don’t answer.

  He doesn’t promise.

  It’s not perfect, this thing between us, like trying to bring the two circles of our lives together, and living in the small, tight space where they intersect, everything else pushed to the circumference, until we step back inside our very different, very separate orbs.

  I look at the time. Five more minutes.

  I want this simple afternoon of cold pizza and dancing dust motes to stretch out forever.

  22. Hookah Cola

  February 25th, 1996

  “Why don’t you come and stay with us for a few days?” I ask.

  “No.” Maamaan dabs her eyes. “I’ll be fine.”

  Always proud, stoic, removed. She leaves me feeling lacking and inadequate.

  “I’ll miss her.” She sits down. Pouffff. Like a rapidly deflating soufflé, tired of holding her form. “She would have been happy. So many people.”