Do This For Me

by Eliza Kennedy

  “You’re the one I want, Singer! But I denied it. I didn’t go out with you, because I really, really wanted to go out with you!”

  He tried to guide me into my seat. I stepped back.

  “I don’t want to sit down. I want to explain this to you. I thought I didn’t know how to want. I just wasn’t letting myself!”

  “Raney…slow down.”

  “I’ve been so afraid, my whole life. But I’m not afraid anymore. And what I want,” I took a deep breath, “is you. I think about you all the time. I pretend I don’t enjoy texting with you and talking to you on the phone. I pretend I don’t love how you make fun of me. I pretend I’m not interested in you, when I’m so, so interested. I ignored and explained away all your flirting, even your outright confession. I convinced myself there was no way you could really want me. So I didn’t let myself want you. Because that mattered. You wanting first.”

  Singer was standing now, the table between us. I couldn’t read his expression. Was he amused, appalled or simply incredulous?

  “Can you do better?” I said. “That’s what I told you, and maybe it’s true. But it doesn’t matter. You can do me. And I wish you would. Because I want to do you.”

  “I know that,” he whispered. “So does the entire restaurant.”

  Everyone was staring. Even the waiters clustered at the back.

  “I don’t care,” I told him. “You know what else I don’t care about? Whether you want to sleep with me. I mean, I hope you do, but it has no effect on how I feel. I used to let all sorts of people dictate what I wanted, but I’m not going to do that anymore.”

  “I think that’s wise,” he said.

  Something about his smile brought me back to earth. I took a step back.

  “Oh no. I screwed up. You don’t want to sleep with me. You think I’m crazy.”

  “I do think you’re crazy,” Singer said. “But I still want to sleep with you.”

  “Great!” I grabbed his hand. “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  —

  I dragged him, laughing, out of the restaurant. He looked up and down the street. “I don’t see any cabs. Should we—”

  I kissed him. I reached up, bringing his face down to mine, and I kissed him. I opened his mouth with mine, and I kissed him. I pressed my body against his. I tasted him. I breathed his breath. I felt him responding, his mouth, his fingers in my hair, on my shoulders. I bit his lower lip. I felt his teeth with my tongue. I reached inside his coat. My hands moved down his chest, along his sides, to his waist. I found his belt and I pulled him to me. He lost his footing and stumbled. I felt his huffs of laughter in my mouth. I drank them in.

  Had I ever kissed anyone in my life before? Kissed, I mean, not been kissed? Seeking instead of responding? Wanting, instead of waiting to be wanted?

  We broke apart. He looked down at me, disbelieving. “Is this really you?”

  “It’s me! Come here.”

  “We’re causing a scene on Columbus Avenue, Ms. Moore. Fortunately, I live only a few blocks away.”

  “Do you have a bed?”

  “I have three.”

  “We only need one.”

  He slipped an arm around my waist. “That remains to be seen.”

  * * *

  —

  Somehow, we made it to his building. We lingered inside the entryway, near the mailboxes.

  We were good with each other right away, playful and easy and giving. I reached inside his coat again. I loved how he pressed into me, how he responded.

  “Raney,” he breathed.

  How did I feel? Words failed me. Thoughts failed me. I wasn’t thinking. Wasn’t wording. No ironic asides or nagging color commentary. That critical little voice, audio guide to my psyche, had nothing whatsoever to say.

  * * *

  —

  I didn’t notice much about his apartment. It appeared to have the requisite walls, floors, a ceiling. I pulled off his coat, his jacket, unbuttoned his shirt, unbuckled his belt and yanked it off, unbuttoned and unzipped his pants. He laughingly submitted, hands up, ducking low to catch my mouth and kiss me when he could.

  “Let’s go into the bedroom,” he said.

  “Where are we now?”

  “We haven’t made it past the foyer.”

  I let him lead me, touching, kissing, into the apartment. Into his darkened bedroom. He pushed my coat off my shoulders. He pulled my sweater over my head. He unbuttoned my jeans. Slowly, so slowly. Kissing me all the while. He undressed me so well I couldn’t stand it. I wanted to put my clothes back on so he could undress me all over again.

  “Turn on the light, Michael. I want to see you.”

  He was kneeling, kissing my stomach. He stopped. “What did you call me?”

  “Michael.”

  I couldn’t call him Mickey. I’d feel like a pedophile.

  “You never call me Michael.”

  “You want me to call you Singer in bed?”

  He pushed me back onto it. “Of course! I love how you say my name. You’re so skeptical. It drives me wild. Look at you.” He caressed my breasts. I sighed and arched my back. He bent and kissed me. “Every time you say ‘Singer,’ I get an erection. It’s very inconvenient, professionally speaking.”

  “I had no idea.”

  “Seems like we’ve been keeping a lot from each other.” He slipped his hand between my legs. He put his mouth on my breast. I collected my thoughts.

  “There is something else I have to tell you. I’ve never really allowed myself to enjoy sex. Now…oh, that’s really good.” He was kissing the base of my throat. My collarbone. “I’m trying to say that this is new for me. Letting go, I mean. Enjoying it. Not the having-sex part. Obviously I’ve been doing a lot of that—”

  “So I’ve heard.” His mouth was close to my ear. I felt his knee part my legs.

  “I want to do it right with you. But I’m worried I won’t…be very good. At sex. I guess I’m asking you to be patient, if it’s not, you know, spectacular, right off the bat. I’d like to keep trying, and—”

  “Raney,” he said.

  “Yes?”

  “Shut up.”

  “Okay.”

  And in one long, smooth stroke, he entered me.

  * * *

  —

  Afterward, he murmured in my ear, “You faked that.”

  “I did not!”

  He caught my hand and kissed the palm. “All that thrashing and crying out? It was too much. Though I did appreciate the incoherent narration.”

  “Why are you teasing me?”

  He pulled me on top of him. “I thought you loved that.”

  “I do.” I kissed him. “This is fun, Singer! Did you know it would be this much fun?”

  “I had an idea, but you’re right. This is unusually fun. Are you hungry?”

  “Starving.”

  He jumped out of bed and left the room. I watched him go. I stretched out, arms above my head, legs splayed wide. I could feel my lips curving into a huge, goofy grin.

  So that’s what all the fuss is about!

  I hadn’t been ironic or wry, cool or calm. I had felt my body, every part. My toes curled—they really did. I grabbed the sheets and twisted them. I took. I gave. I played. I laughed.

  I was there.

  I was there at last.

  I heard a rattle of dishes, and Singer returned, with bread and butter, and small cold tomatoes. Sparkling water, salty olives, little dishes of cured meat. Strawberries and creamy white cheese. We set upon it as if we hadn’t eaten in weeks. It was the most delicious food I’d ever tasted.

  “Sadly, I’m out of chai,” he said.

  I wanted to talk about what had just happened.

  “I really liked that thing you did with your
tongue,” I said. “About midway through?”

  “I’m so glad.”

  “And when you flipped me over, and pulled me to my knees, and entered me from behind?” I said. “I’ve never done that before, and I’ve always wanted to. The only drawback was that I couldn’t see your face. But actually, that’s also what I liked about it. Just feeling your hands, you know, and your cock, and the way you kind of held me down, and were so forceful—”

  “Your powers of description are getting me all worked up again, Moore.”

  “Isn’t that a shame.” I pushed the dishes aside.

  “Although I also feel as if I’m getting a performance review.”

  “I need you to lie down on your back so that I can explore every inch of your body,” I told him. “I haven’t done that yet and I really want to.”

  He stretched out. I straddled him. I felt him grow hard underneath me.

  He smiled up at me. “In my wildest dreams—and trust me, I’ve had a few—I never imagined our date would turn out quite like this.”

  “Are you glad?”

  He laughed his big, joyful laugh. “What a question.”

  I kissed him again. I was so completely happy.

  “Can we do everything, Singer? I mean, everything?”

  “Yes, Moore,” he said, pulling me down to him. “We can do everything.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Picture it.

  Virgin land, blue skies. Mastodons roaming the fertile plains. The world was new.

  New for me, anyway.

  One shouty conversation with Sarah, one cascade of revelations, and my treasure chest lay in splinters around me. I was whole and happy and free.

  Where had I been all my life? Hiding, even though I thought I had nothing to hide. Terrified, even though I’d come off as so brave. In the space of a few minutes, my insecurities had been revealed, then banished. I had cracked the code, solved the riddle of myself. My reward?

  Orgasms. Lots and lots of filthy orgasms.

  But it was about so much more than sex. It was about everything I wanted but was afraid to ask for. Everything I felt, but squirreled away from the judgments of others, and myself.

  The old me would have cocked a skeptical eyebrow at all this soaring self-revelation. She would poke at the premises. She would nitpick and deny.

  She was such a drag.

  Not fair. She had done her best. And I was grateful for her flailing attempts to fix what ailed her. If she hadn’t been who she was, I wouldn’t be me.

  I thought I was so smart, but I was clueless. I thought I was in control, but I was a mess.

  And that was okay! Because everybody is clueless, and everything’s a mess. I understood that, and my understanding had set me free. It was time for me to breathe, to live, to be human.

  To embrace the mess.

  * * *

  —

  On Monday morning, the elevator doors opened on forty-five. I strolled down the hall, into my suite, past Renfield’s desk, into my office.

  Before I could drop my bag, Jonathan poked his head in. “What’s that noise?”

  “What noise?”

  He stepped into the room. “Were you…whistling?”

  I shrugged off my coat. “Was I?”

  Singer and I hadn’t gotten out of bed until Sunday afternoon. I headed back to the hotel after dark, weary and sore, but not at all sated. I knew every inch of him, and he knew every inch of me. Inches I didn’t even know I had.

  Talk about virgin territory.

  Jonathan scrunched up his long nose. “Something’s different.”

  “Nothing’s different.” But I couldn’t stop myself from smiling.

  Jonathan cupped his mouth with his hands. “Fanucci! Get your ass in here!”

  Wally shambled in. He took one look at me and stopped. “Whoa.”

  “Right?” Jonathan said.

  I was starting to get worried. “What is it?”

  “You’re glowing,” Wally told me. “You have a distinct glow.”

  “First you were whistling,” Jonathan accused, “now you’re glowing. You’re holding out on us.”

  I sat down behind my desk. “Something happened. I had a kind of…revelation.”

  I’d been looking forward to telling them. Jonathan and Wally had stood by me through my worst time. I knew they’d want to hear how everything had been so unexpectedly, beautifully resolved.

  “I had a date on Saturday,” I began.

  “Was it with a woman?” Wally asked.

  “Beforehand, I…what?”

  “You had sex with a woman, right?” he said. “And it was amazing?”

  “How does it work?” Jonathan asked

  They waited expectantly. They were almost slavering.

  “You guys are unbelievable,” I said.

  “You said you had a revelation!” Jonathan protested.

  “Not that kind of revelation, clown boy!”

  They exchanged a disappointed glance.

  “It wasn’t even really about sex,” I continued. “I mean, it was, but it was also about me. I grasped some home truths.”

  “Did you grasp Schollsie’s home truth?”

  “Jonathan!”

  “She did!” Wally grinned and pointed. “Look—she’s laughing!”

  “Whistling, glowing and laughing,” Jonathan said. “We have a hat trick!”

  Renfield came over the intercom. “Your ten o’clock is in the conference room.” I stood up and grabbed a legal pad.

  “Wait!” they cried. “You can’t leave us hanging like this!”

  “I’ll tell you everything at lunch. I promise.”

  * * *

  —

  Singer greeted me at the door of his apartment that night. I felt his hands slip around my waist, inside my coat. He pulled me close. My waist hadn’t been touched like that in years, not in that wanting, needing, new-greeting way.

  Later, lying in his bed, I said, “Remember when we met, back in September?”

  He rose up on one elbow, smiling at me. “As if I could forget.”

  “I was awful, but you hired me anyway. What were you thinking?”

  “If I recall, my predominant thought was, please please please let her be single.”

  I laughed. He pulled me into his arms. “Keep in mind that the decision wasn’t really up to me. But your reaction was perfect. We wanted ferocity, and fearlessness. As for myself? I was instantly besotted.”

  “Ferocity. That was the allure?”

  “My God, yes! You were not afraid to tell me exactly how smart you were, and exactly how stupid I was.”

  “But I was so…meh.”

  I felt his lips on my temple, his breath in my hair. “The last thing in the world you were,” he said, “was meh.”

  Later still, lying on his side, he said, “I have a question about your job.”

  “I thought we weren’t supposed to talk about work.”

  “Only when food is in the vicinity. Post-coitally it’s fine.”

  “All right then.”

  “If you were so afraid of rejection, how could you become a litigator? It’s all about winning and losing, and the outcome is never guaranteed.”

  “Yes, but it’s not personal. If you work as hard as you can, if you’re excellent, you haven’t lost, even if the outcome didn’t go your way. Anyway, even at work I worried and fretted and got agitated about outcomes.”

  “Do you think success at work was bad for you as a person?”

  This was a question I’d been mulling over since my big epiphany. The two sides of my life—professional, personal—how did they feed on each other?

  “Yes,” I said. “At least, the way I did success. The longer I wore my game face, the more I began believi
ng it was really me—that what I was concealing was less important. Mattered less.” I paused. “My therapist was right all along.”

  “I hate it when that happens,” Singer said.

  “It’s like you said once—the law firm made me a good lawyer and a bad person.”

  “ ‘Bad person’ is a little harsh, don’t you think?”

  “What if I’d stayed that way?” I wondered. “What if I hadn’t picked up the phone?”

  “Perish the thought.” Singer rolled onto his back. “Now, fascinating as this discussion has been, it’s time to talk about me.”

  I trailed my fingers along his chest. “We’ve been neglecting you.”

  “You wanted me so badly. And you had to repress it. Wasn’t the urge to jump my bones an overwhelming daily torment?”

  “It would have been. If I had known it existed.”

  “And how do you feel about me now?”

  “Eh,” I said.

  He pulled me toward him. “Try again.”

  “I like you.”

  “How much?”

  I kissed him. “A lot.”

  * * *

  —

  On Friday morning, Cameron appeared in my doorway. I was on a call, but waved him in. He sat down and waited. The call ended.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Hi.”

  “Sorry I haven’t been in touch for a while.”

  “No problem.” He pulled out his phone. “So, that thing we discussed, a little while ago? About me helping you find a…uh, professional, to discuss sex and so forth? I’ve done some research, and—”

  “No need,” I said.

  He glanced up.

  “You can cancel all my dating profiles, too.”

  He blinked, taken aback.

  “I figured it out, Cameron.”

  “You mean…”

  “My plan worked. Not in the way I expected, but…” I smiled. “Yes.”

  “Boss, that’s amazing! Congratulations!”

  “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

  “Oh please.” He waved that away. “I was just doing my job. Or,” he amended, “a job.”