I look at my watch. Midnight. Perfect. Plenty of time for a long, hot soak in the bath. I wish now that I had made the appointment for 1.00, instead of 2.00: I thought it would be too early. But Dan and I have managed to satisfactorily conclude the evening’s business in much less time than I had projected. How efficient we’re getting. I have a long bath, make myself some coffee, pour myself a drink, and by 1.40 I’m wrapped in a big towel, wafting aromatic bath oil every time I move, logged on, in the chat room, waiting for my second date of the evening.
I know it’s stupid, but there are butterflies in my stomach as I sit there waiting for him. I know it’s stupid because he’ll be there; he always is. And sure enough, at 1.56 it scrolls across the screen:
>trollfan1234: Hi! So did you finish it?
and a lovely wave of relief and happiness floods through me and I type:
lola666>sure. Disappointed though.
trollfan1234>?
lola666>it’s all just the same plot isn’t it? Rich boy falls in love with poor girl/waits it out for a year or so to prove he means it/ finally the family agrees. Only this time it turns out she’s rich after all so it’s OK. And there isn’t even any tension, we know from the beginning that she’s the only relative of the rich old man so when he finds that out he’ll leave her all the money.
trollfan1234>OK, agreed, it’s not his strongest book
lola666>Trollope should at least have made it more of a mystery, but we know that they’ll get together ANYWAY so it still wouldn’t have helped much.
trollfan1234>but isn’t there satisfaction watching the pattern work itself out?
lola666>get more of that out of an Agatha Christie I’ve read 100 times.
trollfan1234>Hmmn.
lola666>he should have fallen for someone else while he was away all that time, create a bit of tension that way.
trollfan1234>Trollope does that sometimes
lola666>but you know it’ll never happen, like Phineas/ Madame Goetz or John & Madeleine, the women they fall in love with in big cities are always adventuresses, then they come home to the nice girl without flashy looks, Trollope really cliched old-fashioned romantic author, why does he have an intellectual reputation?? I really don’t have much to say about this book AT ALL sorry
trollfan1234>don’t get started on the Joanna T v. Anthony T thing again
lola666>but it’s true I really think J Trollope much more sophisticated in view of human nature, at least she sees it as protean, endlessly changeable, AT thinks everyone’s personalities carved in stone
trollfan1234>do people really change that much?
lola666>oh yes I think so
trollfan1234>OK we may change opinions whatever but do our ACTIONS really change that much
lola666>Hmmn interesting maybe after lots of therapy
trollfan1234>haha
lola666>Pallisers are better
trollfan1234>well OK devil’s advocate: who really changes in the Pallisers?
lola666>Hmmn I like Maud not being able to make up her mind until too late
trollfan1234>yeah but it’s the right thing she didn’t really love him
lola666>but she’ll never meet anyone else she’s too old by their standards anyway! she would have been happy with Silverbridge
trollfan1234>do you think so
lola666>or at least content, yeah, she’d have been a duchess and he was v attractive
trollfan1234>funny youre arguing the way a man’s supposed to & Im more romantic (like a woman) don’t think Maud would have been happy
lola666>what about Lily Dale
trollfan1234>John made big mistake, he was always there like a dog, should have tried to disappear/make her jealous
lola666>so she didn’t see him like the perpetual little boy
trollfan1234>exactly, women hate men slobbering over their feet
lola666>dyou speak from experience.
trollfan1234>never slobbered! teenage years had mad crushes on girls, made it too obvious, never got them, cooler now I hope
lola666>your’e right about John/Lily he really needed to go away for a long time & come back as a man – you know what I mean by that, not being sexist (he should have been masterful, etc)
trollfan1234>no its fine we agreed that we completely understand each other male/female stuff dont worry about that OK?
lola666>great! forgot!
trollfan1234>interesting we always come back to discussing relationships in AT
lola666>well I was thinking about that (am I being stereotypical woman always talking about LOVE) but youre a man allegedly
trollfan1234>yes, am looking at proof of that right now
lola666>not literally I hope
trollfan1234>no, wearing boxers
lola666>anyway I worked out that AT’s political dilemmas not half as interesting as emotional ones/politics used really only to present moral choices (will X do right thing) as are emotional ones (will he marry nice girl at home)
trollfan1234>bit unfair, Maud has hard moral choice too
lola666>OK, true, and Madame Goetz
trollfan1234>God yeah, lots of them, and she gets rewarded in the end
lola666>nice idea the older/more sophisticated you get the more interesting the choices
trollfan1234>obviously I’m not old/sophisticated enough yet
lola666>me neither mine are always brutally obvious
trollfan1234>???example
lola666>no, no personal stuff we agreed
trollfan1234>?
lola666>
trollfan1234>after all, we’re analysing other relationships all the time, we’re not talking in traditional litcrit terms
lola666>relationships in BOOKS
trollfan1234>pretend it’s a story
lola666>no.
trollfan1234>sigh
lola666>
trollfan1234>0K, enough of AT, pick another author?
lola666>I know we just finished Barchester but there must be others
trollfan1234>Minor, would annoy you even more
lola666>OK well let’s do Dickens then
trollfan1234>
lola666>what?
trollfan1234>Dickens takes v long time to read, we wouldn’t talk for weeks
lola666>flattered
trollfan1234>well I like talking to you
lola666>me too
trollfan1234>pick short books!!!
lola666>we could do Dickens but split up the books/discuss them every 10th chapter?
trollfan1234>Great idea they’re written as serials after all
lola666>shall we do it chronologically?
trollfan1234>no one’s ever asked me that before!
lola666>funny
trollfan1234>let’s start with David Copperfield I’ve always meant to read that
lola666>OK I’ll go to the library
trollfan1234>lovely library books with hard plastic covers you can read in the bath
lola666>and that dirty, musty smell
trollfan1234>I thought you said no personal stuff
lola666>funny. Not.
trollfan1234>when’s good for you next time?
lola666>Monday? 1.00?
trollfan1234>five days . . . do I have time . . .
lola666>thought you were the one complaining about not meeting for ages
trollfan1234>0K you talked me into it, I may be a bit behind
lola666>do your best
trollfan1234>yes ma’am
lola666>see you on Monday
trollfan1234>I wish!
lola666>TALK to you Monday
trollfan1234>sigh
lola666>I’m very disappointing you know
trollfan1234>me too we could be disappointing together.
lola666>
trollfan1234>0K, I know, I know. Want me to talk about the weather?
lola666>will it be interesting?
trollfan1234>actually no, I never know what the weather’s like, I have no idea what’s happen
ing outside right now. I’m on the 8th floor, I have double glazing and my windows aren’t that clean because the landlord’s lazy about getting that done, also they have these catches which slip and slam back down on your hands so I’m nervous about opening them . . . sometimes I don’t even know if it’s raining. I’ll go out into the street and feel like an idiot.
lola666>happens to me too, most of my windows are stuck, the only one I can put my head out of is the bathroom and it looks onto an air shaft. And I have five floors/no lift, it’s a nightmare working out what coat to wear in the morning.
trollfan1234>my offices are airconditioned, windows can’t open, etc, even more insulated. Once I was working late & there was a hurricane & I didn’t even realise, got out onto the dark street and it was covered with broken glass and people with cardboard patching up their windows. Ours were fine, we’re all triple-strength glass etc. More insulation. Shows how detached we are from the world.
lola666>my offices are like that too
trollfan1234>so we end up talking to each other through computers – down a modem line and bounced off a server to end up God knows where – insulation again.
lola666>that was a very neat connection
trollfan1234>thanks. I was quite impressed with it myself
lola666>have to go now
trollfan1234>OK, till Monday
lola666>bye
trollfan1234>bye
I turn off the computer and get into my pyjamas: flannel, huge, the kind of thing you can only wear when you sleep alone. A shot of whisky, to take to bed with me. And the nagging annoyance: why must he always push for more? Why does he keep asking to meet me? Can’t he see that the whole point of this is this perfect, focused connection? Meeting would ruin everything. It’s not that we might find each other unattractive; just the opposite. What if we did? It would ruin everything. I have everything in balance just the way I want it and I’m not going to mess with that. It’s working. I’m happy. I take half a sleeping pill and wash it down with a gulp of whisky. Library tomorrow. Lovely. I’m happy. I really am.
Quiet
Lucy Moore
Tuesday night. Quiet. I am sitting in an overstuffed striped chair by the window, a streetlight spreading a candle glow over the pages of my book.
There is hardly anyone here and it is quiet except for the sound of my stockings scraping against each other when I shift my thighs, which I am doing a lot given what I am reading. My face is warm with arousal, and I am torn between raising the book to hide myself and lowering it to hide the cover, embarrassed at what I am reading but too absorbed in the stories to put it down. Not that it really matters, because there is no one here to watch me anyway, as though anyone would watch me even if they were here.
No one here except for that little earthquake heading towards me in the form of boots clicking against marble floors until he hits the carpet and becomes hard silence. I raise my eyes and peek over the top of the book at him, and snap back to the text the minute his dark eyes collide with mine. I lift the book higher to cover my face, remember the cover, drop it to my lap, remember to hide myself, and raise it again, blushing harder, breathing harder.
I can hear him pause on the carpet and turn. From behind the book I can see he has disappeared into literature somewhere around Ayn Rand.
Three pages pass, and I am wet, wide, willing. I am trying not to remember that unlike the people in these stories, I have no one to seduce but myself, and I am definitely avoiding that thought. No matter how much I make love to myself, no matter how many of those toys that should be used by a lover, the ice, lotion, beads, I bring out, knowing they will embarrass me in the morning but make me so very hot right now, no matter how many times I bring myself to the peak and hold back before I finally give in and fall, screaming so loud I cannot control it, nipples hard as I pull at them, vibrator thrumming away against my clit, thighs, stomach shaking, all this does not matter as my cunt grabs desperately, spasming, clutching for a cock – hot, hard, silky over stiff. At those moments, when I lie there in recovery, shaking, already imagining the next one because I have not satisfied anything at all, I can almost feel his mouth on my tits, his cock in my mouth.
But I am not pretty, and men do not want to do these things to me, so I settle for myself. I do not even notice that my right hand has slipped across my chest, snaked under the fabric of my blouse, and is teasing my nipple, which is pulling against my skin, puckering, aching. I shift again, the shiver of wetness, an actual drop, trickles down into my pantyhose, I pinch my nipple between my thumb and forefinger, nearly jumping at the pleasure-pain. And then there is a hand on my thigh and I really do jump.
I lower the book quickly, smacking the spine against the broad hand spreading out over my leg. The man from the literature section is squatting beside me, touching me so familiarly I should smack him for real, but instead I apologize.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
He smiles, and I see an unidentifiable flicker in his eyes. “No need to apologize. I’m sorry I startled you.” He is older than I am, too old for me, probably, and the muscles in his thighs push against his jeans when he shifts his weight. “How’s the book?” he asks, the movement of his head only the slightest motion, his eyes locked against mine, stroking my jaw. I am blushing and stumbling, nervous.
“It’s um, good,” I say weakly, wondering why I can’t be normal and read mystery novels like other people do in bookstores.
“So I see,” he says, smiling at my hand, my fingers still worrying my nipple.
“Oh, God,” I say, and yank my hand away from my breast. I’m too embarrassed to even say I’m embarrassed.
“It’s okay,” he says, and his hand travels one long, slow, heavy, circle on my thigh, and when it finishes, he is further up and his fingers are pointing towards my cunt. We both look at his hand and then he removes it and stands. “Your coffee’s cold.” He nods towards my mug, which has ceased steaming and has evaporated into pale sludge. “May I buy you another?”
“I don’t.” I’m stammering, stuttering, swallowing.
He offers me his hand, firm. Don’t say no. Can’t say no.
Over coffee, I spill the sugar twice and my coffee three times. His name is Edward and I am right, he is too old for me, but I am not exactly overwhelmed with offers. He is an architect, or so he says, and he is reading a novel I have never heard of. I have left my book upstairs. He peers at me over his mug, which he holds with both hands wrapped around it as though he were warming them, but I can still feel his palmprint burning against my thighs and I know his hands are not cold. They are large, strong, slightly rough, and I can see the cuticles fraying and imagine the calluses against my skin.
My suit is too tight, and I shift against it uncomfortably as the skirt rides up my thighs. “Don’t,” he says, the third time I stop to adjust it, and he slides his hand up the back of my thigh, taking the skirt with it. He removes his hand and studies his work. I inhale, hoping that will eliminate the thigh spread somehow, but he does not seem to mind.
“What do you do, quiet Kate?” he asks me, sipping from his mug, his lips thin and broad.
“I work in an office,” I say, feeling stupid and gawkish and childish and wishing I could run out. I am incapable of flirting: I know this, the woman behind the counter knows this, why can’t he figure it out and just let me go?
He just laughs, though. “Do you always read erotica in public?” There is something about his phrasing that is slightly British, but unpretentious, and his voice is deep and warm around me as though I could press my palm against the broadness of his chest and feel the rumble.
“No,” I say, stumbling again. “I mean, I just, picked it up.”
“There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” he says, and I hear tenderness in his voice, though when I look up I do not see it in his face. He puts down his mug and lays his hand across mine. I jerk away and spill my coffee again. Blushing again. Make it end, make this end.
He leans forwards a
nd his tone becomes conspiratorial. I can smell the coffee on his breath, nearly taste the cream. “I found watching you very arousing.” I am shaking from the timbre of his voice and my cunt is calling out to him, and I am absolutely terrified of this man right at this very second, and more terrified because I do not know if I am more scared that he will kill me or make love to me. I jerk back again, coffee staining his arm.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and I really almost am in tears this time. I grab some napkins and dab at his arm. “I just, I should go.” You should have left me alone. He grabs my wrist, fingers locked, encircling the bone, the pudgy flesh. He laughs, genuine, his grip steel.
“Quiet Kate,” he says. He stands, takes the napkins from my hand, kisses me softly on the forehead, the cheek, pulls back. He is holding me by my shoulders, looking down at me. “Is that what you want?”
He has a car so we take it, along rain-slicked city streets, lamps reflecting in the asphalt, sidewalks quiet with trash and recycling. I am huddled against the door. At a stoplight, he does not look at me, but his hand finds my thighs and pulls one of my legs towards him, forcing them apart. I can smell my own cunt, my own desire, my own heat, and I am sure he can too.
“Would you do something for me?” he asks suddenly.
I don’t say anything. He looks over at me. “Unbutton your blouse,” he tells me softly. It is an order, but it is not a command. I sit for a moment, and then, leaning forwards, I slip my suit jacket off, unbutton my blouse. There are holes in the lace of my bra and when he reaches over, again, without looking, to run the back of his fingers over my breasts, my nipple pokes through the weave, dark rose against faded white. I inhale sharply, though he has barely touched me I know now what it will feel like when he does and I want to scream, I want this so much.
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