by Artemis Hunt
“Sure.”
I steel myself. “Who’s Selena?”
The atmosphere between us seems to congeal with sudden friction.
Oh shoot. I have ruined it.
His relaxed features take on a troubled cast. “I was hoping you wouldn’t ask me that.”
“Why? Who is she and why does your mother think I’m her?”
I have to know. It’s a key piece of the jigsaw puzzle to help me with my decision-making. Do I look like her? Who is she anyway – a former lover?
He doesn’t meet my eyes. He says, “Honestly, you do resemble her – in coloring, that is.”
A dawn of understanding begins to break over my horizon. It’s a semblance of dawn – peeking above the clouds like a burst of skylight that is almost there, but not quite. I’m frankly afraid to embrace it.
I’m suddenly scared. Desire is a rare, uncategorized beast, and I’m about to find out the complex psychological roots of his desire for me.
“I would like to know,” I press firmly on. My pulse starts to beat a little faster, like a train heading towards an unknown wreck.
“It happened a long time ago.” His voice takes on an almost lyrical quality, and there’s a tinge of deadness in it. “I was sixteen. She was my English teacher.”
I hold my breath. All those hints his mother gave me –
“I see. So she seduced you.”
“No. It wasn’t like that all. Don’t ever think that. Many people make the assumptions, but the reality was that I was deeply in lust . . . and later on in love with her. I think she was initially attracted to me for my physicality, and later on for my mind. I was a pretty mature kid, and I looked much older than I really was.”
I don’t say anything.
He goes on, “So we seduced each other. The first time we did it – we were in a classroom after school. We didn’t plan for it to happen or anything. It was one of those things where the fever just overtakes you.”
Oh yes, I’ve had it happen to me. So I’m not the only one.
The pieces are starting to fall.
“I couldn’t help myself, I wanted her so much. And she wanted me too . . . every bit as badly as I wanted her.” He takes a deep breath. “She was the only woman I’ve ever loved, and I loved her madly, truly, deeply – body, soul, mind, everything I had to give. I was so deep into it that it was almost like a drug. That’s when it turned destructive.”
He raises his eyes to mine.
“I’m not good when I let myself fall into an emotional relationship. I couldn’t eat, sleep or study. I thought of her every day and night. I wanted to spend every waking moment with her. It was worse than an addiction. It was an obsession.”
He pauses.
“Ultimately, the other teachers noticed there was something wrong with me, as did my parents. Then the whole thing unraveled. Everyone found out – the PTA, the whole school, the newspapers. It became a media circus. The whole thing was a torpid mess, especially because she got pregnant.”
I have to refrain from clapping my hand to my mouth.
“Yes, the baby was mine. She aborted it without telling me. Something died in me that day, something . . . ” He shakes his head. “I don’t know. It was something. My parents forbade me to see her ever again. She was asked to leave the school, and no other school would take her either. It was a bad, bad period for both of us. I was depressed. I think I must have contemplated taking my own life more than once.”
Now the shock is starting to hit me. His story is more dreadful that I’d assumed. An awful stab of pain spears my stomach.
“God, no,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry, Chris.”
I’m sorry now that I asked – to dredge up his painful memories like these. I’m sorry for ever being curious.
He continues, “My parents were convinced that I would get over it and come to my senses. They sent me for therapy. But they didn’t understand that it wasn’t a fling, and that sixteen-year-olds can love as deeply and painfully as everyone else. We tend to forget how we are at that age. But it was very, very real, no matter how the PTA wanted to rubbish it.”
“What happened?” I say, dreading the answer.
“She went away. I think she moved out of the country to South Korea to teach English, or some place. A few months later, there was a newspaper report that she went missing in an off shore boating accident. There were rumors of suicide, but her body was never found. A few months later, they declared her dead.”
My hand really flies to my mouth this time.
“Oh my God, Chris, that’s awful.”
His eyes are hollow as he gazes at me. “Yeah, it is. That’s why I promised myself that never again would I love so deeply and passionately that I would lose all sense of myself. I’d only end up hurting people and hurting myself.”
“It wasn’t your fault, Chris. Her death wasn’t your fault.”
“I kept telling myself that. My shrinks kept telling me that. It was a full year before I could quit going for counseling. But somehow I knew, deep inside, if I’ve never loved her, if I’d never made that first step . . . none of it would have happened, and she would have been happy teaching English . . . and being alive.”
I’m sorry I asked him to tell me his story. I’m sorry that I now have a kernel of understanding of his inexplicable desire for me. It’s not tawdry or sick, but it’s terribly complex. I’m not exactly a ghost of a dead woman that he once loved with mind, body and soul . . . but I almost am. This should disturb me, and yet it does not because it’s neither healthy nor unhealthy . . . and yet it’s there, like the origins of a phobia explained in Freudian form.
Oh God.
And he does have a phobia. A very awful phobia that I have drawn into – a web of entanglement that I have allowed myself to be entrapped within.
He’s afraid of love. Of falling in love.
Of losing himself in another person.
I see that now – soberly. He will never love me, and that’s why he’s the way he is – with his friends with benefits and one night stands (oh yes, I know about those too from the whispered office chatter). Ours would be purely a physical relationship – one that I swore I would never embark upon. It just might as well be doomed.
My heart wrenches.
Oh poor, poor Chris. It’s not his fault he had been hurt like this. It’s not his fault he’s this way now.
And yet, there’s the other end of the equation – me. What is fair to me and what will be fair to him? Do any of us deserve what happened to us in the past, and – like the passengers of an airplane heading towards a thundercloud that would wreck them completely – our future if we can see it?
CHRIS
I don’t know if I did the right thing in telling Beth about Selena. But I figured she had a right to know after what happened with my mother. Still . . . she seems rather perturbed by the whole story. I don’t blame her. It is a disturbing story.
I know I still have psychological scars from the experience, but I don’t think about them anymore or make a big deal out of them. Everyone has scars. We just have to deal with them in our different ways.
Some deal better than others – but that’s the way life is.
The sky above Grant Park starts to fill with clouds, and the breeze picks up with a hint of summer rain on its scent.
“Wanna go to a movie?” I say, to change track.
She smiles wanly. “OK.”
We walk down Michigan Avenue to the AMC cinemas near the Magnificent Mile. We choose an R-rated thriller that has been out for three weeks already, and we sit right at the back – the only ones on our row. There are only about twelve people in the whole theatre, and the closest couple to us is five rows away.
Beth still seems pensive and thoughtful after our little exchange.
I clasp her hand in mine. “You OK? I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“No, you didn’t upset me. I’m OK.”
“You seem quiet like all of a sudden.”
&
nbsp; “You just gave me a lot to think about.”
I squeeze her hand, not knowing what to say to that. I’ve bared more of myself to this woman than every other one since Selena . . . and my mother, of course. I don’t know what else to do to convince her to carry on with our arrangement. I’ve even explained to her in detail why it cannot be more than it is . . . and will be.
I’ve done all that I can. Brutal honesty without compromising who I am. I have never lied to her about what we can have together. I have never lied to Lisa and the others either. Surely they can see that.
Please, Beth, let what we have now be enough for you.
The movie starts, and we’re still clasping hands like high school sweethearts. It’s real dark in the theatre except for the flickering screen.
The warmth of Beth’s hand in my palm seeps through my flesh, invigorating me. I lean over to nuzzle her neck, and soon, we are kissing . . . and my penis is hard again. It’s amazing how much she arouses me.
“I have to tell you something,” I whisper.
“What?”
“Better yet, I’ll show you.”
I guide her hand to my crotch and place it there, where my considerable bulge tents my jeans.
“You see how hot you get me?” I say.
Her hand is still for a moment, cupping my jeans. And then she starts to stroke and massage my bulge. I hear her soft little laugh.
“Oh what the hell,” she murmurs, “I’m not going to think about too much stuff anymore today.”
I feel it too – a palpable release of tension between us, like a taut guitar string suddenly going slack.
“Thank God,” I say, “because I’m horny for you.”
“You’re always horny.”
“Not always, but plenty of the time. And it’s for you.”
She hesitates before saying, “Chris, there’s something I need to ask you.”
Oh no, not again.
Fuck.
I shouldn’t have told her the truth about Selena.
“Of course. Anything.”
“You’re not thinking of her when you’re with me, are you?”
Beth’s voice sounds so fearful that a wedge kicks into my chest. Oh shit. She doesn’t think that, does she? Because it’s not true. It’s completely untrue. I have locked Selena away already in a special compartment of my soul.
Physically, and where my body’s responses are concerned, I live in the present now.
“No, no, no, no!” I say so vehemently that the nearest couples to us turn their heads. “When I’m with you, I think only of you. Look,” I press her hand down harder upon my erection, “this is because of you, and only of you.”
She seems to relent.
“OK,” she says.
“No. Not OK. I need you. I want you.” I start to kiss her again – a probing, concentrated kiss that holds so much fervor that I surprise even myself.
She responds more vigorously than before, and her stroking of my bulge increases. Indeed, her skin is hot – flushed, presumably, from sexual arousal. I deepen my kisses. Put a lot of tongue and passion into them, and soon, my hands are roaming all over her breasts, waist and jeans. Our bodies are turning towards each other, and only an armrest separates us.
I slip my hand beneath her blouse and feel for her nipples. They are as hard as little marbles.
Ohh.
“Oh baby, you make me wild,” I whisper.
I desperately want her to touch my cock without a barrier between us, and so I unzip myself. I am wearing briefs. With minor manipulation, my hard rod rises above its nest of tangled cloth and zipper.
“All yours to play with,” I whisper in her ear. “Use me. No charges incurred.”
This seems to lighten the mood because I can hear her soft laugh.
“Yeah,” she whispers, “I may as well make full use of you while I have the chance . . . ” She lets this trail.
I’m too caught up with my own passion to attribute further meaning to that.
I was expecting her to give me a hand job like she did the first time we were together, but she rearranges herself and bends her head over my lap. I’m a little taken aback. She has never done this before.
“Are you sure?” I say in a low voice.
Five rows in front of us, the male counterpart of a couple looks back.
“Hey asshole, I’ve had enough of you already,” he hisses. “Why don’t you just shut yer yap?”
Fuck you too, I think.
Beth says, drawing me back to the matter at attention, “Yes, I’m sure. I want to try it.”
I’m sure as hell surprised, but pleased at the same time. Just a few days ago, she was this shy, retiring virgin. And now –
Hell. I must be more of an influence than I thought.
In a good way, I hope.
She lowers her mouth onto my upright organ. It is dark, and I can only see the reddish tint of the flickering screen light reflected on her hair. Her warm, wet mouth encircles my turgid flesh. Her tongue flickers out and licks my shaft. Sultry, catlike licks.
Oh God!
A marvelous corona of pleasure immediately assails my cock, and I groan out loud.
The couple in front turns again.
“Ssssssh!”
I’m too lost in the swirling sensations that cascade throughout my groin to care.
I know that this is probably Beth’s first time, and so I just let her be. I don’t guide her or try to restrain her (as if!). She experiments with tasting my flesh, dipping the tip of her tongue onto my head and the little aperture at its apex. I squirm and grip the armrests.
She decides that this is my erotic spot (it is), and concentrates firmly on making me lose control.
“I may come into your mouth if you don’t let up,” I warn teasingly.
In response, she bites gently down on my head. I almost lose it then and there.
“Hey asshole,” the man’s voice cuts through the cinema. Couples everywhere swivel their heads in the dark to look. “If you don’t cut it out this instant, I’m coming over to break your legs, I swear.”
“OK, OK, we’re leaving,” I say loudly.
We rush back to my penthouse even before the movie ends. There, on my king-sized bed, I lay myself on top of Beth and make love to her with all the heat and passion I can muster, especially after our emotional catharsis today.
Our sweaty bodies merge, entwine, curl around one another’s and merge again. We try different positions to find out which ones she likes best (she seems to feel more uninhibited when she is on all fours). I go down on her again and tongue her sex until she’s screaming and clawing at the sheets.
Our climaxes seem to flow into each other’s, over and over and over. We sleep. And when we wake up in the early morning, we fuck like animals again.
I don’t recall being so happy in a long time.
It isn’t just the sex. It’s everything else that goes along with it – this wonderful woman who makes me feel so secure and at peace with myself. It’s as if I don’t have to pretend to be someone else. I’m exactly who I am – who I declared myself to be.
It’s dawn when I open my eyes and realize I have to go to work.
Fuck.
I just want to lie here in the warmth and make love to Beth, who is sleeping peacefully on her side, her lovely face turned towards me. I wonder if I can call in sick.
But of course I can. I’m the boss!
In fact, I’ll give Beth the day off too.
But I won’t. I have too much responsibility to the company to do this.
I watch her for a while, my head resting on my crooked arm. Her hair is sprawled like a messy fan on the pillow. It’s just-been-fucked hair, and I have never seen anything more glorious in my life. I lift a tendril of it and let it fall back on the pillow.
I’m loathe to wake her, and so I extricate myself gingerly from the bed. There’s a message on my cellphone from the previous night that I haven’t read. I pick it up.
It
says:
“Are we on tonight?”
It’s Taylor.
Oh fuck. I’d forgotten completely about tonight. It’s our usual Monday night. Apparently, Aaron carouses with his buddies every Monday, and Taylor is left to her own devices.
I start to text back to cancel . . . and then I hesitate.
What am I doing? I’m basically putting my life on hold for Beth, and I swore I would never, ever do that for a woman. I mean, I didn’t take a vacation this week from work for our seven days together. So why should I alter my routine, right?
I’m not making any sense to myself.
Never again.
That’s right. If I want to live by that, I’ve got to stop rearranging my life around women. It’s not as if I’m in love with Beth or something.
Right?
A creeping doubt worms into my marrow, making goose bumps rise on my flesh.
I swallow.
No. I can’t allow myself to fall in love with her. It would be Selena all over again. They even have the same hair, for Chrissake. I would be dooming us to an early demise if I let this through. I’m jinxed. Just look at my mother. I loved her to bits too (though not in the same way), and she was taken away from me as well.
Never ever ever again.
A bolt of pain racks my chest, and I have to sit down for a moment on the bed to let it subside. Memories of Selena’s pale, wan face fleets across my mind screen.
What’s happening to me?
Shit shit shit.
Before I can lose myself again, I text back to Taylor:
“Tonight it is, but I can only stay for two hours. Meet me at the White Rabbit.”
BETH
I have my suspicions (or reservations, rather) when Chris tells me that he has to urgently meet a client tonight.
“It’ll only be about two hours,” he says, avoiding my eyes. “Then I’ll come home and we’ll have a lazy dinner together. And then we’ll make love by the TV in front of a dirty HBO original.”
I have no claim on him, of course. He has made that quite clear from the beginning. But within every girl, there resides a hope that she will be the one to change the handsome, eligible bad boy with deep psychological issues.