Sexile

by Lisa Lawrence

  Far off in the living room, the stereo played a Sophie B. Hawkins classic, “Damn, I Wish I Was Your Lover.’

  She came in small yips and keening, an earthquake in her thighs, and her breasts blushed red, her neck, her face, screaming now, “Tee!…Tee!’ She was the only person to ever call me that; started it because I used it to sign off my e-mails to her with. T “Tee!…Tee!’ Like a call, a question. Her orgasms always ignited this sudden urgency in her to embrace me right afterwards, hold me close like a child needing a reassuring hug.

  “Come on,’ she whispered. I giggled as she reached under the bed and pulled out her most recent gift for me. I was laughing hard by the time she put on the ridiculous belt setup, but I stopped when the strap-on dildo nudged into my pussy. She pulled her shirt back and did up one button, always getting cold when she was above the covers. I loved the contrast of her femininity with the masculine shirt and the tool-belt dick.

  I heard the slurp of the lubricant on the hard black rubber, and then I moaned, my girl with her arms locked, hands flat on either side of my head as she began to pump her hips to fuck me with the dildo. My fingers cupped the cheeks of her ghostly white ass, one hand moving to see if I could reach her clit to help get her off as well, but she mouthed something to me, something like I’m okay, your turn, and her blond locks brushed my shoulder and I gobbled up one of her nipples into my mouth, distracting her for a quick instant. Then I felt the overpowering sensation pooling in my core, building. She began to pump harder.

  I screamed for her to give it to me. The dildo popped out a couple of times, and she had to direct it again and adjust her arms, and I opened her shirt once more to gaze at her breasts and belly, framed by the checked pattern, heightening the eroticism of her in that dildo getup. A new glow of perspiration was on her cheeks with her exertion, her pink areolae puffy and nipples jutting, her eyes wide and her mouth open in that look of arousal at her control, her power of making me come the way I enjoyed the power with my mouth on her pussy. It was different with girls, this expression—always a gape of astonished curiosity and peculiar gratitude.

  I felt brilliantly, delightfully depraved, looking up at my girlfriend with her tits jiggling, the lumberjack shirttails like an iconic costume, dress-up butch, the halo of her blond hair and my girl’s got a cock at the moment; my girl can’t feel it but still it has that shattering intimacy, and fuck me hard, please fuck me hard and look into my eyes, look at me with blue eyes shining. A bit awkward but snuggling down to kiss me, warmth of skin and hair tickle again, and oh, in and out again, pumping harder now.

  Kim was really sweaty, working for my pleasure. I came loud and long, and as I crested the wave, she undid the belt and cast the dildo aside, hugging me tight. Then I felt her push her fingers inside me, hungry for the connection of flesh, not just emotional through the toy. I was so wet, and she had four fingers inside me and worked a rhythm to bring me up the crest again. Sometimes, as she confessed herself in her own blunt way, she was an “angry fuck.’ Now her rhythm increased with a vengeance, her other hand moving to strum my clit, and my head rose and hit the pillow again and again.

  “Kim, Kim …’ Our bellies slick with perspiration, my face in her hair, and I shut my eyes as her fingers worked me faster. Too much, too much, as if she had stripped me to the core, wanted somehow to punish me with pleasure after our squabble. She could get such bizarre ideas. No, you’re a dyke like me, and I’ll prove it. I’ll prove it by making you come louder and more times with my hand than any guy with his cock. I never told her she didn’t, that it was a futile quest, and it was just different with her. Ecstasy, yes, but different. One wasn’t better than the other to me, and it was perverse to make me choose. I knew I was bisexual. I had accepted it. Eyes locked on each other as she wouldn’t stop, a moan ripped from my soul.

  Panting, spent…

  Feeling her hug me tight again, lips on my cheek, sucking my earlobe. She made love to me the way she argued. Ours was an intimacy always athletic, like rolling down a mountain but not trying to stop the dooming momentum. I gripped her pale small back and tight ass, kissing her, still silently asking for a truce.

  ♦

  The next morning, Kim was up before me and off to classes, and I woke up to the postman delivering a package. I knew what it was already, but it still felt like Christmas every time it happened. Here were six new smart author copies—the latest of the children’s books I’d been writing.

  I had created a little girl detective, Nura, who lived in a refugee camp of an African country I never quite identified (so I could make up customs and characteristics as I went along, instead of having to be faithfully accurate about one place). Nura had had some interesting adventures. Like me, she was never quite sure how she was going to get her next meal or whether she’d keep body and soul together. Unlike for me, I was always quite certain that things would turn out well in the end for Nura—the very, very end, after maybe five to ten books.

  I’m not getting rich from these slim volumes, but it’s satisfying seeing your name on a book, and it makes for nice extra money. I assure you that Julia Donaldson, the woman who wrote The Gruffalo, is definitely not looking over her shoulder in fear of me cutting into her children’s market share. (Jeez, there’s a Gruffalo soft toy, a Gruffalo song, a Gruffalo play that hit the West End, a new play for the Gruffalo sequel, and no doubt, the Gruffalo will be the featured villain in the next Daniel Craig Bond movie. Yeah, yeah, I know—have some envy with your explanation?)

  Which reminded me that I really had to find a new gig to keep my cash flow healthy. I turned from my children’s book to my address book.

  No, they didn’t want me to fill in for any teaching classes at the dojo, which would have been fun and kept me fit, and no, alas, the temping agency didn’t have any gigs and let me down rather coldly with the assessment “You’re always overseas, love.’ Couldn’t dispute that. Hate reception jobs anyway. I thought it was Fate when the gallery in Geneva phoned me thirty seconds before I dialed them.

  “You hunting for a new job, Teresa?’ asked my contact.

  “Great, what do you have?’

  I heard a long, thoughtful grumbling noise working its way across the Swiss mountains, through France and over the Channel. “No, no, not what we meant. We’re getting calls about you. You know we never mind you using us as a reference, but this…’

  “I haven’t given you guys out for ages,’ I replied. “What’s going on?’

  “That’s what we want to know. First we were told it was Europol, and you know yourself they’re not allowed to conduct any direct investigations, so we knew that was rubbish. And then we had one of the boys call The Hague. They say it’s not them, not Europol, and we believe them. But somebody’s checking up on your old appraisal cases. Remember Dupuis?’

  “The forger.’

  “Right. You had him make a variation of Ingres’s Odalisque with a Slave.’

  “Yeah, for my friend Helena. Harem art—she’s got a perverse sense of humor. But as far as I know, Helena’s still got it in the living room in Richmond. And Dupuis has been out of prison for seven years—he’s served his time. Every one of his clients knows any paintings he sells now are copies.’

  “Your friend…she wouldn’t be crazy enough to try to pass it off as an original Ingres, would she?’

  “Are you kidding?’

  “Apparently he was pretty shaken up by whoever visited him. Lots of innuendos and stares, as he put it. You know how he is. If it were the old days, he’d love suspicion like that and leading them on, but now he knows what it’s like to be an innocent person and feel the heat. He’s quite pissed.’

  “Jeez, I’m so sorry—’

  “Well, don’t be. Sounds like you haven’t done anything, and he knows that. You introduced him to us and helped get him his appraiser gig—he thinks the world of you. Wouldn’t hurt, however, to pop around to your friend’s and check her décor.’

  Couldn’t ask for work with them
after that, not after my name was causing them trouble.

  Nor did I see a pressing need to ring Helena or “check her décor.’ Helena had paid Dupuis a hefty price so that, forgery or not, the composition had been listed for her insurance. And the London Met’s Art and Antiques Unit already knew Dupuis. Even if someone had walked into Helena’s lounge with covetous eyes, they’d be crazy to try to steal it, then unload it. Too hot. No one could touch it.

  Whatever was going on, this must be about more than a painting.

  I went out to Sutton and put in an hour at the climbing gym, then swung back into central London for a light lunch. That ate up a good portion of the early afternoon, and my restless mind began to think perhaps it was better if I checked in with Helena and told her about inquiries going on in Switzerland. I sent her a text message asking if it was okay for me to come out to the house in Richmond, and I got a reply that, no, she needed an excuse to be in London, and I was it. She’d come to me. A couple more texts, and we had set the time for early evening.

  No sooner was that decided than I got a fresh text from Kim: U FRGT, DDNT U? Yes. Yes, I had. Kim had wanted me to be an extra pair of hands for a friend’s apartment move. I didn’t know the girl, wasn’t crazy about dragging my butt to Ealing to pack and lift boxes for a stranger and, after last night, I wasn’t inclined to spend more time with Kim’s mates. I hadn’t given her a full commitment, merely saying I’d try to be there. I admit I hadn’t tried very hard.

  I rang Kim’s cell phone and got no answer. After fifteen minutes, my text suggesting I could be out there reasonably soon got the reply: DNT BOTHR ITS OVR U SURE SHWD ME. Here we go, I thought. I was no longer judged inconsiderate—I had graduated in her eyes to spiteful (the logic of her position was fuzzy to me, I thought we’d made up last night, so maybe she thought I was “showing’ her and was cross with her friends). I was getting tired of Kim being offended by every small thing, but I also knew Kim’s friends were closer to her than her family, who had not adjusted very well to her coming out. Maybe I could have made a better effort, especially with how rough things were between us lately. I picked up one of her favorite cheesecakes from the baker as a peace offering and went around to her flat.

  Whatever resentment Kim had felt towards me, she had certainly got over it quick. As I stepped around the bend and walked up her street, she was finishing an open-mouthed kiss with Felicity, her fingers in the girl’s hair. My girlfriend stood in her building’s front doorway.

  In her robe.

  The two giggled at each other, Kim flashing a bit of leg, a joke about being so brazen on the doorstep, and then as they turned to see if any neighbors were paying attention they saw that they, indeed, had a witness. Me.

  Kim’s hand flew to her mouth in shock. I was frozen on the pavement, staring, glad that I was still yards away, too far to hear any pathetic on-the-spot excuses. Felicity regarded me without any guilt, any shame at all, her mouth a thin line and eyes that were empty of regret. What did she care for my hurt?

  For a surreal five seconds, Kim stepped out of the doorway onto the front walk, her loose robe opening, the cotton belt slack, and I had a last glimpse of her exquisite small breast, her face blushing a vivid red. Then she remembered what state she was in and halted. Felicity took her by the arm and led her back inside the building.

  I walked away. Numb. Dumped the cheesecake in a garbage bin.

  ♦

  When Helena let herself into my flat, she found me with a cup of tea, curled up on the sofa and Seal’s “Don’t Cry’ on the stereo. “Good Christ, somber in here with a capital Sob,’ she remarked, plonking herself down into the chair opposite me.

  “Yeah, I’ve got a whole album of Seal to go, then I’ll move on to Sade and then it’s a mix of Peter Gabriel’s earlier stuff and a few downbeat Sheryl Crow tunes, and when I start feeling pissed off again it’ll be—’

  “Please stop,’ she cut in. “What, you’ve made a soundtrack for suicides? You didn’t sound this down in your texts—well, not that you can ever tell too much from those.’

  “No, no, I didn’t call you about personal business,’ I answered, and then I went into the whole saga of the gallery and the painting. Helena’s expression was one of complete bafflement, exactly what I’d expected.

  “It’s still in the living room where it always is,’ she said, shaking her head. “Huh. I’ve been having odd things happen as well.’

  “Such as?’

  She waved this away, dismissing it. “Oh, that can wait. What is this? What’s up with you? Why the marathon moping?’

  I briefed her. It was so implausible to me that someone can be stupid enough to be caught in the actual, literal act of infidelity. Like something out of the movies, I said. I guess I’d learned my lesson.

  Helena listened, never interrupting, and finally let a long stream of air out of her cheeks. “Well, you know my opinion of her, darling. That’s the one good thing about cheating. It defines things quite clearly. No wondering later if you made the right decision to break up.’

  “You’ve never given a lover a second chance?’

  “Good lord, no! If you both go in with no strings, that’s a different matter, but if there’s an understanding of commitment…Teresa, this girl talked about moving in with you! Don’t tell me you’re going to be bloody stupid and take her back? Has she phoned?’

  “No.’

  Helena was cynical. “Probably saving the case for the defense until tomorrow. After you’ve cooled down and started to miss her.’

  “I do miss her.’

  “No, Teresa, my love, you do not. You miss having someone. It’s so abundantly clear to those who love you that you went out and shopped for a person you could cherish and protect, someone like your American girl. You made do with Kim, and to be honest, we’ve all been quite worried about you. We understand—you were overwhelmingly grate ful for not sleeping alone. That’s human. But we all dreaded you might go on for years picking up shattered plates after tantrums and apologizing for her constant drama.’

  “When you say all, you mean…?’

  “I mean all.’

  I ducked my head a little, embarrassed. “Not my best choice, I suppose.’

  “Let’s just say you’re more fun when you’re racing for a connecting flight and leaving lovers grateful but dizzy in hotel rooms.’

  “Maybe I need a case,’ I murmured.

  “I need a movie,’ said Helena, getting up. “Go out or rent a DVD?’

  “ Self-pity makes me lazy,’ I answered. “Let’s rent. There’s a Blockbuster in the high street. Food?’

  “Chinese?’

  “Settled.’

  “No, no, there’s the issue of drinks,’ Helena reminded me. With Helena there is always an issue of drinks. Positively amazing capacity to imbibe. She doesn’t drink men under the table—she drinks them into the basement.

  “What’s a post-breakup drink that goes with Chinese food?’

  Helena appeared to give this serious thought as she wandered into the kitchen and began opening cabinets. “Very good question. I want to say vodka. Let me check your storage facilities.’

  I was busy switching off the stereo, peeking through the windows and checking to see if it was raining again when Helena’s distant voice hit a higher octave, one of sudden stress. “Darling, who is this girl?’

  I went in to see who she meant. A photo on my fridge: me, Kim, a few of her friends. “That is Felicity Eden,’ I answered, my voice dead. “Kim’s new slut.’ I yanked the photo out from its magnet, preparing to rip it up.

  Helena gently put her hand over mine to stop me. She looked pale. “I think you and I have a larger problem.’

  “What do you mean?’

  “This can’t be coincidence.’

  “What? What is it?’

  She took the picture from me, her finger pointing at Felicity. “About a month ago, this young woman called the agency, wanting an escort. First-timer, so we went through our scr
eening process for clients as usual. Wore a thick pair of spectacles, looked a little frumpy but not too bad. Still, she’s not even close to our regular client profile—way too young, too much money without a corporation or a family peerage attached, too convenient. You know the rare young ones who do come in either reek of confidence and think it’s a big laugh, or they have too little. Now she’—another tap of the finger—”felt like a cop setup. I was completely baffled. I pay off all the right people.’

  “Maybe I should give Carl Norton a call,’ I offered. Carl was a friend. He was also a detective inspector, worked Homicide. He’d met Helena and a few others in her circle back during the infamous strip poker case.

  “No,’ sighed Helena. “Don’t do that. He’ll think I’m trying to get special treatment, use his influence to get me out of a fix—’

  “But you’re not,’ I argued. “You just want to know if it’s a police operation.’

  “Which in itself could be construed as a favor,’ said Helena. “Him tipping me off. You’re the one to find out who she is, Teresa. And she’s given you cause now.’

  “Ha! As far as I’m concerned Kim can have her! But it’s not good if she comes sniffing around the agency. I have to say, darling, my problem is Carl’s the first person I’d normally bother for help.’

  “It doesn’t make sense,’ said Helena in exasperation. “You don’t work for me, and she must have figured out by now that you’re not one of my clients. What’s her game in seducing your partner? I’ve always been very careful with my men, the books are as clean as I can make them, and I haven’t had a problem since all that blackmail and murder a couple of years ago.’

  “Maybe it’s not about you and the agency.’

  “That leaves you. What have you done?’

  “I don’t know,’ I said. “I think I’ll ask Felicity. But first I need to find out who she is.’