by Heidi Lowe
I eventually fall asleep with Melanie as my last thought. And I cringe when what I said to her following our kiss finally dawns on me.
"It was fine!" I say into the dark. "Dear God, no wonder she left in a hurry. Who sticks around after hearing that their kiss was simply 'fine'?
I vow to make it up to her.
Phone conversations with Ivy are the most infuriating, most excruciating things imaginable. No matter what time you call her – day or night, whether she's at home or out – she's always having multiple conversations with other people while you're trying to talk to her.
"What do you want my sister's address for?" she asks for the third time. If she'd listened the first two times she would know why.
"I want to surprise her," I repeat, rolling my eyes. I think she's trying to haggle over the price of Egyptian bed sheets or something, and the vendor is playing hardball.
"–the guy at the front of the store said you'd give me a good deal. Two hundred is not a good deal...Why don't you just call her?"
Is she talking to me again? "Well, that wouldn't be much of a surprise, would it?"
I consider hanging up and just sending a text instead – that would make more sense. But then I run the risk of her not replying. Her phone goes off constantly when I'm with her, and my text would likely get lost in the crowd.
"Do you like her? I mean, I know she likes you...oops, I don't think I was supposed to say that...One ninety-five? Now you're just insulting me!"
Hearing that Melanie likes me, that she's talked it over with Ivy, I'm taken aback. Okay, so it was pretty obvious when she kissed me, but it's still shocking to hear it from someone else. She must like me a lot for her to mention it to Ivy.
"I do. She's a lot of fun."
"Video games are fun, Faye. We're talking about my sister. Don't be fooled by her tough exterior; she's really sensitive. If you don't want anything serious from her, you have to be upfront with her."
There must have been something in my tone that betrayed my indecision about Melanie, because it's as if Ivy can read my mind. I don't want anything serious from her, not now at least. I want to have fun again for the first time in a long time.
I wait until Ivy successfully gets twenty-five percent off the retail price before I say, "Will that scare her off? If I just want something...easy?"
"I don't know. Ask her. Just don't string her along. The last thing I want is things getting messy and me stuck in the middle."
"That's not going to happen," I assure her. Easy means no drama, no arguments, and no emotional ties that can end up destroying me. I won't survive that a second time.
It's a late Sunday afternoon, a week since I last saw Melanie, and I'm standing on the doorstep of her apartment, fist suspended in the air. I'm hesitant to knock, nervous to see her, afraid of how she might react to my impromptu visit. But more than anything, worried that my proposal will be met with antagonism, bitterness. If the roles were reversed, how would I react?
No, I can't do this. This isn't who I am. Okay, so who doesn't like fun? But in my case, fun means something scandalous, and turns me into someone I'm not. She wouldn't go for it, anyway. No self-respecting person would choose that path willingly. I'm still a broken woman, so that's my excuse. She isn't, and can find a meaningful relationship with someone who can offer her more than what I'm offering. Someone who wants more than fun.
Just as I turn to walk away, her door opens. She's holding a black garbage bag.
"Faye?" she asks incredulously. "What are you doing here?"
Busted!
"Uh, hi..." I say, shyly. I can feel the blood rushing to my face and neck. This was such a stupid idea, I know that now.
She gives me a whimsical, perplexed smile. She wasn't expecting company, that much is apparent. She's in house clothes – a tank top and sweatpants, complemented by fluffy yellow mule slippers. There's something incredibly sexy about this look, and the way her hair stands up at all angles. There's a sheen to her skin, as though she's just been exercising and sweating. I admire how taut and toned everything on her body is – the arms, the torso, the legs.
"Is this a bad time? I know I should have called first."
"No, of course not. Come in." She ushers me in enthusiastically. "How did you know where I... Oh, let me guess, Ivy?"
"Don't be mad at her. I wanted to surprise you. But now I realize how stalkerish this is," I say.
She laughs. "It's actually sweet. And I'm glad to see you."
She offers me something to drink. Her apartment is a spacious, chic loft; modern and elegant. Not a thing out of place. It's a breath of fresh air to look around and not see toys everywhere. This is what freedom looks like.
A huge, muscular, ginger tom strolls out of its cat basket to sniff warily at my leg.
"A lesbian with a cat. I know, stereotypical," Melanie says. "Michael Phelps has been with me for nine years. I got sole custody."
"You named your cat Michael Phelps?" I say, chuckling. "That's original."
"Hey, I'm a swimmer, what else would I call him?" she laughs.
Once Michael is convinced I'm not an immediate threat (or particularly interesting), he returns to his basket to keep a watchful eye on us from a distance.
"Honestly, I didn't think you wanted to see me again," Melanie says when we sit down with our drinks in the living area. "We kissed, and I thought it was going well, but you said the kiss was... fine. Just... fine. I thought, ouch! I was sure I was better than that." She chuckles, but I see in her eyes that I offended her.
I face-palm. "I've been agonizing over that all week. I'm sorry. I didn't mean that it was mediocre. I got so distracted when Nikki showed up, I didn't know what I was saying. It wasn't mediocre at all. It was lovely."
And I'm once again falling deep into those big blue oceans, falling under her spell.
She looks away, stares at her cup. "Your ex did not look happy to see me. She seemed pretty territorial, in fact."
"She has no right to be. I can see whoever I want."
When she looks up again, her face is serious. "I kinda got the sense that there was some unfinished business."
"Between me and Nikki? She's remarried. That's about as finished as it gets."
"Are you still in love with her? Just answer me that. I would totally understand if–"
Her sentence is cut off by my lips pressed against hers, shutting her up and dispelling the ridiculous idea. That's my answer to her question.
When we come up for air, she gawks at me, startled, lips puffy from my kiss.
"Okay..." she says.
"Everything Nikki and I had or were is over, and there's no going back to that."
"I believe you."
"But?" I say, knowing there is one.
"But I get the feeling you're not ready to move on. Which is totally normal," she adds quickly. "You should just be honest with yourself...with me."
I'm like an open book, it seems. Why is everyone able to read me so well when I can't even read myself? There must be some type of pheromone I emit that warns people that I'm still broken.
"You're right," I sigh, setting my cup down on the coffee table. She does the same. "I'm not ready to move on. It's going to take a while before I ever trust anyone again. But I'm a woman, I have needs..." My voice goes quiet, my eyes shift from hers. This is the most frank I've been in a long time, possibly ever. And I don't know why she is the one I'm showing that side of me to. Maybe my yearning for her has something to do with it. Sitting in such close proximity to her, admiring her physique, I feel my body aching. Aching for a touch, hers or any woman's who will have me. But I want it to be hers. Because she's ignited that yearning within me. Can I ever communicate this to her well enough?
"I know how this sounds, and you're completely within your rights to throw me out." I still refuse to look at her, afraid of what I might see in her eyes.
"I'm listening," she says, levelly.
I swallow down my fear. "I can't offer anything su
bstantial now, and I can't promise that I'll ever be able to in the future. But I want you. There, I said it."
I cringe while I wait for the onslaught of insults I know she'll hurl at me when she understands what I'm suggesting. The room fills with a deafening silence.
"I see," she says finally. Something in her voice, a hint of amusement, makes me look up, and I see the smile for myself. "So what you're saying is that you don't want a relationship with me, but you want to use and abuse my body at will?"
"That's not what I–"
"Yeah, but it was implied." She reaches for her drink. "I believe that's what they call friends with benefits." She gulps what's left of it down, then turns back to me, a mischievous glint in her eye, and before I know it, she's lifting off her tank top.
Now? We're going to do it now? the voice inside my head shrieks. Crap, I'm not prepared for this. I haven't shaved; you stop doing that sort of thing when there's no one around to see. It must be a jungle down there! I'm not prepared mentally for a new woman to see me naked. There's also something unsettling and creepy about Michael Phelps watching us from across the room.
Oh God, this is a terrible idea!
Her lips are on mine, and instantly all my doubts are vanquished. I do want this.
She tugs at my top while our tongues dance together. We separate just long enough for her to hastily work the top right off, and drop it on the floor behind her. We resume kissing as she lays me down on the couch.
We won't make it to the bedroom. Not in our current state of frenzy. It's as if she's been bottling up her desires as long as I have. I wonder if I'm the first woman she's been with since her break up?
The press of her flesh against mine excites me. It's been so long since a woman touched me like this, was pressed against me.
She pins my arms down, then rips her lips from mine. She stares down breathlessly at me; I stare up equally as breathless, wondering what she'll do next. Whatever it is, I'm game.
She kisses my neck so sensually, I fear I'm already close to the end.
"Tell me what you like," she whispers between kisses.
"Everything," I breathe back. It's the easiest answer, even if it's not true. When this is over, we can discuss it further. But for now, I just want someone to make me feel good again. She's definitely the woman for the job.
She wastes no time robbing me of my jeans, which come off just as easily as her sweatpants. My panties follow suit shortly after.
When our lips reunite, I put more into the kiss, knowing what's coming next. I feel her hand stroking between my legs, at my sex, becoming drenched in a lake of my excitement. My bean throbs with every stroke. She catches my moans in her mouth, devouring my tongue hungrily. When she enters me, she doesn't cease kissing, just eases her fingers in and begins long, deep thrusts.
It's a wonderful feeling, new and different to what I'm used to. Correction: What I was used to. Her plowing and plunging isn't like Nikki's; she thrusts with more aggression, more than I would expect from someone with such soft, innocent-looking eyes. But it's exactly what I need, and I savor it, letting my moans tear through the room.
This is what it feels like to be screwed, to have no emotional ties to someone, and to let all my inhibitions drift into the wind.
"Is that what you like? Huh?" she whispers, a gruffness to her voice. I know she's playing a part, that this isn't really her, and I'm grateful.
My gratitude manifests itself in louder moans, a more convincing response to her question than a simple yes.
She stops, but only for a short time. Just to force me up onto all fours. And then she's inside me again, this time from behind. She kisses my butt every now and then, while her fingers work their magic on my sex, pounding with a ferocity she can't possibly sustain without having serious arm and finger ache. I won't be able to take this much longer. Because she is able to do the impossible, something only Nikki before her could achieve: She is able to hit that rough, hard, elusive spot deep inside me. Again and again.
When I hit my peak, my body shudders, trembles as though electricity courses through it. My breaths are heavy and staggered as I come down from my high. I'm panting like a dog, having been screwed like one. And I've never felt better.
She presses a gentle hand against my back, and I turn my head to look at her. She smiles. "You really needed that, didn't you?"
"You have no idea," I say.
Her clothes are still on the floor in a pile five minutes later, though I'm already dressed. She seems so comfortable in her half-naked state, though that's not surprising. As a professional swimmer, being half-naked was her job.
"I don't want you to think I do this all the time," I say.
She smiles. "I know you don't. And I get it."
Why is she so understanding? Most women would think less of me for this – the friends with benefits thing, and allowing myself to be screwed on someone's couch. But not Melanie. It's as though I can suggest any outlandish thing and she'll be okay with it.
"And I don't want you to think I only want to spend time with you...this way..."
"Faye," she says, putting a hand on mine. "It's fine. Perfectly fine. Whatever you want to do, I can accommodate."
"But why? What do you gain from this?" I demand. It's slightly irritating that I'm being met with no resistance. "Don't you want a family, someone who can give you everything?" I can't stop myself. Am I trying to sabotage the arrangement before it's even begun?
She shrugs. "Someday, yeah. But what we want and what we get are completely different things. You know that better than most."
She's talking about my marriage. About the plans I made with Nikki, about the future I had mapped out.
"I'm good if you're good," she insists, offering me a reassuring smile. "And if at any time I stop being okay with this, I promise I'll let you know."
Well, that settles it, though I'm not sure how I myself feel about this little arrangement. Now that it's about to become a reality, my second thoughts are rearing their ugly heads.
"You know, I didn't come here today with the intention of having sex in the middle of the afternoon," I say shyly. "And definitely not on a couch."
She chuckles. "Well, to be fair, I didn't think I would spend my Sunday afternoon having sex with Mama Kitchen, either."
The use of my blog name to refer to me is something that makes the whole episode even more surreal. Mama Kitchen – pretty much relegated to an alter ego now that her perfect life is over – is so vanilla and conservative that she would have a heart attack at the thought of what I've just done. Who I've become. Divorced, bitter, having meaningless sex with a fan. Yet, this excites me.
"I have to get going," I say. "Emily's godmother is bringing her back soon."
She walks me to the door, still in just her underwear, and I can't help checking out her butt. There's no denying that this woman has a body to die for, and I can't wait to see her again, to see what else she has in store for me.
I'm about to walk out, but she grabs me by the wrist and smashes her lips to mine for one final, parting kiss.
"Call me, okay?" she says when we separate.
"I will," I promise.
FIFTEEN
The smile currently residing on my face as I drive home is freakishly cheerful. If I wasn't so invigorated, my reflection in the rear-view mirror would frighten me. It's such an unfamiliar sight these days, me smiling.
It remains there even as I pull into my driveway. It's there when I let myself in, grab a bottle of water from the refrigerator and gulp it down. It's still there as I stand reminiscing in the middle of the kitchen, my body tingling from the memory of Melanie's hands on me...in me.
A new woman, despite being resigned to the idea of never having another sexual partner after Nikki. When I'd taken my vows, I hadn't banked on sharing my body with someone other than the woman I was marrying. How quickly things change.
Sandra arrives with Emily five minutes later, and it doesn't take her long to see there's
something different about me.
"Why are you smiling like that?" she asks, narrowing her eyes at me, a smile of her own teasing her lips.
"Am I smiling?" I say, modestly. "I hadn't noticed."
I greet my daughter with a kiss. She doesn't stick around long, and heads straight to the living room to watch her Dora the Explorer video for the thousandth time. She's obsessed with it, and I can't understand why.
"All right, out with it." Sandra nudges me.
We go into the kitchen and I put on the kettle without asking if she wants coffee. She will, she always does.
"I have nothing to say. It's a nice day. Why shouldn't I be smiling?"
"Hmm, now I know there's something going on..." A beat, then a cackle that startles me. "You know your top is on backwards, don't you?"
I look down, and sure enough the emblem that should be there is nowhere to be seen. How did I, or Melanie, miss that? Too busy reeling from our afternoon of hanky panky, no doubt.
"You've been doing the nasty, haven't you?"
"Shh!" I say, pressing a finger to my lips. "The last thing I want is my four-year-old daughter repeating that at nursery."
"You naughty girl! But good for you," Sandra says, slapping me on the arm. "Was it the woman you told me about?"
I nod, and the grin returns to my face. I bite my lip, not sure how much more I should share. At the end of the day, Sandra is still Nikki's best friend, and it might be insensitive of me to discuss this with her. I don't know how this works. I do feel the overwhelming urge to tell all, like some high-schooler after her first kiss.
"Her name's Melanie."
"So you took my advice and called her? And I take it from the size of that grin that you enjoyed yourself?" She raises an eyebrow, her smirk lopsided.
"I did."
"So what is this, are you seeing her?"
"In a manner of speaking."
She frowns, waits for me to elaborate.
"We're just getting to know each other."
"Hmm, I bet you are!"
I laugh, a little embarrassed. If she knew how I'd allowed myself to be defiled, the manner and location, she would look at me differently. I still can't believe it myself.