For me to take your word, I had to steal it.
-Tori Amos, A Sorta Fairy Tale
S: Will you answer a question for me? Just one?
One thoughtful answer, no follow-ups from me.
Would you?
P: Will you send me the picture I asked you for?
S: No. This isn’t a trade. This is you answering a
question for me simply because you want to do
it for me.
P: Ok
Ask.
S: Do you still love me?
P: Yes. But I think you already knew that.
The house had been full of company that weekend, family and friends coming into town for an annual party centered on a college rivalry. What began many years ago as a casual afternoon with just a few cases of beer and some chips had evolved into a decadent and even gluttonous weekend of food and drink, meticulously planned for months and executed with great care and attention to detail. It was a foodie’s paradise, one meal after another presented like a great feast, everyone contributing a dish, one more delicious than the next.
And it was a sport’s lover’s paradise as well, where the talk centered only on the games and the jokes and the competition.
It was her favorite weekend of the year, and she was especially excited to get to host. Especially excited to throw open the front door and let in all the noise and the laughter and the love. And she pushed away the thoughts of her Pavlov; the thoughts of how he might enjoy sitting on the deck smoking cigars with the uncles, how the girl cousins would fuss over him, making sure his beer was always full and cold, asking him to open jars or to lift something heavy or any of those things southern women do to make their men feel like men. How her brothers would circle around him, pretending to appear intimidating and protective of their baby sister. She tried not to imagine how proud she’d be to show him off to her people, how grounded and safe she would feel watching him be accepted and welcomed into the bustle and the fun.
Instead she slipped back into her role as half of The Fun Couple with her husband, and she decided to savor the break in the silence. To enjoy catching him looking at her as she worked in the kitchen, to thank him with a kiss when he’d bring her a drink, to let herself relax and laugh with him again. She would try to pretend things were the same as they ever were.
Late Saturday evening, after the guests had gone back to their hotels, after the house had been put back together and the dishes were washed and ready for the next morning’s brunch and things had again returned to quiet, she gave in to the nagging feeling just under her heart, the feeling that she could only describe as him, and she picked up her phone and sent him a message. A nothing message like she’d done many times before when they were so connected, just to let him know she was thinking of him. Even though they weren’t together anymore, she was still always thinking of him.
Party’s over. I’m exhausted. Off to bed.
She had enjoyed being with her husband that day. They were lighthearted and happy and surrounded by familiarity. Reliability. Comfort. And even though they had quickly fallen into the habit of not being in their bedroom at the same time, making the end of the day moments less awkward since their decision to sleep in separate beds, that night they walked into the bedroom at the same time. Tentatively, but together.
He went to take out his contacts and she went to plug her phone into the charger. And she was thinking about having sex. With her husband.
She slipped off her jeans and tee shirt, and sat on the edge of the bed, her back to the bathroom door. Instead of trying to undress in a corner where he couldn’t see her, she sat still on the side of the bed, in just her bra and underwear, trying to decide whether or not she was extending an invitation.
So was he.
And she let the part of her that missed him take over. She unhooked her bra and let it slide from her shoulders, stood up and turned around and looked right into his eyes. And smiled a little.
As he finished brushing his teeth she glanced at her phone and saw the red light blinking, and she knew that it was a message from her Pavlov. She could feel it. She could feel him there in the room with her just as strong and real as if he were the one rinsing his mouth and wiping off his hands.
Her husband flipped off the light and came around to her side of the bed, put his hands on her waist and pulled her close to him. She lifted her lips up to meet his, let her hands drift up his arms and shoulders and finally to his neck. He slid his hands into the back of her panties and squeezed her bottom, and she could feel him sigh. Like he was happy to be home.
As he kissed down the side of her neck to the tops of her shoulders, she pressed up close against him, trying to find that same feeling.
He laid her down, slid off her underwear, spread her knees apart, and began kissing down her thighs. His finger touched her and felt how wet she already was, and he looked up at her with this cute little half smile. Because he assumed he had done that. He assumed she wanted him as badly as he wanted her.
And she smiled back.
She stretched her arms up over her head and let out a long, slow, breath, trying not to see the red light blink. She tried to be present in her life, tried to feel what it was her husband wanted her to feel, tried to let his mouth and tongue and fingers take her where he wanted her to go. And when he kissed up her belly, found her breasts, nuzzled her neck, and came back to kiss her lips, she left her eyes open. He was on top of her, entering her, and she looked right at him, right in his eyes, trying to make the connection that he was craving from her. And she could see he was going to come fast, giving her that familiar look – sort of apologetic, sort of seeking permission to keep going – and she smiled at him with all of the tenderness she could communicate. And she quietly said in his ear I want you to fuck me until you come.
She knew that would do it. That her whispering would take him over the edge.
And when he finished, he laid down next to her, both of them looking up at the ceiling, him feeling loved and close, and her feeling happy but unfinished. She was glad she could make him feel so good. Glad she hadn’t sabotaged the evening after such a wonderful day. Glad that she had helped him to not feel so lonely and sad.
But the red light was still blinking. She still needed to read Pavlov’s message.
She got up and went into the bathroom, slipping into her robe and trying not to look at herself in the mirror. Because she didn’t want to see what cheating looked like.
She told her husband she wanted to go write and being that he was already almost asleep, he simply said okay. Don’t stay up too late.
She picked her phone up from the nightstand and dropped it in her pocket, crept out of their room and closed the door behind her. It took every bit of restraint she had to walk to the kitchen for a glass of water, to grab the computer, to set herself up like she was actually going to work. Just in case he peeked out at her.
And she got settled, still naked under her robe, beneath a thick fleece blanket, pulled her phone from her pocket, and saw two messages from him. An email and a chat.
The email was just one word.
Alone?
He was thinking the same thing she was thinking. And within seconds she found him, and within seconds she read his please call my mobile, and within seconds she was hearing his breath in her ear. She heard him quietly moan for her, and in confident whispers she described what she wanted to be doing to him. What she wanted him to do to her. She was leading this time, ready to take what she needed, anxious to be with the one man who would to give it to her. And in her mind she straddled him, put him inside of her, grinding her hips against his, trying to get as close as possible. She listened to his hushed sounds in her ear and she told him she needed his fingers on her, she needed him to keep going, not to stop. She told him how wet she was. How close. She heard him exclaim his orgasm and she was not far behind. She needed him to hear her say his name.
Then there was rustling in her ear, and his voice disappeared. He hung up. He was gone.
And she was alone, huddled on her couch, one hand still holding her phone, one hand still deep between her legs, wondering what just happened.
She didn’t know what to do except sit still. Moving would break the spell, and allow the shame and the humiliation to set in. She would be forced to feel whatever it is one feels when your lover disappears at that moment when you need him the most. She waited to see if he was going to reach out first. To explain away the sudden disappearance. To be sorry that it seemed like he’d just finished, hung up, and left.
She wasn’t done yet. Not just with their game, not just with her orgasm, but with him. Late that night while their spouses were absent, she wanted time that belonged to her. One completed, uninterrupted, intimate connection. Something they shared together. One thing that belonged to both of them, that proved this was as real to him as it had become to her. She could not accept it ending that way, a hangup in her ear, and a return to the daily wondering when or if she’d hear from him again.
She needed him to hear her say his name. She needed him to have that memory, that secret in his pocket to pull out and remember some night when he was feeling lonely, too. That time would come for him, and even though they were all weird and broken and the rules had changed and he was far away from her now, she knew that no matter how thin the thread, they were still somehow connected. And she needed to be the memory that would help him through his own lonely nights.
She didn’t care that she had to steal this moment from somebody else, because stolen moments were all she would ever get. She didn’t care that she had to sneak and whisper. She didn’t care that she could still smell her husband on her body. All she wanted was one full minute of him loving her and her loving him. Just a moment where nothing else mattered. Just a moment where she was the most important thing. Where they were the most important thing.
She was sick of walking around feeling unfinished.
Finally she summoned the courage, and typed what happened? And he came back to her. Like he always did, at just the moment she was sure he wouldn’t, he reappeared and was apologetic that he had to hang up so quickly. Appropriately sheepish at leaving her all by herself. Gentlemanly in his concern that her needs were not met. So he took the time to type the things she needed to read so she could finally get her release. So she could let go of all that had built up inside her not once, but twice that night. But their connection had changed; he wasn’t there to listen. He didn’t hear her sweet voice whisper his name. Unfinished.
When they were both done, so was their conversation. No pillow talk, no afterglow. Just back to real life. And for a second she felt like she was sixteen again, losing her virginity in somebody’s basement on a hard laundry room floor. Even though that boy had laid her on a pile of clean clothes still warm from the dryer, she still felt the cold cement underneath; there was no disguising it. And when the boy was done and she watched him hop up and get dressed, trying to escape as quickly as he could, her mind raced with things she could say to get him to stay, just for a minute. Just long enough to make her feel like she hadn’t just given herself to someone who didn’t consider her to be a gift.
When Pavlov gave her a quick sleep well, she was again laying on something cold and hard, briefly disguised as something warm and loving. And her mind raced the same way it did all those years ago, trying to find the thing to say that would make him want to be with her for just a minute or two more. Like he used to. So she asked his permission, Baby? Can I say it?
No. Not yet. Please.
Then, once again, he was gone.
She picked up her laptop and stared at the screen, waiting for the emotions to rise and begin to propel her fingers across the keys, but nothing happened. Nothing came. No tears or anger or sadness. No calm. Just nothing. For months he had been her muse, her material, her inspiration and her confidence, but at that moment she’d made the decision; no longer would she look to another person to complete her. Never again would she hand over the credit for what she was able to accomplish. It was time for her to move forward on her own, without looking back to see who was still there, because she couldn't control what other people did. She could only control her reaction.
