Day 19

Generous

Friday, December 21

Alex brings me coffee to bed. And my laptop. And my phone.

‘I think you need to text Marie,’ he says. He looks gorgeous in his suit. I smile at him. Languid. Happy. I look at the screen. There are 24 messages.

‘Jesus Christ,’ I say. ‘They can’t possibly all be from her.’ He kisses my cheek. Lingers. I look up at him.

‘What are your plans for the day?’ he asks.

‘Texting Marie,’ I say as I read through her messages. ‘Jesus. Well, not all, but twenty of them are hers.’

‘Seriously?’ he asks.

‘Ah,’ I say. Distracted. Reading the seventh reiteration of

- Am I insane? What’s wrong with me? And where the fuck are you when I need you?

‘Ah…last Friday before Christmas…anything that doesn’t involve going to a store. I suppose I ought to be baking. And wrapping presents and shit like that.’

‘Will you see your dad?’ he asks. I flinch away.

‘No,’ I say. ‘Oh, fuck. He called you.’

Alex looks away.

‘I won’t,’ I say.

‘He loves you,’ Alex says. Still not looking at me. Then he glances at my telephone screen.

- I think I am going totally and completely crazy.

‘What’s wrong with her?’ he asks.

‘I really hope it’s not peri-menopause, because if it is, you won’t be able to handle it when it hits me,’ I tell him. Read the next one, which is more of the same. And the next one. Sigh. ‘New plan: I will invite Marie and her kids over to bake with me. She loves baking about as much as I do. We will be miserable yet dutiful together.’

‘Good friend.’ He nuzzles my neck. ‘Good mother. Good wife. Good wife who deserves a husband who puts some thought into her Christmas present instead of running out for something on December twenty-fourth…which you know I might be doing…’

‘Oh, fuck, you mean I need to get you a Christmas present too?’ I say. He starts to reach for a pillow to swat me with, remembers the coffee in my hand. Kisses me instead.

I put the coffee down on my nightstand. Kiss him back. Then text Marie and tell her to come over and bake cookies with me.

- Where the hell have you been?

—Sleeping, psycho-bitch. We’ll talk when you get here. Don’t be insane. Come on over. Today, we bake.

- Do you have white flour and sugar? Because those spelt cookies you made us make last year were disgusting.

—Fuck you. Bring supplies if you don’t like what I bake with. But yes, I do have real sugar and flour.

- Food colouring?

—No.

- I’m bringing food colouring.

—Fine. I’ll send Henry and Eddie home with you.

Alex. Still reading over my shoulder. He chortles. Gets up and moves to the door, turns around in the doorway and looks at me.

‘Jane?’ he says. I raise my eyes from the screen. ‘He loves you.’

I know. But sometimes that doesn’t make things OK.

Even before she arrives, I know I will have to tell Marie something. More than I have, more than I want to, because she’s feeling betrayed and disappointed by my silence, over-exposed and too vulnerable because of all that she has shared. So, after the kids get their fill of breaking eggs and spooning and cutting cookies, and we kick them out into the snow while we bake – ‘They need to bake and cool off before you decorate them, go, run, run!’ ‘Do I have to go too, Mom?’ ‘Yes, Cassandra, get outside for at least fifteen minutes, please? Watch Annie!’ ‘It sucks to be the oldest sometimes!’ ‘I know, babe, but you’ll get to drive before any of them’ – we sit down at the table with coffee, and I tell her. About my parents, about my anger, confusion, my anger at my mom, and finding out it was my dad who left, and how suddenly that’s so much worse…I don’t tell her everything, of course. I can’t. But what I tell her, it’s enough.

‘Jesus,’ she says. ‘Oh, Jane. You must think I’m such a stupid, selfish bitch.’

And she bursts into tears.

And I hug her and let her cry. And accept that her suffering is real and painful to her. I don’t have to understand it. Or even condone it.

‘Ask me something,’ Marie says suddenly.

‘What?’

‘Ask me,’ she says. ‘Ask me what I want. Ask me what I’m looking for. Ask me why I’m crying over that stupid fuck!’

‘What do you want?’ I ask.

And I can tell she has been rehearsing the answer. Because it comes quickly, immediately and harshly.

‘I want someone to want to fuck me,’ she says. ‘To want me so badly, he doesn’t care. That I’m married. Unavailable. Fucked up and confused. To want me so badly, he doesn’t care about the consequences. He doesn’t want me to be – honest. And clear about what I want. And – have perfect communication and rules and everything all worked out and all that shit. He doesn’t give a fuck. He just wants me. Now. In his bed. Against the restaurant dumpster. Wherever. That’s what I want.’

She gets up. Looks at me. Glares.

‘Judge me,’ she demands.

I shrug.

‘I won’t,’ I say.

And then…I realise. I can do something about this. Something wrong. Possibly horribly wrong. But. What the fuck. It’s Christmas. A surreal Christmas, and an outright sucky one for a lot of people. The Christmas my father left my mother. The Christmas Paul left Nicola, got left – or at least got demoted – by his skank and kinda left – but not really – Marie. The Christmas Alex’s little associate is going to spend lusting, and maybe more, after my husband. The Christmas I’ve spent all of December cyber-cheating on Alex. Fuck. What a Christmas.

It might as well be the Christmas Marie finally has a real affair.

‘Give me your phone,’ I say.

I left the card on the coffee-shop table. But Matt’s right. I have a tremendous memory for numbers. And I looked at that personal cell number twice. Each time long enough to remember it.

‘Why?’ Marie asks.

‘Just give me your phone,’ I say. I wipe my hands on my pants. Take it from her. Punch in the number. Pause to think. And then type:

—Hi there, Craig. This is Jane, from the coffee shop. Remember me?

I ponder pressing send at this point. But I need to set the parameters from the beginning. So I continue.

—I’m texting you on my friend Marie’s phone. I’d like to introduce the two of you.

Send.

‘What are you doing?’ Marie demands. She wrenches the phone from my hand. ‘Jesus-fucking-Christ, Jane, what are you doing?’

‘I’m setting you up,’ I say.

‘Oh-my-fucking-God,’ Marie says. ‘You are handing off a lover to me. I don’t fucking believe this. Self-restrained, perfect ice-queen-princess Jane has a fucking lover whom she is handing off to me! How pathetic do you think I am?’

‘No!’ I protest. The phone buzzes, and I grab it back from her. ‘I promise you, first, that this man is hot, and second, that he has never ever been anywhere near my –’ I pause ‘– icky girl parts,’ I finish. And we both howl. ‘One day, I’ll tell you how I met him. But it’s really not important.’

- Jane. How nice to hear from you. And how odd.

‘What are you going to say?’ Marie asks. I shrug. Start typing.

—Not so odd. Pretend we’re in the coffee shop. Talking. And she walks in. She’s a good friend of mine. Very hot. And, shall we say, interested? She joins us at the table. I introduce you. That’s all. The medium’s electronic, the introduction’s a real life thing.

‘You’re insane,’ Marie says. The phone buzzes as we read.

- I’m intrigued.

‘And you?’ I look at Marie. ‘Do I continue?’ She bites her lips. Looks at the phone, at me. Nods.

—So is she. I’m about to hand her the phone – excuse myself to go to the powder room or something. Think of this as my Christmas present to you both.

I pause. I kind of want to type, ‘And if you hurt her, I’ll eviscerate you.’ But that might spoil the mood. Instead:

—Be good. Have fun. Jane out.

And I hand Marie the phone.

‘What the hell do I do now?’ she yelps.

‘I think he’ll take the lead,’ I tell her. And the phone buzzes.

- Hello, Marie. This is Craig. I’m a little weirded out, but more intrigued. You?

‘I have to go…to the bathroom,’ I tell Marie. She doesn’t hear me. She’s looking at the screen, smiling.

When I come back, her head’s bent over the phone, and she’s texting. I take the cookies out of the oven. Pop in the next batch.

Supervise the decoration of several batches with all six kids while Marie texts. Glows.

‘You’re insane,’ she whispers in my ear as she hugs me when they’re leaving.

‘Probably,’ I agree. I want to say…don’t take it too seriously. Or…don’t blame me when it all goes wrong. But fuck. Whatever. ‘Enjoy. For at least a little bit.’

‘Oh, I will,’ she says. ‘I will.’

Lacey sends Clayton over in the afternoon so she can wrap presents, and then reciprocates by taking my entire brood. And I, alone in the house, a pile of unwrapped presents hidden in the laundry room in the basement, a phone tingling with texts messages from my dad, I close my eyes. And choose to be, for the moment, perfectly selfish.

I sit at the laptop.

—I have a story for you.

End-of-the-day of the last workday before Christmas in Montréal. Probably no longer in the office.

Tell me.

I smile. And I tell him.

My generous whore. I approve.

—I’m glad.

Although I would have preferred ordering you to fuck him. Unwilling, reluctant. Doing it only to please me.

—You’re sick.

You love it.

Are you alone?

—Surprisingly, yes.

Ready to work?

—Yes.

Because you were so generous, I got you a present too.

—Have you?

She’s right over there. Pretty, isn’t she? Turn around and eat her pussy.

I want to watch your head bobbing up and down while I fuck you.

—I reach for her slowly, one hand and my tongue exploring her pussy.

I want to see your hand working her pussy as you lap at her clit.

—It’s so sensitive, she squeals already.

Tell her what you are. Your voice muffled by a mouthful of pussy.

— ‘I’m Matt’s fuckslave.’

—I turn my head to see your reaction.

I slap your ass for that.

Keep your eyes on your work, whore.

—It’s yours to do with as you will.

I know.

—I pull her lower down so I don’t need to support myself with my hands.

—I want to use both hands and my mouth.

Your skills and enthusiasm impress me.

—I have missed having a girl in my face.

—they taste good

—their reactions so much more…graded than those of men

Her juices are flowing fast now.

—Her clit between my finger and thumb, my tongue licking around her, darting inside.

It excites you, your pussy is pounding.

‘Want to hear her cum?’ I ask the other.

—I don’t like you talking to her.

Between moans she manages to say…‘Yes, sir.’ So polite.

—and then?

—what do you say to me?

I slap your ass. Still not fucking you.

—My pussy throbbing and pounding from desire for you.

‘Show her how you can cum on command like a well-trained whore.’

NOW.

And don’t stop working her pussy.

—I engulf her lips and clit in my mouth.

—I raise my ass and arch my back.

SLAP your ass again. Hard.

—All I need to do to cum is think how much I want you.

—how much I want you to use me

Do as you’re fucking told.

—how I’ll do anything you tell me to

Yes. You will.

Prove it.

—and I cum in a streaking, shivering, shaking explosion

—pussy juice spraying

—knees buckling

My juicy whore.

Shameless.

Irreplaceable.

—I drop my head to the floor, my forehead almost hits it, I collapse so thoroughly.

Valuable.

—yours

‘Stand over her. Straddle her. Your turn to make yourself cum.’

She does as she’s told.

—Will you fuck me as she stands over me?

To you: ‘Tell her to cum on your face.’

—I slowly roll over onto my back

— ‘Cum on my face.’

—Does she squat down, or stay standing?

—I want her standing. What do you want?

Standing. The sight of her legs towering over you make you feel so dominated.

—I look up at her pussy

Then your pussy is filled with my cock.

—Spread my legs for you

—Oh

—Finally

Cum on her pretty face.

—I am so hungry for you.

—She does not come as readily on command as I do.

‘You should feel her pussy, it’s so fucking wet.’

I make her face away from me. I reach over and slap her ass HARD

She cries out.

—I raise my hips a little off the floor, I want to wrap my legs around you and bring you down on me.

—But I worry you won’t let me.

Lie there and take it.

—I spread my legs again.

—I put my hands over my face.

‘Take your fucking hands away from your face. Finger her g-spot to make her spray all over you.’

—She’s too high up

—I have to sit up

You may sit up. Hungry for her gushing.

Shameless

—I slide my finger inside her.

—Readjust my pelvis to ensure you are still able to fuck me.

Fuck her. Hard.

—I’m out of practice so it takes me a while to find just the right spot.

—Another finger. Three.

Her moans tell you the place.

—I have her

—I look at you

Eyes full of mindfucked lust

You are so fucking mine.

—Thoroughly.

Keep looking at me, whore.

—I come from the eye contact

Good.

—a small, delicious shudder

—my fingers still in her pussy

Keep your eyes locked on mine

yes

She starts to clench

Shudder

—She spasms around my fingers.

‘Make her cum on your face,’ I say, calmly.

—I pull out my fingers and pull her pussy closer to my face.

—Three rough strokes with my tongue on her clit and she cums

—streams

Such a skilled slut.

She screams.

Splashing you.

—Are we done with her now?

—Or will you make me watch while you fuck her?

She’s only there to make you angry.

You serve her too. And now you’ve been gushed.

—Then make her caress you while you fuck me so hard I cry.

—I don’t tell you any of this, but you know

—The question is

—will you choose to please me

—or torment me

—or both

Torment.

‘Get dressed and sit on that chair,’ I tell her

She watches as I pull you to your knees.

Shove your face into my balls to lick them, clean them.

—Your cock, so wet, so hard, slides out of me.

Your face wet and musky from her juice.

—I belong between your legs, I know this.

Yes. You do.

—But that she is watching, it burns me

—humiliates me

—as you intended

You’re going to stay there. Humiliated.

—I cannot hide my hunger

Until I’m ready to add my cum to hers.

—My desire…

Fuck. Call my phone. Now.

I stare at the screen for a minute. Again? Now?

Do as you’re fucking told.

I run down the stairs. Where the fuck did I put it? Kitchen. Stove? I turn it on as I run up the stairs, start dialling the number before I’m back in the bedroom with laptop and phone. And I come, again, intensely, the second I hear his voice. I don’t remember what he asks of me, what he tells me. I whisper things, and cum on his command, again. And again. His voice throaty, urgent, mad. I remember this: thrusting my hand, my fingers, into my throat, so he can hear me gag. And that’s when I hear him cum. Where? In his office? At home in his bathroom? Jeezus.

‘Oh, fuck,’ he says when he’s come. ‘Oh, fuck, my whore. Thank you.’ Clicks off.

Cum-smeared fingers shaking, I turn off the telephone. Stare at the ceiling. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck.

My laptop. He’s typing.

Are you all right, lover?

—Shaking.

Intense. Unplanned. And I was just planning to share a reality update with you today.

—What’s up?

Holidays, at cottage with the in-laws, from tomorrow on. Through Christmas, maybe until New Year’s. No Internet, unreliable phone service. And limited privacy.

—Radio silence, then?

Probably. I don’t know. But likely. Did not want to leave you worried. Neglected.

—You are kind to your whore.

Always.

—I will miss you.

Just a blink compared to past absences.

—Yes. But. You are a potent addiction.

As are you.

—Well. Anticipation and delay have many advantages.

Plenty of time to anticipate

—I shall call it a fast. It will make me feel virtuous.

I like the idea of a virtuous whore.

All the better to corrupt.

—Valmont. Dangerous Liaisons.

Always did love that film

—For all the wrong reasons.

Story of my life.

I feel calmer. Grounded? No, not grounded. Relieved, released. I will miss him, yes. But. It will be easier to get through Christmas if I’m not cyberfucking Matt. It will also be easier to hate my father. I let the thought sit there. Face it head-on. Wow.

It’s still there.

I hear the door. Children.

—I have about ninety seconds before I am claimed by reality.

—But. Reality, she is a cruel mistress.

In reality, I am a cruel master. And this was a most…climactic goodbye. Was it not?

—Oh yes. But now go. Pack. Fly.

Enjoy your downtime, my lover. My whore.

—You too. Anticipation. Restraint. Virtue. And all that.

Indeed. Dream of me.

xx

—xx

I wrap a few presents. Make supper. Ignore three calls and five texts from my dad. More from my mom.

I smile when Marie, several hours later, texts me, ‘I love you!’

But I cry into Alex’s shoulder without explanation before supper. He thinks it’s because of my dad. And it might be.

I am not already missing Matt. I. Am. Not.