Day 29

For you

Monday, December 31

Cassandra is more excited about the New Year’s Eve party than we are. It’s her first time babysitting the troops – her brothers, Annie, Clayton and Marcello. My dad’s coming too, but he’s been cast in the role of assistant, passive over-watcher. ‘Just make sure Gramps knows he’s just here in case I need to send him to get you from Lacey’s – I’m in charge,’ she says about a dozen times. I nod. And then, another dozen, two dozen times throughout the day, ‘Mom? Can I watch you dress and put on your makeup?’ I frown. ‘Maybe.’

I’m delivering the day’s thirteenth ‘Maybe’ to her when the phone rings. It’s Nicola.

And she’s tittering.

I indulge in the thought that if I am ever master of the universe, I will outlaw all tittering. Trilling. Shrieking. Any and all high-pitched sounds.

‘So what should I do?’ she asks plaintively. Fuck. Apparently there was content in the tittering.

‘About what?’ I ask.

‘Jane, why do you never listen?’ she wails. I will also outlaw wailing. ‘Jesse just texted me, asked me to go a New Year’s Eve party with him! I really want to go. But I can’t. The boys – it’s supposed to be “Daddy” night, but the rat-fuck bastard assumed I’d have no plans and just dropped them off. He and the skank are going to some poly-dance…what the fuck is that? Anyway, God, I assumed I’d have no plans. Should I just say, “Oh, thank you, but I can’t?” Or…’

Oh, Jesse. Sweetheart. Bless the boy’s kind heart. I can do my part.

‘Bring them over here,’ I say. ‘No, no argument. Do it. And have an awesome time.’

‘I will,’ Nicola says. ‘I will. God, just to go out! Somewhere fun! With a man! Not that all you ladies haven’t been great,’ she adds. Also calling female friends ladies – against the law. Women. Fuck, girls. Chicks. Bitches. I hate the world ladies.

Apparently, I am in a mood.

But. I will be kind.

‘Bring the boys,’ I repeat. ‘Lacey and Clint’s boys will be here too. My dad’s on hand to help Cass mind the kids. And we’re just next door. Now, go. Get dressed. Look gorgeous.’

And then Nicola shocks me.

‘If I sleep with him, I’ll have to find another personal trainer,’ she says.

Look at that. Perversely, I’m…yeah. I’m kind of proud of her. Impressed. Pleased.

Slightly, perhaps, jealous. He’s my personal trainer too. Still. I am learning to be generous.

‘Small price to pay,’ I say.

Nicola squeals – yes, I will also outlaw squealing – and hangs off. I hold the phone in my hand. Text Jesse. ‘Thank you.’

The response is immediate. ‘For you.’

Well. Fuck. That might be a wee complication for the trainer-client dynamic in the New Year. Even if Nicola doesn’t sleep with him, I might need to get a new personal trainer.

No good deed goes unpunished.

After the kids eat supper and take off for various corners of the house with their iPads (I am, suddenly, powerfully, grateful to my mother for her extravagance, and I text her a string of xoxoxo’s), I take another long, slow shower. Shave, moisturise and generally indulge. Time seems infinite.

‘Mom? Can I please watch you dress and put on your makeup?’ Cassandra asks again.

I’m dressing, with no pretence that I am doing it for any other reason, to please Matt. Alex will enjoy it, of course. But. I’m not engaging in any self-deception as to who I’m really doing it for. So Cassandra does not get to watch me put on the underclothes. But when they are covered up with a slinky black dress, I invite her to watch me make up my face in the bathroom. I finish it off with sparkles, on my face and hair and on hers. Then, of course, on Annie’s. And Henry’s. And Eddie’s.

‘Daddy! You have to come see Mom, she looks like an evil princess!’ Eddie yells as he thunders down the stairs.

Alex comes up from the basement, post-workout, for his shower. He’s slick with sweat. I turn as he steps into the bathroom and smile.

His sweat pants hide nothing.

‘Fucking hell, Jane, you are not wearing that to the party,’ he says. ‘Put on pants. And…a sweater.’

I laugh.

‘Seriously,’ he says. His erection grows. I bite my lips. ‘Fucking hell.’ He picks me up and manhandles me into the bedroom. Shuts the door. Dress around my waist.

‘What’s this?’ He fingers the corset.

‘A New Year’s present,’ I say.

‘Jesus.’ And, despite last night’s languorous activities, he’s on top of me, and inside me. Utterly selfish. I come in seconds anyway.

It is very, very good to be so desired.

Less good is this: ‘And now, my love – pants.’

‘A compromise,’ I suggest. The dress is still bunched around my waist. ‘Panties…and…’ I pull out a petticoat-style skirt. ‘This. To make it longer.’

‘And sweater?’ Alex says, eyeing the petticoat suspiciously.

‘Shawl?’ I counter, pulling out another lacy thing.

‘Fucking hell,’ Alex says. And I’m on the bed again.

It occurs to me he will probably freak again when he sees me in Matt’s boots.

The doorbell rings. ‘Gramps!’ I hear screaming, and I hurry downstairs. Dad’s already in the kitchen, getting a tour of the night’s snacks from Henry. He hugs me, then holds me at arm’s length. ‘Alex is letting you leave the house like that?’ he says.

‘For fuck’s sake, Dad,’ I snap. And Henry giggles. ‘Mom just swore at Gramps!’ I hear him calling to his siblings as he runs down the hallway.

‘I’m sorry,’ Dad says. ‘You look…sensational. But, you know, you will always be my little girl.’

He gives me a ‘my little girl who’s going to forgive me for leaving her mother, right?’ look. I kiss his cheek.

‘And you will always be my dad,’ I say. ‘Thanks for coming over; I know it’s just next door, but I feel better having an adult other than Cassandra in the house. Oh, and you’ll have a few other kids here.’ I take him through the details. ‘But Cassandra’s in charge, and you’re just backup.’

‘Fine, fine,’ my dad says. ‘Glad to have something to do.’

He sits at the kitchen table.

‘Your mom’s at The Ball,’ he says.

Of course. The Ball, hosted by my dad’s lodge, is where my parents have spent New Year’s Eve for the past…30 years? More, I bet.

‘You didn’t want to go?’ I ask.

‘I wanted to go,’ he says. ‘I just thought it would be better not to. You know.’

I actually do.

‘You didn’t think of, um, going somewhere else, with, um,’ I swallow, ‘your friend? The widow?’

How’s that for a fucking olive branch, dad?

My dad looks at me and blushes like a twelve-year-old boy. There’s a flicker of gratitude in his eyes before he drops them to the table. And then he says…

‘It wouldn’t be right for me to ask her, for something like a New Year’s Eve thing,’ my father says. Shocked. ‘Not now. Not when I just moved out.’

Anger rises in me again, sharp and sudden.

‘Really? It wouldn’t be right to ask her out on a date on New Year’s Eve, but it’s right to leave Mom alone in the house the day after Christmas,’ I say. ‘Really?’

‘Janie!’ My father says my name as if I am a little girl…and then covers his face with his hands. ‘Janie…I just couldn’t live a lie. Not any more. Not for an hour longer. Surely you of all people understand that.’

No. I don’t understand that at all.

But that’s me.

‘Oh, Dad,’ I say. Sigh. He turns redder, then white. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Search for that feeling of ‘all is right with the world’ I woke up with this morning.

‘Dad?’ I say finally. ‘I’m going to be pissed for a long, long time. But I love you.’

Alex comes down the stairs. He looks so good I think I lick my lips. Our eyes meet.

‘Jerry.’ He nods to my dad. ‘Good of you to come. Ready, Jane?’ I nod back. Smooch the kids. Reapply lipstick in the hallway. Put on my boots.

‘Oh, my fucking God,’ Alex says when I stand up. ‘I think I have to take you upstairs again.’

It is very, very good to be desired.

We do make it out the door. Eventually.

Lacey kisses Alex, me. Then looks like she wants to kiss my boots. ‘I am borrowing those boots the next time we go hiking in Banff. Oh, yes. But next time, we go without the kids, and we pick up the delicious Danish hitchhikers.’ I laugh. She kisses me again. And whispers, ‘Sofia’s here. Be nice.’ And there’s Sofia, belly just a little swollen, her dress shorter than mine. And there’s Clint.

‘Is the other candidate-for-father here?’ I ask Lacey. She’s shocked.

‘Goodness, no,’ she says. ‘How awkward would that be?’ Alex bites his lips. Then my ear. I press up against him just as his phone announces a text message.

‘Melanie,’ I tell him. ‘She’s wishing you a Happy New Year, and telling you she’s standing by for orders.’

‘Do you want to text her back for me?’ he asks.

‘No,’ I say. ‘But if you need it, I give you permission to do so.’ I brush my lips against his cheek and walk off.

I want to find Marie, reassure myself she’s OK. But she’s not there, and I do a complete round of the house – see Alex texting, Lacey rubbing Sofia’s tummy, Clint looking profoundly uncomfortable – and am sitting in the kitchen, too close to the liquor table, when Marie and JP walk in. He takes a step back when he sees me. I look at him perhaps too intensely. I’m trying to see in him, in this moment, the man who is willing to do anything to keep Marie, to make her happy. And reconcile him with the jerk who wouldn’t change diapers. Wanted her to get a boob job. Put her down at every possible occasion. Tried to implode my marriage with innuendo because his was falling apart.

I can’t, and I feel my face assume a mask of distaste. And JP must see it.

He turns around. Faces Alex. Alex looks through him. Walks past him right to me.

‘May I get you anything, love?’ he says, his back pointedly turned on JP.

‘A private moment with Marie?’ I ask. He refills my wine, then his. Stays beside me, his back to Marie and JP, until I say, ‘He’s gone.’

‘Fucking bastard,’ Alex says. Nods to Marie. Leaves.

She doesn’t want a private moment with me, that’s clear in seconds. She pours herself a glass of wine quickly, jerkily, takes a couple of steps away.

‘I’m fine,’ she says before I ask. ‘Well, I will be fine. And I don’t want to talk about it. Any of it.’

‘All right,’ I say.

‘Are you angry?’ she asks. And I know she’s asking me about what happened with Alex and JP, and afterwards, perhaps, with Alex and me.

‘No, never,’ I say. ‘Never angry at you,’ I say. Pause. ‘Not even angry at him.’ I shrug.

‘I’m angry,’ she says. ‘And…I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘All right,’ I say again.

‘I’ll be fine,’ she says again. And walks away. Brushes past Lacey. Disappears into the other room, crowded with people.

Lacey sits beside me.

‘You two will be fine,’ she says.

‘I know,’ I tell her. ‘And you?’

‘Me?’ she laughs. ‘Always. Always.’

And that, today, I believe.

The house is quiet and dark when we get home. My dad’s snoring in the boys’ room. Alex staggers upstairs; is asleep before I undress.

It’s very late in Montréal. But. I check.

Happy New Year, forever lover.

—So it is. Happy New Year.

Tell me. What did you wear tonight?

—All your favourite things.

Show me.

—I knew you would ask. Sent.

So hot. Dress a little longer than I like. The boots are making me hard, and I’m a little drunk and thoroughly exhausted.

You healed quickly.

—My arms, the evidence of you? Yes.

—Good party on your end?

Fine. There was karaoke. But I survived.

You’re resilient. That’s good.

—I have a story for you.

Oh, yes? From your party?

—Yes. Well. Not the party that was. The party that could have been.

Intrigued.

—Shall I tell it? I can save it for another time. If you’re too exhausted.

Tell me.

—The real party – it was at my neighbour’s house. This party – it was just the same, but at my house. And it was all right. Friends old, friends new. Wine and beer flowing.

Jager shots?

—Always.

And you’re dressed…

—Like in the picture. Shorter dress, if you like.

—It’s about 10, 10.30. The doorbell rings, and I go to answer it.

—You’re standing in the doorway.

—I stare at you, totally and completely frozen. House full of guests. Including mutual friends of ours. And of course, my husband.

Of course. Type faster. The anticipation is killing me. What do I do?

—You smile. And you say…

‘Happy New Year, fuckslave.’

—Um, no. ‘Aren’t you going to let me in?’

I say ‘Happy New Year, fuckslave.’ Of course you’re going to let me in.

—I open the door wider, and you step in. God, you look good. There’s a sprinkling of snow on your hair and your jacket. The cab’s pulling away. You tell me something innocuous like ‘I’ve come straight from the airport’ but I don’t really hear you. The nearness and reality of you are overwhelming.

You don’t take me in, to the party. Where do you take me?

—I’m just standing there, in shock. And you look around – we live in this sort of split-level house, where the front door is on the landing – half a staircase goes up to the main living and dining and kitchen area, and the other half down, into the basement.

The basement? With the workout bench? Where you came for me on the telephone the first time?

—Yes. So you look up and down, and down again, and you say, ‘What’s down there?’ And I say – the basement. Gym stuff. Laundry room.

And I say, ‘Laundry room.’

—Yes. Were you there?

I am now. Go on. I’m already so hard.

—You push me towards the stairs, and I stumble – my present (I thank you) is hard to walk in. You put an arm around my waist and half-carry me down the stairs. The laundry room is just at the bottom – there’s no door on it, just a curtain.

Privacy enough (you’re welcome; it is as much a present for me as for you). I push you through the curtain, or do you draw it back?

—I draw it back. It’s very small – washer and dryer, a couple of shelves. A lightbulb hanging from the ceiling; just a naked bulb with one of those string-pull things, you know?

—You pull on the light.

I want to see you. Are the washer and dryer stacked or side by side?

—Side by side. I pull off the light.

—‘People have been coming down here to get out onto the patio and smoke,’ I say.

I don’t care.

—It’s dark. I reach for you – or you reach for me – and for a while there’s just hands and breathing. A little frenetic, as if we each want to make sure the other is really there. It’s been a long time.

Five days.

—Five days, five months, five years. An eternity.

Yes. Go on. When do I shove you onto your knees?

—Right away. You say,

‘Now.’ Or maybe, ‘Go to work.’

—‘Go to work.’ As you undo your belt. I slide down onto my knees, onto the floor. Maybe there are some towels on the floor. I kneel on those. You don’t need to shove. But you guide me down with your hands. Keep them in my hair as I fumble with your button and zipper and take you out.

I won’t face-fuck you, I want you to work me.

—Yes. I lick and suck – use my teeth, just a little.

You take me deep, it’s fucking unbelievable what you can do with your mouth.

—And I’m greedy, and I’m conscious of the time, and worried that I’ll be missed upstairs, so I work fast, taking you to the edge.

No fucking way did I just fly across the country to come in your mouth five minutes after I arrived.

—Yes. You pull out and yank me up. Flip me over; lean me against the dryer. Push my dress up.

There better be nothing under that dress.

—There isn’t.

There wasn’t anything under that dress tonight in real life, was there?

—There was. Short dress. Some sitting required.

Disobedient fucktoy. I will need to punish you later.

—I’m trying to make it up to you now – may I go on with the story?

Of course. Type. Against the dryer.

—You slide into me quickly, I’m so wet, and I’ve made you so slick. You’re bent over me, your torso pressing me into the top of the dryer, your breath on my neck. You kiss my neck, my shoulders. Mark them.

So hard…

—So fast. And I bite my lips, and then, I grab a hold of reality, and I say, ‘Condom! Ridiculously fertile!’

My fecund lover. I don’t want to use a condom. There is no fucking way I’ll be able to find one much less get one on in this dark little closet. In the mood I’m in.

—I know. You lean into my ear, and you whisper, ‘I’m not planning to come in your fucking pussy.’

So fucking hard. I thank you in advance, fuckslave.

—You pull out, and put your hands over my slit, then inside me. Move your wet fingers to my asshole.

You tense up. You always do.

—Yes. I close my eyes. Make myself relax. Think of this as a gift for you.

It won’t hurt as much this time. Maybe I’m lying. But you’re so wet, I spread your pussy’s wetness all over your ass, inside it. And I’m so slick from your mouth. I thrust into you easily.

—It hurts. I grab onto the sides of the dryer and bury my face in some towels on top of it to keep myself from crying out. Your hands are on my hips, and you’re moving quickly, not as frenetic as before, but you do not want to take your time.

Selfish.

—Focused.

Do you relax into me?

—A little. The idea of you – and that you are here – and that I am yours. That gives me so much pleasure, so much ridiculous, excessive joy, the pleasure invades the physical sensation.

Type ‘the physical sensation of your cock in my ass.’ Don’t engage in literary euphemisms.

—The physical sensation of your cock in my ass.

—Your hands move to my clit and my pussy.

—I flail my hands, accidentally turn on the dryer.

Your attention to detail in fantasy is fucking hot. Typing with one hand…

—Do you ever type with two hands to me, my lover?

—The dryer whooshes. Footsteps on stairs. And that’s when you cum.

In your ass.

—Yes.

Type it.

—In my ass. Jeezus. And then you say,

‘And now you can cum.’

—Yes. And you stroke me a little, but you don’t really have to do much, I orgasm on your command.

One of my favourite things about you. Tell me about the footsteps.

—Past the curtain, through the basement, to the patio door. We hear the door slam.

I turn on the light; I want to look at you.

—Yes. We’re both a little dishevelled.

I rather think I pick you up and sit you on the dryer.

—You do. You spread my legs and look at me.

At your pussy.

—Yes.

Fucking type it.

—At my pussy. I’m shaking. You look at my wetness, my juices mixed with yours, seeping out of my ass, and I know you’re trying to decide whether to clean me up or not.

I don’t.

—But you’re considerate enough to know that if I walk upstairs with cum streaking down my legs, questions may arise that will compromise our enjoyment of the rest of the evening.

I suppose. Fucking reality. Seeping even into the most perfect of fantasies…

—You take one of the towels I was kneeling on and press it against my thighs, just a little. I stay wet, but not dripping.

—Then you fix my stockings and garters.

—Your jeans still unzipped, belt hanging. Shirt out.

Fix me.

—In a moment. You’re not finished yet. You readjust my dress. And put your hands in my hair, smooth it down a bit. Use your sleeve to wipe the saliva and spit from my chin and the corners of my mouth.

‘Your eyes are smudged.’

—‘There’s a mirror in the front entryway, I’ll fix them before we go up.’

—Now, when I was thinking of this story, you button yourself up while I watch. Do you want me to fix you instead?

You’re doing a fine job with the story. As you scripted it.

—You do up your jeans, the belt, while I watch from atop the dryer. And then we just look at each other for a while.

Seeing ourselves in the other.

—Yes. And then, I take you up to the party. Checking my eye makeup in the mirror on the way up. You right behind me, your pelvis pressed against my ass, reminding me.

Is it hard to walk up the stairs, in those boots, after being fucked in the ass?

—It’s awkward.

—I take you up. The people who know you, they’re so excited to see you. It’s been years. You lie. You say you were passing through town on something – whatever – you saw the chatter about the party on Facebook – and you couldn’t resist dropping in.

Does anyone notice there was an interval between my arrival upstairs and the last doorbell?

—Perhaps they do. Perhaps they exchange looks or raise eyebrows. We don’t care.

No. And then what happens, my story-spinning whore?

—Well. Several different endings. In the least plausible one, you close down the party, and as you’re helping clean up, and Alex thanks you, you say, ‘Don’t thank me. I’m only here to fuck your wife. Are you going to watch?’

I think this is the image I will be cumming to when I release you. Fuck. But implausible.

—Never going to happen. And the thing about effective fantasy, is it has to seem like it might happen.

Next scenario?

—Alex has too much to drink and goes upstairs to sleep. Everyone else leaves. And you take me to the basement and tie me to the exercise equipment and fuck me all night.

This one has potential too. Although I like the humiliated husband scenario better.

—You would.

—Or – you don’t even go upstairs. Leave right after you fuck me. To catch a flight that gets you home for morning.

Crass.

—You did what you came for.

Hot.

—Well. I can barely keep my eyes open, my lover. And the little people will be up in a couple of hours, I bet.

I release you.

But first – what are you?

—Yours.

—Utterly.

Mine. My what?

—Your whore, your fuckslave. Just – yours. And what are you?

Your owner. Your forever lover. Your counterpart.

—xx

xo