Josi

Celia’s asleep when I get in. She has a heavy day tomorrow, a lot of viewings and two new properties to sign up. She may be getting back late tomorrow. It’s not fair to try and talk to her about this in the morning before she goes. She’ll have enough on her plate. I turn on the TV with the volume down. There are only chat shows.

I’ve seen a different side to Grant tonight. He’s no fly-by-night-find-a-tourist-for-a-quick-screw type. He’s raised a son, has a good home, cares about family. Now I’ve met Melissa I’m prepared to believe theirs isn’t a deep, meaningful relationship. I won’t feel like I’m breaking up a marriage if I sleep with him. He wants me with a passion I’ve not experienced since Curtis – and who knows when, if ever, I’ll experience that again. The next time the situation’s right I’ll give in to him. I want to experience him – even if it’s just once. I’m not expecting any long term commitment on either side but I’ll at least satisfy this ache. Maybe we can go to a hotel. I don’t feel right bringing him here.

Richard’s name flashes on my phone. It’s on silent so I let it flash a few times before answering.

‘Hello.’

He’s thinking about me, can’t sleep, hopes he didn’t wake me up. He knows it’s nearly midnight but figured I’d still be awake or have my phone on silent. He’s missing me. Am I having a good time? What did I do today? I must be getting a good rest spending all that time on the beach. Things are ticking over OK, no major incidents. He’s missing me, and not just the distance. Can I see a way back for us?

I feel his betrayal all over again. How can there be a way back? I trusted him, would have trusted him with my life. No, I don’t know if there’s a way back.

What can he do to change my mind?

I suddenly realise there’s nothing he can do. It’s something I have to do myself and, although it feels crazy, I have to even the score, betray him too. I’m sure Freud would have something to say about it. Yes, I’ll sleep with Grant, maybe then there will be a way back.

I sleep soundly and wake to the smell of Celia’s coffee and toast.

‘Late night?’ she enquires, eyebrows raised.

‘Not the kind you’re thinking of.’ I rub my eyes, trying to bring them to life. ‘Any more coffee in that pot?’

‘Help yourself. I’d love to hear about it but I have to dash. Save it till tonight. Oh shoot! It’s a late one tonight too. Will it keep?’

‘Will have to, but there’s not much to tell.’

She raises her eyebrows and drops her eyes, as though looking over an imaginary pair of glasses.

‘He’s a nice lad. Dad’s the main problem.’

‘For him or you?’

‘Both.’

‘Intriguing,’ she says, slinging her bag over her shoulder and gathering her folders. ‘Don’t forget Barry’s coming to take you to the pottery this morning.’

‘Yeah, I know. That’s why I’m giving the beach a miss today.’

Barry arrives at eight o’clock. He’s Kenny’s friend and his office is near Celia’s; we’ve had drinks with him a few times after work. He offered to show me the pottery when I mentioned I like ceramics. He reminds me a little of Richard, maybe an inch shorter and a few pounds heavier. His skin the colour of cappuccino, stretched tightly across his face. He looks like he’s always on the verge of a smile, which must be a disadvantage at funerals or other sombre occasions.

He’s one of a few of Celia’s friends with hair, cut close to his head in a style reminiscent of the afro but with a slight flat top. Although he’s fifty two there’s no grey showing. He’s either got really good genes or a good supply of hair dye. He’s semi-retired from stock broking, did very well out of it and now goes into the office just to keep his hands in.

He has the air of a perfect gent, holds the door of his BMW open for me as I slide into the leather seat. As we glide through the morning sunshine, Barry regales me with tales of the changes he’s seen on the island. He’s never left, loves his home too much. I struggle to understand his broad accent but his laugh is infectious. We arrive at the pottery as it is opening. He’s a friend of the owner and after introducing me he disappears to talk while I wander through the shelves of brightly coloured wares. Each handmade piece is a joy, filled with energy, light and the heartbeat of its creator. Later, when I watch a display of some of the staff at work, it’s clear that a piece of Barbados goes into everything they make. Each piece has soul.

I buy a small sugar bowl for myself and a cruet set for Richard’s parents. I’m tempted to order a dinner service but remember the uncertainty of my domestic life.

Barry deposits me back at the apartment just before midday. I’m just turning the key in the door when my phone rings.

‘What’s happening?’ Grant drawls, sounding very pleased to hear my voice. What’s happened to his sulk? It catches me off guard because I am bracing myself to defend what I did last night.

‘Just been shopping.’

‘Got something nice?’ He sounds genuinely interested.

‘Just a few things from the pottery.’

‘So what you doing now?’

‘I’m going to the supermarket.’

‘How you getting there?’

‘Walking, or getting the bus.’

‘Why don’t I come and take you?’

‘OK.’ I don’t want to admit it but I’m really looking forward to seeing him.

He arrives at quarter past twelve and kisses me slowly. No mention of last night.

‘How’s Darron?’ I say, catching my breath.

‘He’s on a trip today. We going to talk tonight. Thanks for last night Josi. I appreciate it.’

‘My pleasure.’

Neither of us mentions the rest of the evening. He comes in and shops with me. I’m cooking for Celia as she’s late home.

‘Where to now?’ I ask as we leave the checkout.

‘Lets go to my place,’ he says. He senses my hesitation.

‘You scared?’ he asks.

It’s a strange question. No, I’m not scared, just surprised it’s his house we’re going to. We’re both silent, listening to the radio and the colliding sexual ions.

He opens the door to the lounge and kicks his sandals off. I do the same. I feel less vulnerable as there’s no one else here. He offers me a drink and I follow him to the kitchen. The energy crackles between us. We both know why we’re here. I take a sip of the water and put the glass on the worktop. His mouth is on mine, hard and ravenous. He tastes of spearmint and desire. He lifts me up and carries me to his bedroom. I’m surprised that there are two beds. He lays me on the smaller one. Within seconds he has my panties off and goes straight to work on my clit with his tongue. I’m hot and dripping and ready for him. Our clothes come off – somehow.

He raises his head, mouth wet, and begins to slide his pole toward my waiting hole. ‘You need a condom,’ I whisper hoarsely. He rips it open and carefully but quickly rolls it over his shaft and smoothes it out. I open my legs wider to welcome him in, and oh how very welcomed he is. It’s been so long, I’m tight, but he very gently prizes his way in. When he’s fully in it becomes a roller coaster of pleasure, delight, bliss. He’s intent on showing me his best and I’m happy to receive it. Yes, we’re both intent on putting on our academy performance. After the hours, days, the week that seemed like an eternity of waiting, of a dam waiting to burst, here at last is release.

The urgency keeps us going for what seesm like hours. He’s bathed in sweat, like oil on his sculpted, muscular body. When he thrusts deep inside me with full force, I know heaven. There is no time, no space, no him, no me, just us, entwined in this dance of passion. He has me turning this way, that way, on my side, on the edge of the bed, legs open, legs closed, finger in his rear hole, in my rear hole. His fine, firm butt is taut and heavy and its thrust carries force.

There’s drama in our love-making. I scream, ‘Fuck me, fuck me.’ I called him beautiful, great, wonderful, fantastic. I scratch, bite, punch, go wild. I forget the gardener outside who must be grateful that the noise of his strimmer saves him from our sounds. He calls me baby, babes, gorgeous, Josi. I call him darling, lover, my love. Oh yes, there’s drama but there’s no laughter. His face is serious, intent, mine’s contorted from pain and pleasure. This is serious business.

He turns me onto my stomach, my legs spread like a chicken with broken hips and there he hits my spot. I scream so loudly he muffles me with a pillow. I come twice (or at least I think I do), I’m probably coming all the time and only notice the explosive peaks. My head’s full of him, my body absorbs him. We twist, we turn, our bodies rise and fall together. Here at last is the promise of the dance made real. ‘Work with me,’ he cajoles, ‘work with me,’ over and over as his thrusts become more rapid, deeper, ‘work with me baby, work with me, work with aaaahhh.’ He pulls out, rips off the condom and splashes his semen over my chest. He lays on me and we slide in his spunk; wet and sticky and spent.

‘Want to bathe?’ he asks.

‘Just hold me.’ I like his weight on me. It’s one of my little pleasures, feeling my man’s weight after we’ve made love. He obliges, his semen gluing us together. When I’m almost out of breath from his constant pressure, I agree to shower. He’s very playful. We laugh, wash each other, kiss, dry each other, get aroused all over again.

‘I’m starving.’

‘What do you want?’ His arms circle me from behind, he kisses my neck.

He has a strange mix in his fridge but I settle for cheese and mango and he heats up some soup he’s found. While he’s waiting for the soup to heat, he lifts me onto the worktop, parts my legs and tries to eat me. I’m flattered, it’s been a long time since I had kitchen sex but I’m hungry.

‘Feed me.’ I cup his face in both my hands, raise his head from my crotch and kiss him.

We eat. I feed him mango sticks, he feeds me soup. I feel at home with him.

He wants to make love on the dining table but I keep seeing Melissa and Darron sitting there. I can’t do it. Don’t want an audience. We head back to bed. He takes it slower this time, holding his thrusts, pulsing inside me. We’re more relaxed. The drama, the urgency now replaced by tenderness. He wants to know if I like it, if I like him. He calls my name over and over as if reassuring himself I’m real and in his bed.

‘Josi,’ he says in the quiet after the storm.

‘Hmmm,’ I’m drifting off.

‘You’re amazing. You have to stay with me. You can’t leave me now.’

I want to reassure him, to tell him I’ll always be there for him; but Richard and my other life is waiting.

Richard calls me later. He must be tapping in telepathically. He wants me to know he’s been to see the counsellor today. He admits that until now he’s resisted because he’s been convinced that no real harm was done to the boy as it was a one off. He wasn’t and isn’t interested in young boys, has no gay tendencies and only did it because he was drunk. He’s calling because the counsellor put him in the boy’s position, had asked him to experience it from the boy’s perspective. It’s stirred up all kinds of feelings inside him, he’s no one to talk to, is feeling down and emotionally raw.

Part of me is relieved that he’s finally made that connection, wants to reach out to him, let him know I understand his pain and will do all I can to help him. Another part’s angry he’s left it so late. Why now, when I’ve just broken my vows? I suggest he arranges another visit as soon as possible. I know he’s looking to me for the help he knows I give to others, but I can’t be his coach, his counsellor. Things may come up that I’d find impossible to be impartial about. I can’t detach myself enough to be of any professional use. This isn’t like helping him with his chocolate cravings or frog phobia. He needs someone else. I sense he’s not happy but he agrees to see Dr Patterson again soon.

I click the phone off and stare at the wall. The photos of him and the boys stare back at me. They fill the room. I close my eyes to shut them out and hear soft sobs. Covering my ears, I lay back on the bed, watching the ceiling fan go round and round.

Maybe I need a counsellor too.