Tell Me

My fingers tickle the top of the laptop. I make myself think about Nicola’s rat-fuck bastard of a husband, whose two or three graduate degrees from MIT did not teach him to not sex-text with his intern on the un-password-protected family-plan phone. In the bathroom. At the dinner table. Apparently, in church. (‘You guys go to church?’ I remember asking Nicola in shock when I heard that story. ‘Aren’t you atheists?’ ‘Taoists,’ she corrects me. ‘But the grandparents…’ Her voice trails off. Grandparents. No need to say more. The things we do for grandparents.)

Alex tramps up past me, upstairs. I hear the shower. I open the laptop.

I’m hoping you disappeared to play with the camera. I am checking my email obsessively. Verging on compulsively. Where is my photo?

—The photo is not going to happen. Disobedient.

Insubordinate. Lucky for you, I feel understanding.

—More to look forward to.

Agreed. Mostly I just like picturing you being subversive.

—You are incorrigible. Corrupting.

And I believe you love it.

—Do you?

—So presumptive.

Wholeheartedly.

Deductive.

Fuck. Already want to cum. Jeans still done up. Hands only typing. Amazing.

—How was your sweat session? Focused on the task at hand?

I was. The task being to look good for you. You are inspiring. I imagined there was an email waiting for me back in my locker. I even imagined the subject line: come fuck me. I think that inspired 20 per cent heavier weights, minimum.

—I have a picture of you lying down on a bench. And I come in.

Yes.

Continue while I type with my left hand…

—Are you sure you want to do this again?

Very.

—And straddle you. You’re still holding the weight. But your attention is, um, divided. I say, ‘Fuck foreplay.’

I want to show you how hard you just made me.

—I just slide off your pants and slip you right in. You drop the bar – it just makes it into the safeties.

Shove my cock.

—I lean forward, feel that angle?

Mmm, yes, so deep. Your clit grinding into me now.

—My hands are on your hips and I hold you down as I lift up. You want to thrust, but I keep on pushing you down.

Hungry bitch. I love it.

(Give me a safe email address. I need to show you.)

—(Fuck. numberslie, at the usual domain)

—I move up and down your shaft. I hold myself up with my hands…

—And crush down on you

Check your email.

—Looking. Oh, god. Fuck.

—Jeezus. Flood of memory…

Glad you approve.

—you’re lovely

Appreciative. Inspired.

—Ashamed, excited, overwrought, distracted…I might need to slide off you and lick you a while…But first…

First?

—First…

—I bring my legs up onto the bench – they’re resting on your hips – the weight of me presses you into the bench, the pressure of your hip bones bruises me. I change angles a little, feel that? But this is about me, not you. My hands on your shoulders. My pussy slapping down on you.

Use my cock.

—You’re at my disposal.

—I arch.

Milk your pleasure from me.

—No, I will milk you later

—Now I just need…

—…a little more friction

—…a little more pressure…

—…and here I cum.

— (why is it so much dirtier as cum instead of come? what a difference a vowel makes)

—…and oh, you’re about to as well, so I slide off even as I writhe…

Cum on my cock.

—and I touch my lips to your head

—My tongue finds the hole

—Droplets

—I lick

—I caress you with one hand and myself with the other

Your skills impress. Just the sight of your hands working both of us is enough to make my balls tighten, my cock swells even harder…

You can taste the salty precum.

—I lap it up

Such a submissive sentence.

—Your effect on me: you turn me from mistress to slave with one taste. I forget that I meant to ride you and pleasure myself selfishly. I worship at your cock.

I want to hear you say you’re my fuckslave.

—I can’t. My mouth is full of your cock.

The words muffled by my cock. Say it.

—I’m your fuckslave, I whisper, as I take more and more of you down my throat.

Yesss

My hands gripping your hair as you choke on my cock.

Your spit dripping.

—Your hands in my hair, gripping, pulling

—it hurts

— (I look at your picture again)

Take it deep.

Forcing you down.

Thrust out your tongue.

I pull you up for air.

—I’m gasping breathless smeared

Slap your lips with my cock. They swell.

Then it’s right back to work.

Get on your hands and knees. On the bench.

Mouth at the perfect height.

—I crawl up…

Keep your hands where they are. I want to use your mouth like a pussy. My cock is crammed into your throat.

—I gag.

I reach over you and slap your ass, just to feel you moan against my shaft. Take it. SLAP.

—(moan)

Do you want this?

—So much.

Good.

Tell me you’re my fuckslave again. I like to see you type it.

—I whisper, I’m your fuckslave, my head bent down.

—Fuck.

—I can’t believe you can still…again…do this to me.

—No one else does.

—A part of me hates it.

—I. Hate. It.

That’s so fucking hot.

Angry hate fucking.

—It’s barely consensual what you do to me.

—But so wet…

So hard.

Knowing how forced you are.

—Take me.

—Push me onto the floor.

No. I will use your mouth even longer because I know you’d rather be fucked in your pussy.

—oh dear fucking god I am so wet

Rub your clit. I want to feel it in your throat when you cum

—My hands on my pussy, thumbs on clit, fingers stretching me, probing, rubbing

—so weak

I enjoy seeing you debase yourself for me.

My cock twitching.

—for you

For me. All for me.

—for you

—selfish bastard

Cum for me.

—Palm of hand on my clit, pressing

Your selfish master.

—I arch up on the floor as I cum

—Your cock slides deeper into my throat

—I couldn’t spit out your cum if I wanted to

—It sloshes into me

Drink it.

All of it.

—I have no choice all inside me

—a little dribble at the corner of my mouth

You please me so.

Lick it off. No spilling.

Alex walks into the room, and I raise my glazed eyes from the screen to look at him, but my fingers remain on the keyboard:

—Lick (not alone)

—tongue in corner of mouth

I should release you then

—yes

—then come fuck me

You please me.

—9 days xx

9 xo

Alex kisses my forehead on his way out the door, and it burns. I have one of those odd moments of gratitude for my faithlessness – my lack of faith in the Christian God or any other nasty vengeful cosmic being – because if I believed, I too would burn. The act of physical transgression totally unnecessary; all the sin sufficient in this act, this thought crime, cyberfuck, mindfuck.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

The kids’ school has one of its random days off today, so I drive over to meet Marie and her brood right after breakfast. We meet in the Confederation Park parking lot, and, between us, unload six kids and ten sleds out of our minivans. ‘Why do we have more sleds than kids?’ Cassandra asks. ‘Because we’re really clever moms,’ I tell her. ‘At some point, everyone will want to be on the saucers. And then someone will throw a hissy fit because what he really wants is the steering sleigh. Plus, Marie and I need something under our tooshies.’

‘Can I just sit and hang out with you when I get bored?’ Cassandra asks.

‘Of course,’ I say. But the snow is alluring, and in minutes she’s running up the hill at full speed along with the boys and Annie.

Marie hands me a mug of hot chocolate.

‘You rock,’ I say.

‘You look like shit,’ she says. ‘How do I look?’

I look at her. Much as usual. But she clearly wants a different type of answer.

‘Ambiguous,’ I say. It’s a good word. So many potential interpretations. And it pleases Marie.

‘That pretty much nails it,’ she says. And I know she wants to talk about the lunch, and probably resents me a little for not bringing it up yesterday.

‘So?’ I say. She shrugs eloquently.

‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘We ate lunch. We held hands. We necked, like high-school kids, in the parkade. And then I came back.’

I wait.

‘I sent him a text after, thanks for a great time,’ she says. ‘And he hasn’t written me back.’ She bites her lips. ‘I think it’s over.’

I wait.

‘Because if he had had a great time, he’d text me back, right? With plans to do it again? He was clearly disappointed in the whole experience.’

Oh, my Marie.

‘Should I text him to find out if he received my text?’ she asks, and I see her reaching for the phone.

‘Jesus-fucking-Christ, Marie, what are you, twelve?’ I snap. And she takes half a step back and stares at me, because I don’t snap. Out of character. ‘It’s what, half a day. Don’t fucking chase. Enjoy…enjoy the memory.’

‘But I’m just not sure I’m really enjoying the memory,’ she says wistfully. ‘It was, you know, OK. But a little awkward. And the chemistry in person…it wasn’t…it wasn’t quite the same as in the texts. And I think maybe he felt that too…’

I don’t understand women.

‘But if you felt that, then why are you so anxious for him to get back to you?’ I ask.

‘Because!’ Marie exclaims. ‘I don’t want him to be the one to leave! I want to be the one to make the decision that it’s over. Jesus, Jane, don’t you understand anything?’

Apparently not.

I give Marie a pat on the arm that she morphs into a hug.

Again, I think I could tell her. I should tell her. So she doesn’t feel alone. So I don’t feel alone. We could be the anti-Nicola-and-Colleen. Commiserating, instead of about their cheating husbands, about our fucking lovers.

But I can’t.

Because…

I just don’t.

‘You really, really don’t look well,’ Marie repeats.

Too much cyberfucking, not enough sleep, I’m tempted to say. Except it’s of course not just that. Secrets. They exhaust. Moral ambiguity, it exhausts.

And there’s a big crash halfway up the hill, and Marie and I race up to disentangle limbs and sleds and to kiss bruises and fix toques and mittens.

Use your mouth even longer because I know you’d rather be fucked in your pussy

—oh dear fucking god I am so wet

Cum for me.

Oh, Jesus. I really need to work on feeling badly about this. And I need to…I don’t know what I need. A smack upside my head. A reality check.

The phone rings as I’m unloading the kids at the front door. ‘Dad?’ I say with surprise. My mother calls me and texts me constantly. Annoying ‘What are you doing?’ texts, random ‘I love you guys!’ texts, to-the-point ‘Do the kids want anything special for lunch on Tuesday?’ texts, passive-aggressive ‘I know you don’t care about such things, but it really means a lot to Dad and me to have our anniversary acknowledged…’ My father calls only in real emergencies. As do I.

‘What’s wrong?’ I say. Anxiety mounting.

‘Why does something have to be wrong for me to call my only daughter?’ my father says. ‘I just called to see how you guys are doing. And to tell you I love you.’

Fucking twilight zone.

‘OK,’ I say. ‘We love you too. You sure everything’s OK?’

‘Fine, fine,’ he says. ‘You know, it’s that time of the year when there’s just not much to do at work. So an old man’s mind wanders. To the things he loves.’

This is not my father talking.

‘Dad?’ I ask. ‘Are you by any chance recovering from a Christmas lunch that involved too much wine?’

‘Jane!’ he’s appalled. ‘You know I never drink at work. With work colleagues. I guess it’s just the season to feel, you know, sentimental. And we’re having our lunch tomorrow, and I just…I wanted to tell you I love you. And how much I’m looking forward to seeing you.’

‘OK,’ I say. ‘Well, we’re just fine. And I love you too. You sure nothing’s wrong?’

‘Everything’s fine, fine,’ he says again. And rings off.

I’m a little weirded out.

When Alex comes home and I tell him about the phone call – he’s also weirded out.

‘Maybe he had a prostate exam or a colonoscopy or something and is suddenly aware of his own mortality again,’ Alex suggests. ‘Remember that time he had to have an MRI? He wouldn’t stop hugging me.’

‘Maybe,’ I agree. The phone blips to announce an ‘I love you xoxoxoxoxo love Mom’ text from my mother. I type back ‘xoxo’ without saying anything to Alex. Sigh.

‘Is it too much to ask of your parents to be predictable?’ I ask.

‘Yes!’ Cassandra and Henry call in unison from the living room.

‘Little ingrates,’ I shout back. ‘Supper in five!’

I make it through the evening, bedtime and beyond without starting up Facebook, or even picking up my phone.

But I still don’t sleep.

Day 4 Fatherhood

Thursday, December 6

This is how I start my mornings now. Waiting for you.

—I’m here. I guess playing coy and hard to get when you come won’t really cut it.

Not any more. Nor would I want that.

—What do you want?

You. Angry and wet. Dressed to please. A half-willing slave.

—oh my lover

—there is a special place in all hells for people like you

I know it.

What do you want?

—you

—on no terms

—so entwined with me we don’t end

—for a few hours

Then I send you home. Bruised and happy.

—not too bruised, not in any too obvious places

Of course.

Perhaps hating me just a little more.

—Of course. Inevitable.

Swear at me. Curse me when I’m fucking you.

Walk in my door. Say ‘fuck you.’ Then – submit.

—I want to meet you in a public place first.

—Will you let me?

If you demonstrate your submission in public. By how you dress

How you speak.

How you admit you’re my whore.

—I want your hands under my clothes, on my skin, in a place with eyes

My shameless exhibitionist whore.

— (suddenly all of our…previous…encounters seem so fucking tame)

(Practice.)

Will you do all that I ask?

—yes

Good answer.

—I’ve forgotten…

—I’ve forgotten how you fit into the crevices, indentations of my mind

I very much like reminding you of yourself

—Tell me, what do I do to you?

You feel like a counterpart. A woman me. You spark a fire deep in me. And you bring to mind how I was shaped, erotically. You affected me so. Of course we fit. You impressed me.

—impressed

—imprinted

I still have the bruises

—inside

Deep.

— [deleted]

— [and again – I can’t form the words]

Say it

—you’re like a disease

—I knew it then

—wanted you so badly, I needed to run away from you

—too much

—it’s a hard thing when you understand what someone is, perfectly.

Footsteps down the stairs and I slam the laptop lid down. I should really just do this on my phone. Less conspicuous. As the thought enters my head, I push it away. I don’t like it. I do not like to be…deceitful. I lift the laptop lid up.

—Reality calls. xx

xx

Alex piggybacks Annie down the stairs and into my lap. I enfold her, kiss her, smell her hair. He brushes his lips against my forehead, then hers. ‘Running late,’ he calls over his shoulder as he runs into the kitchen, grabs coffee, runs back upstairs. ‘Want me to get the boys out of bed before I shower?’

‘No, there’s lots of time for them,’ I say to his disappearing back. Stretch on the couch. Don’t look at the laptop. Pull my thoughts away from where they inevitably wend and think about what a fantastic, fantastic father Alex is. And how precious what I have here, in my arms at this moment, all around me in this house, in this family, in this life, is to me. And try to wrap myself in that thought. Protect myself with it.

I fail.

What do you want?

—You

—on no terms

—so entwined with me we don’t end

—for a few hours

Then I send you home. Bruised and happy.

Perhaps hating me just a little more

Breakfast. Shower. Clothes. Everyone has socks and pants; minor miracle. Into the minivan. I’m so rattled, I almost ram into Clint as he pulls into the driveway to pick up his son Clayton.

‘Jeezus, I’m so sorry,’ I say through the rolled-down window.

‘You OK, Jane?’ he asks, peering at me through his. One of the longest sentences he’s ever said to me. Of course, I did just almost kill him.

‘Fine,’ I lie. ‘Just late. Be safe.’

‘You be safe,’ he says, and I can see he’s pondering the logistics of driving all my four kids as well as Clayton wherever it is they have to go, because clearly I can’t be trusted behind the wheel of a car right now…and I smile. My head clears, briefly, and I have one of those sharp insights into why Lacey has loved him for the past nine, ten, eleven years – as he’s fucked other women and fathered at least one other child – and why women keep on falling into bed with him even though he makes no pretence of what he is and what he is not.

Cause he’s a really, really rockin’ dad. His always-pointing-to-the-hottest-target cock notwithstanding.

I’ve told this to Lacey before, not that she really needs to hear it, for she knows – that he’s a great dad. Because it’s not something hidden. This is not a new revelation for me either; Clint’s commitment to fatherhood has always been there. Not in being Clayton’s weekend dad – although he’s never, as far as I know, missed a weekend. Not in showering either Clayton or even Lacey with gifts, because he’s no Disney dad. In fact, he’s kind of…cheap, really. Lacey orders herself gifts from Clint and tells him what he got her. Sometimes he reimburses her. Sometimes he conveniently forgets. His presents to his son, birthday and Christmas alike, consist of on-sale clothes, the price tag of which is further driven down by Clint’s employee discount. I know this, because Lacey has no secrets, important or otherwise. She shows me Clayton’s clothes, tags still on – and she shows me the earrings ‘I bought myself from Clint.’

This is how, why Clint is a great father: most days, he stops at Lacey’s on the way to his home from work to say hi and bye to Clayton. He does this when he’s fucking Lacey, and he does this when she doesn’t want to look at him. He does this when they’re fighting (and, thanks to Facebook, I know when they’re fighting even before Lacey tells me) and he does this when they’re reconciled, as Lacey puts it, ‘again madly in love.’ When he can’t come – he calls. And he calls to say goodnight to his boy every single night.

Alex, who is also a great father, does not call to say goodnight when he’s not going to be home for bedtime.

Of course, he sleeps in the same house as his children every night. I don’t expect it.

I try to recall if I call to say goodnight on those nights when I’m out late. I used to, all the time. These days, now that they’re older? Maybe not.

I resolve to start doing so again.

Back to Clint. This must be part of his attraction, to Lacey and others. Can they tell, do they pick up this thread, this power – can they tell this man will make a great father? Not as a beautiful physical specimen only, but in those post-conception essentials? That he will rock your baby to sleep, and teach your toddler to throw a ball, and take your six-year-old to cheesy Disney movies he himself hates?

I think they can. I could – I knew Alex would be a fabulous dad, that was part of what I loved about him, always, love about him the most, still. I could see him holding my babies, not just making them.

Never part of the dynamic for Matt and me, never. Yet he, I have no doubt, would make a wonderful father to someone else’s child. His wife’s, perhaps. This I also know, even though the part of him that belongs to me, fits into me is not the man who will be a father.

But it does not surprise me that they are still childless.

—it’s a hard thing when you understand what someone is, perfectly.

I deliver the kids to school safely, drop Annie at my mom’s for the morning, run back home and pretend to be a housewife for two hours – laundry, fucking laundry, who finds joy and fulfilment in pairing socks? – then meet my dad for our sacrosanct father–daughter lunch. First Thursday of every month when we’re in the same city, third Thursday of the month too, when we can fit it in – our ritual since I was…twelve? Thirteen? It was at one of these lunches that I officially lost what little religion I had been brought up in. Confessed to my first kiss (but not my first fuck, although I did think of telling him…but that would have been too much, even for my dad). Told Dad I had to leave John, but couldn’t figure out how to do it. Laughed to him about – well, all of them. Scott. Raj. Pretentious Jason and overly ambitious Aldrin. That weird guy from Ghana who really wanted me to pierce my tongue and clit. Tried to explain to him why I was going to marry Alex.

Never told him a word about Matt.

We face each other across a wobbling round table in the basement of The Unicorn. Dad’s staring at a steak sandwich. I’m poking at an awful Caesar salad.

‘What the fuck was I thinking?’ I say. ‘Fish and chips. Fish and chips. The only thing we ever order here.’

‘Sometimes change is good,’ my father says. I give him a suspicious look.

‘But not when it comes to pub food,’ I retort. ‘You know what? I’m not eating this. I’m going to order fish and chips. You?’

He cuts into the steak.