Something New (9781101612262) Page 29

  “Ellen,” he rasps, as he grasps my shoulders and whirls me from the door to the vanity and lifts me so that I am perched on the counter next to the sink. He lowers his mouth to mine again, treats me to another blistering kiss, then tears himself away from my swollen lips and moves down, biting at my sweater just where it stretches over my breasts. He pushes the fabric up, past my waist, over my chest, then roughly rips at the silk of my bra, jerking it down and exposing my nipples, which are hard as pebbles, to the cold air.

  He flicks his tongue across my right areola then closes his mouth around it and sucks, nibbles, bites, and I feel my insides quake with wanton desire. My hands snake down to the waistband of his jeans (What are you doing? screams the one rational brain cell I have left) and I grasp, tug, claw at his fly until I manage to yank it open, then shove my fingers beneath his boxer-briefs to the rock-hard erection that twitches at my touch. I graze the smooth head of his penis with my index finger, hear Ben gasp, then run my hand along the entire length of him.

  Ben grabs my skirt and pushes it up, up to my waist, then I feel his own hand inside my undies, seeking, lightly brushing against my pubic hair, and continuing until his fingers find my folds, and he parts them, gently at first, his touch so soft, like a whisper. I squeeze my eyes shut and moan as a wellspring erupts, down there, washing over his fingers as he pushes them deep within me. A primal cry escapes me and I reflexively contract both the muscles in my groin and the muscles in my right hand, which is currently clutching Ben’s shaft.

  But the shriek of ecstasy that originates in my own vocal cords serves to cut through the animal frenzy I am submitting to. When I open my eyes, the first thing that comes into focus is the cracked toilet and the useless shriveled air freshener sitting on the back of the tank. The fog of passion lifts faster than you can say Glade, and I quickly pull my hand out from the heat of Ben’s briefs and gently place it on his hand, stopping him from further plunder.

  “Not here,” I gasp, sucking in a few gulps of artificially scented air. I’ll be damned if I am going to consummate this affair in a unisex bathroom in a bar downtown. It would be like winning the Miss America title in a bowling alley.

  I try to stay his stream of endless kisses by gently nudging him. When that doesn’t work, I use a bit more force, pushing at his chest until he has no choice but to break free. His eyes, which are practically glazed over, take a few seconds to clear, and when they do, they roam over my face suspiciously.

  “What?” he asks in that annoyed, coitus interruptus kind of way.

  “Is there someplace…? Can we go somewhere…else…?”

  He looks around and seems to realize for the first time where he is. His sweeping scan takes less than a second (a skill learned as a cop, I assume) but he clearly registers the cracked toilet, the peeling paint, the ancient vinyl flooring, the deodorizer.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispers, and looks truly mortified. “I just…I couldn’t help myself. I want you, Ellen.”

  The force of his words slams into me with the impact of a freight train. It’s not that his actions have left any doubt in the matter, but hearing the words aloud are even more powerful, and for a crazy instant, I want to grab him by his beautiful and noteworthy body part and help him shove it deep inside me and let him fuck me until I go blind.

  “I want you, too,” I tell him, resolutely resisting the temptation. Because if I am going to throw caution, common sense, all of my morals, and possibly my marriage to the wind, you can bet it will be in surroundings more dignified than this place. The Four Seasons? Absolutely. The back of Ben’s Land Rover? If need be. But not here.

  He raises a finger and traces the O of my lips. “The GHPD has an apartment, on La Croix. They keep it for undercovers, or witness protection. More than a few of the guys have bunked there when their wives kicked them out. It’s empty tonight…”

  I nod. That sounds more like it.

  “We could go there,” he suggests, his finger lightly mapping out the contours of my chin, the hollow of my throat, my clavicles. This feather-light touch is almost as good as the hot raunchy frenzied heavy petting of a moment ago. In fact, it is even better.

  “Let’s go there,” he says.

  “Okay.” One word. Two syllables that seal my fate. If I hadn’t yet crossed the line by shoving my hand down this man’s pants (and who are we trying to fool anyway?), I have just taken a giant step over to the dark side by agreeing to go to the PD’s apartment. I try not to think about it. I know the guilt will get me; I do not exist in a vacuum, after all. But since I know I will eventually experience the retroactive regret, I refuse to feel it now. (Do you see what kind of bullshit you can sell yourself because a hunk with a great ass finds you beautiful even at the ripe old age of almost forty-three?)

  “Just give me a minute.” I glance at the toilet to my left.

  He chuckles softly, lowering his hand to his side and stepping back. “I didn’t give you a chance to pee, did I? How rude of me.”

  “I forgive you.” I grin at him and bite my lower lip. “You might want to, uh, wash your hands.”

  He cocks his head to the side, then seems to realize what I am talking about. He smiles as I turn on the faucet and squeeze some soap from the wall-mounted dispenser. Side by side, hands interwoven beneath the spray of water, we take a quiet moment to scrub each other off our fingers. Then we dry our hands and do our best to make ourselves presentable, which causes us both to break into laughter.

  When we’re as good as we are going to get, he grazes my cheek with a kiss and says, “See you out there.”

  I lock the door behind him and press my forehead against the cool metal door. My pulse is still racing, and I can’t seem to wipe the stupid smile off my face. I don’t have to look in the mirror to see it, I can feel it, plastered to my face with Click Bond. It is the “cat that ate the canary” smile, the “I have a secret” smile, the “I just got down and dirty in the bathroom of a bar with a hot guy and am going back for more” smile. The kind of smile that gives you away, the one you never want to allow yourself to reveal to the jury lest they vote to hang your serial-killing ass. I try to rub it off with my hand, try to force the corners of my mouth down, but it will not budge, and I absently wonder, as I wash my hands for a second time—post-pee—if I will ever be able to frown again.

  As it turns out, the answer is yes, and the when is three and a half minutes later when I make my way back into the main room, glance past the tables to the corner of the bar where Ben stands, and see that he is flanked on his left by none other than Nina Montrose.

  What the fuck?

  If you had told me that DNA testing revealed that I was related to Catherine the Great, I would not have been more shocked. What the hell is Nina Montrose doing here? Trolling, of course.

  I stand at the archway of the corridor, frozen in place, sifting through my options with the speed and urgency of John McClane in Die Hard. What to do? What to do? My sweater is hanging on the back of the very stool that Nina Montrose is perched against, her hands grasping the lip of the bar top, her arms straight at the elbows and squeezed together in order to create an eye-popping tableau of her expensive breasts. To his credit, Ben is studiously avoiding looking at her; his eyes are glued to his beer bottle as she rattles on about something.

  Okay. So these are the facts. I need my sweater. And I need to get the hell out of here without the plastic queen of Southern Cal putting two and two together. If only I were John McClane and had a little C-4 I could create a diversion, like blowing up the stage in the corner, microphone and all, thereby giving me an opportunity to snag my sweater unnoticed. But I am me. And, alas, I have no C-4.

  I make a decision, wait a moment until the bartender crosses to the other side of the T, and saunter toward the bar, donning a distracted expression. I sidle up to the counter and make a show of waiting to catch the bartender’s attention. Not three seconds later, I hear the high-pitched keen of my new nemesis.

  “Oh my God!
Would you look at who it is? Ellen!”

  I glance to my right and see Nina waving frantically at me while Ben empties his beer with one long swallow. He sets the bottle down and looks at me, shaking his head almost imperceptibly.

  “Ellen! Ellen! Come over here!”

  I paste on a surprised smile and move toward them.

  “Oh my God!” Nina cries again as if the three of us being in the same place at the same time is comparable to George W., Osama bin Laden, and Saddam Hussein having a tea party together. “This is unbelievable! It’s like old home week. All we need are a couple of balls!” She turns to Ben and snorts with laughter. “Soccer balls, that is.” She snorts some more and I can tell she’s a few vodkas short of a Russian militia.

  “Ben,” she coos, “you know Ellen! From soccer!”

  I manage to nudge my way between them, placing myself behind my former bar stool, my sweater just out of reach. Ben gives me a guarded smile.

  “You’re Matthew’s mom, right?”

  Now call me crazy, but Ben’s pretense of not knowing me makes me suddenly furious.

  That’s right, I think. Matthew’s mom! The one whose vagina you were just inspecting!

  “Yes,” I say through gritted teeth. Two can play at this game. “And you’re Liam’s dad.”

  “Right.” Cool as a cucumber.

  “What are you doing here?” Nina asks me. “I didn’t know you liked music.” As if I am some kind of tone-deaf mutant who doesn’t own an iPod.

  “I was supposed to meet my cousin. But she just called to tell me she can’t make it.” Forget that my cell phone is drying out on a rag on my kitchen counter. The lie slides effortlessly out of my mouth.

  “Oh, too bad!” Nina says. “Well, you should stay and have a drink with us, right, Ben? The kids are with my ex, the bastard, so I’m free all night.” She leans in to Ben and jabs him with her bony elbow. I take the opportunity to quickly snatch my sweater from the bar stool and covertly tie it around my waist, giving silent thanks that Nina didn’t see it. Then I step back and watch her hail the bartender with a coy “Yoo-hoo!”

  As the barman moves toward us, Nina seems to notice my drink for the first time. “Whose is this?” she asks Ben suspiciously. Oops.

  “It was there when I got here,” he quickly assures her, and once again, I feel a stab of anger toward him. Nina pushes the drink out of her way and smiles at the bartender.

  “I’ll have a Cosmo and he’ll have another Heinie.” She laughs at herself, then turns to me. “What are you having, Ellen?”

  “I’m going to go,” I say, hoping that Ben will follow suit and beg off the Heinie.

  “Oh, come on,” Nina pleads. “Just one?”

  Say something, I telepathically urge Ben. Thanks, anyway, Nina, but I’ve got to be going, too. That was my last beer. Got a stakeout tomorrow, can’t drink too much, blah blah blah. But Ben says nothing.

  “Thanks anyway,” I hear myself say.

  “Well, if you have to go.” I detect a note of relief in her words, a hint of victory, as in I have him all to myself! I wait a fraction of a moment longer for Ben to make some kind of an excuse, but he remains where he is as the bartender hustles off to mix Nina’s Cosmo.

  “Good to see you,” I tell Nina, and as she turns and watches the bartender shake up her drink, my eyes find Ben’s. I am expecting to see regret or frustration or irritation or a glimmer of the desire he expressed five minutes ago, but his expression is flat.

  “Bye.”

  With that single syllable, I turn on my heel and march to the door of the T Bar. I am about to glance back, want to give Ben one last opportunity to communicate something to me, anything, but I don’t. Instead, I push through the door and wander aimlessly into the night.

  • Twenty-three •

  The drive back to my neighborhood is a blur of sensory recall. I can still see the lust shimmering in Ben’s eyes as he pushed me against the bathroom door, can taste his tongue, can feel his lips on my breasts, his fingers probing my core. I can hear Nina Montrose’s drunken cackle and her conspiratorially whispered words, “I guess it’s just the two of us,” upon my departure. I am so immersed in these thoughts that I don’t remember how I came to be leaning against the counter of the 7-Eleven.

  I want to disappear. I want to shrivel up into nothingness and be carried away on the ocean breeze. I want to be a character in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind and have all memories of the last three weeks erased from my brain. Hell, I’ll even settle for a lobotomy. But since none of the above is an option, I will have to make do with being comforted by the only two men I have always been able to count on for solace. Ben and Jerry.

  When I arrive home, Sally greets me at the door and I allow her to trot to the front lawn to do her business. Once properly drained, she follows me up the stairs, sniffing at the brown bag in my hand, and jumps onto my bed for a better view of my striptease. I set the bag on the night table, then tear off my clothes and shove them straight into the trash. I root around in my dresser drawer for my most conservative flannel nightie, pull it over my head, and collapse onto the bed next to my faithful dog. I should take a shower. I should brush my teeth and wash my face and apply my gaggle of creams and magic tonics. What I do instead is turn on the TV, pull the pint of New York Super Fudge Chunk out of the bag, along with a plastic spoon, and dig in.

  I consider my reinvention, all of my recent hard work that has made me feel so good about myself. I think of my stomach, which has flattened considerably. This pint of ice cream will set me back four hours on the treadmill at least.

  But who the fuck cares?

  They say that chocolate is a perfect substitute for sex. Once again, they are full of shit.

  The phone rings at twenty after twelve, and I groggily reach past the empty carton of ice cream for the receiver on the nightstand. My head feels like it’s full of cotton, my mouth feels tacky, and my stomach feels like I swallowed a vat of guppies. Can you say Ben and Jerry’s hangover? I knew you could.

  “Hello?” I croak.

  “Hi.”

  Jerk cretin bastard motherfucker!

  “Hi.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  There is an unwritten rule about apologizing. If a man apologizes to you more than once in any given week, you should realize that there is a problem with your relationship. Jonah averages about twice a month. Ben has apologized to me every single day for the past three days, more than once. But apologies from men are akin to stays of execution. We women are so grateful for them, so surprised to hear the words I’m sorry uttered from the mouth of someone with testosterone, that we tend to overlook the underlying reasons for said apology. For example, it doesn’t matter that he beat me unconscious and broke three of my ribs. He apologized! I am not that kind of woman, mind you. I won’t be taken in by two simple words of remorse. I need more.…

  “I’m really sorry.”

  Sigh. Well, he didn’t just say he was sorry. He said he was really sorry.

  “It’s not your fault,” I say.

  “That woman! Someone needs to put her out of her misery.”

  “And everyone else’s,” I mutter, hoisting myself into a sitting position.

  “I’m sorry about calling your landline, too.” Uh-oh. Apology number three in the same conversation. Warning! “I tried your cell a couple of times, but you didn’t answer.”

  “It’s fine,” I tell him, and in truth, I am relieved to hear his voice. Despite his protestations about annoying, surgically enhanced women, I had an irrational fear that he would use Nina Montrose as a replacement—the “Love the One You’re With Syndrome,” I call it. I did my best to swallow this fear with every creamy chunky chocolate spoonful, but nevertheless, it lingered. “I’m glad you called,” I admit.

  “I was kind of worried about you,” he says solemnly.

  Worried? About what? That I would drive my car into a cinderblock wall over sexual frustration? That I would empty a fifth of Jack D
aniels down my gullet because I didn’t get to have an orgasm? Nope. Ben and Jerry’s for me. Equally dangerous, but far less permanent.

  “I’m a big girl, Ben,” I say. Bigger now that the pint is gone. All four million calories have settled on my thighs, hips, and abdomen.

  “I know you are.” He is quiet for a moment and I have a strong sense that he is about to invite me to meet him, right now. And if he does, I suspect that I will say yes, although if I do anything even remotely strenuous in the near future, I will almost certainly puke Ben and Jerry’s all over anything and everything within close proximity to my person.

  But he doesn’t ask. Instead, he says, “Look. I have that surveillance thing tomorrow. And it’s going to be a long day. But maybe we could meet on Thursday. At the, uh, PD’s apartment.…”

  I am nodding to my empty bedroom. Thursday. Good. I can work off the ice cream between now and then.

  “If everything goes well tomorrow, I’ll be off. Linda’s working from home, uh, so she’ll be with the boys. We’d have all day.…”

  I don’t say anything because I am busy rooting through the nightstand drawer for something to write with. Ben mistakes my silence for hesitation.

  “Maybe it’s a bad idea,” I hear him say as my hand closes around a pen.

  “Give me the address,” I say.

  Thirteenth Post: March 28, 2012

  SomethingNewAt42

  CHOCOLATE DOESN’T WORK

  Take it from me.

  Let’s say, for example, and by this, my nameless relative, I mean hypothetically, that you find yourself in the grips of a passionate encounter in a place you consider unsuitable for such debauchery, for instance in the bathroom of a bar. Unless you want to be sexually frustrated for days afterward, you had better relax your standards and just get it on amid the cracked toilet and empty paper towel dispenser. If you don’t, if you demand to be ravished in more appropriate surroundings, and then something occurs that forces you to abandon your anticipation of multiple orgasms, and you end up downing a carton of chocolate chunk ice cream in the hopes of quelling your need for climax, you will be, as the expression goes, shit out of luck.