Man vs. Durian

by Jackie Lau

  “Thankfully, no. That would be an unpleasant surprise. I did, however, find evidence that his latest orgy made its way to the maze.”

  The tips of my ears heat. “Orgy?”

  “That’s the rumor, and after finding two bras in the maze today, I suspect it’s true.”

  “Bras are expensive. I would never leave one in a hedge.”

  He chuckles. “If you were rich, would you hire someone to make a hedge maze in your backyard?”

  “No, I’d use my money for other things.”

  “Like what? Million-dollar fountains or birdbaths? Would you commission someone to make a sculpture of you? A large oil painting?”

  “Why would I want a sculpture of myself?”

  He shrugs. “Vanity?”

  “I’m not that vain.”

  “You should be. You’re very pretty, even when you scowl like that.”

  “I’m not scowling.”

  “Yes, you are.” He reaches out and trails his finger over my cheek. “So, what would you do if you were filthy rich?”

  “I’d save most of it. You never know when everything you have could go up in flames.” I pause. “And I’d buy a house so I could have my own space. Maybe a house with a really tall hedge around the yard.”

  “Ah. A tall hedge to provide cover for your durian orgies. Of course. It’s only sensible.”

  I shoot him a glare. “I’m not having durian orgies!”

  Just then, a server sets our food in front of us.

  It’s not just the tips of my ears that are turning pink now. My whole face is on fire, and I’m unable to speak.

  Peter, however, has no such trouble. “Thank you very much,” he says to the server. “This looks delicious.”

  We ordered four pupusas. The thick corn tortillas are stuffed with beans, meat, and cheese, and they’re accompanied by cabbage slaw. It’s all delicious.

  We eat in silence, and I’m glad to focus on my food for a few minutes, although it’s not like I can forget about Peter sitting across from me.

  “What would you like to do next?” he asks before he digs into his second pupusa. “I have a couple ideas. Karaoke?”

  “No goddamn way am I doing karaoke.”

  “That’s fine. We don’t have to do anything else. I can walk you to the subway afterward. Just thought I’d ask.”

  “Let’s do something. But not karaoke.”

  The corner of his mouth kicks up. He’s wearing a dark blue polo shirt today, and he looks incredibly handsome...and I’m not willing to let him go just yet.

  “Alright,” he says. “There’s a bar on Queen Street, not far from here. They serve desserts from the bakery next door, including an awesome flourless chocolate cake. On Friday nights, there’s a live brass band, and people get up to dance. It’s lots of fun.”

  “You want to take me dancing?” I ask in horror.

  He grins. “Yeah.”

  “So my choices are karaoke and dancing.”

  “Hey, you’re welcome to suggest something else. Those are just my ideas, and you’re the one who wanted to hang out tonight.” He has a bite of his pupusa and leans forward. “Is this a real date, Valerie?”

  “I...I don’t know. I just wanted to see you.”

  “Come dancing with me.”

  “I can’t dance.”

  “I’m sure you can. No fancy moves required. Why don’t we go and have the cake, and then you can decide?”

  “Okay.”

  He places his hand over mine. “I wanted to see you tonight, too.”

  My heart beats way too quickly.

  Half an hour later, we’re sitting at a table in the bar, a slice of flourless chocolate cake between us, and oh my God, Peter is right. This is amazing.

  When I first heard of flourless chocolate cake a few years ago, I was confused. I thought flour was an essential part of cake. But then I discovered that it’s richer and more chocolatey without flour, and this is the best version I’ve ever had. I moan in bliss. I doubt anyone can hear me because we’re sitting near the brass band and the music is a little loud. There’s a small crowd of people dancing in front of us.

  “You know what?” I say. “This is even better than durian.”

  He smiles at me. “Glad to hear you’ve developed normal taste buds.”

  The lights in the bar are dim. There are mismatched wooden chairs and tables, each with a little candle in the middle. The candlelight flickers over Peter’s face, and he smiles.

  I have a sip of my red wine before taking another bite of chocolate cake.

  “I need to eat quickly,” Peter says, “or I won’t get my share.”

  “Wait a second,” I say. “You have to eat quickly because I’m eating quickly? I’m only eating this fast because I was worried I wouldn’t get my share because you’re practically inhaling the cake.”

  “No, no. You’re the reason we’re eating so fast.”

  “Am not!”

  He laughs and cuts the remainder of the slice of cake in half. “Yours and mine. Now we can eat as slowly as we like.”

  He picks up a forkful of cake and slides it into his mouth.

  “Mmmmm,” he says in an exaggerated fashion.

  Or maybe it isn’t exaggerated. The cake really is delicious.

  Once we’re finished eating, Peter takes my hand. “Time to dance?”

  I finish my wine. “Time to dance.”

  I could say no, of course. Peter would listen. But even as my mind resists the idea of dancing—as always—a part of me wants to dance, as long as it’s with him. And he seems to be able to tell when I secretly want to do something versus when I absolutely do not—like karaoke.

  He leads me to the dance floor. I put one hand on his shoulder, and he puts his on my waist; I feel the heat of his touch through my shirt. He holds my other hand in his.

  “This okay?” he asks.

  I nod, overwhelmed by his closeness, his firm body nearly touching mine.

  He rocks us back and forth a few times, then spins me around. For a brief moment, it’s like I’m flying, and just when I’m starting to feel out of control, he pulls me back toward him, and I laugh.

  We continue to dance, not precisely in time with the music. Peter might not have sophisticated moves on the dance floor, but he’s better than me, and what he lacks in skill, he makes up for in enthusiasm. He’s taking me along for the ride, and I love it.

  I laugh again, for no particular reason, and he smiles.

  The dance floor won’t clear so everyone can watch our amazing moves. We’re just part of the crowd, and that’s what I want. I don’t want everyone looking at me. I only want to dance with Peter, feeling like we’re in our own little world, even though we’re surrounded by people.

  I’ve never enjoyed dancing before. I may have agreed to the occasional slow dance and shuffled my feet back and forth, but I would never dance a fast song like this with a man. My fears and self-consciousness would have paralyzed me.

  But all I have to do is follow Peter’s lead, and I feel...safe. Which is a strange emotion to have while dancing in a bar to a brass band, but there it is.

  I’m disappointed when the band takes a break. We separate and return to our seats. Tentatively, I slide my hand across the table, and Peter covers it with his.

  “I have to tell you something,” he says. “I feel guilty for keeping it a secret.”

  My stomach drops.

  Crap, this is it. I’ve had a great night with a guy and now he’s going to reveal he’s married or runs a dog-fighting ring or—

  “I agreed to the fake relationship mostly because I was hoping you’d eventually change your mind and agree to date me for real. I should have told you that upfront. I’m sorry.”

  Oh.

  I see the look on his face, and I remember what it was like to dance in his arms, and I know it’s true. He wants me, very much, even now that we’ve gotten to know each other, even though I’ve been difficult at times.

  “
That’s okay,” I say, swallowing hard. “You asked me out when we first met, so the fact that you want to...you know.” I gesture between us. “That’s not exactly a surprise.”

  A part of me feels like I knew it all along, and I was just trying not to think of it because I’d sworn off relationships.

  I remember all three men who fucked up my life last year, and I pull my hand back.

  “I don’t know what I want,” I say.

  “Just let me take you out occasionally. Like tonight. No expectations. I’d like to keep seeing you, and not just as part of our act.”

  “It’s hard for me to trust men.”

  “I only want a chance to earn that trust. We’ll never do anything you don’t want, and I promise I won’t keep anything else from you, okay?”

  How is he so understanding? Does he really not have any ulterior motives?

  I blow out a breath. “Okay. Thank you. I’m sorry, I’m kind of broken.”

  “Not broken,” he says firmly. “And I’m sure there’s a good reason for what you’re feeling. You don’t owe me anything. I’d just like the opportunity to do this again.”

  I nod. “And I’d like the opportunity to eat another piece of flourless chocolate cake. Right now.”

  He laughs and asks the waitress for more cake. It’s not long before there’s a second piece on our table, and this time, Peter cuts it down the middle before anyone takes a bite.

  I turn the plate around and claim the slice that was initially on his side.

  “What was wrong with the other slice?” he asks.

  “This one’s bigger.”

  “Why do you get the bigger one?”

  “You cut, so I get to pick. That’s just the way it works.”

  “Is it, now?”

  “Mm-hmm,” I say around a mouthful of the best damn chocolate cake I’ve ever tasted.

  If I ate it without Peter, would it taste this good?

  I think so, but I can’t be sure.

  The band starts playing again, and once we finish our cake, I pull Peter onto the dance floor. I attempt to spin him around with one hand, but he’s several inches taller than me, and it doesn’t work very well. We laugh together, and then he pulls my back against his chest, and we dance like that for a while. I can feel his breath on my cheek; I can smell chocolate on his breath.

  It’s a lovely combination.

  And, once again, I feel safe when he holds me. I remind myself not to let my guard down, but I do feel safe in his arms.

  He dips his head. “You look beautiful tonight.”

  My instinct is to object. I’m wearing the jeans and T-shirt I wore to work today.

  But I swallow my protests. I should learn to accept compliments.

  “You look good, too,” I whisper.

  His eyes crinkle and the corner of his mouth curls up, sending a bolt of heat straight to my core. Damnit, he’s so sexy. And he’s dancing. With me.

  We dance for another half hour, and I’m only distantly aware of the crowd around us. It’s just me and Peter. He’s so solid against me, and I run my hand up and down his upper arm muscles, appreciating every inch of his body. In awe of him, and the fact that we’re together like this.

  When my fingers skate over his shoulder and graze his neck, he says, “Let’s get out of here.”

  He pays the bill, and then he pulls me out the door and down the nearby Graffiti Alley. He doesn’t push me up against the spray-painted wall, but gently guides me to it and places his hands on my waist.

  I look into his dark eyes. I swear, I could drown in them, and then I laugh.

  “What is it?” he asks with a slight smile.

  I shake my head. Never mind, I’m just having some super lame thoughts.

  He reaches up and pushes a lock of hair back from my face. I’m sweaty from all the dancing, but I know he won’t mind.

  Somehow, no matter what I do, it’s all fine with him.

  He tips his forehead against mine. “I had a really good time tonight.”

  “Me, too,” I say, my voice full of eagerness that I’ve never heard in it before.

  Laughter and conversations reach us on the breeze. It’s after midnight, but we’re in downtown Toronto and there are lots of people out.

  “I want to kiss you,” he says, “but if you’re not ready, that’s totally fine. I’ll only do it if you tell me to.”

  Heat washes over my skin.

  “Kiss me,” I whisper, the anticipation almost more than I can bear.

  He starts by pressing his body against mine. With one hand he cups my jaw, his fingers warm and slightly callused. He wraps his other arm around my waist so I’m surrounded by him.

  And then he kisses the top of my neck, and oh God, that’s good, but I’m impatient. I want his lips on mine. I want to be able to kiss him back.

  He makes his way up to my mouth, and when his lips touch mine, I jolt. It’s unfamiliar, this feeling of being so safe and turned on at the same time.

  “Good?” he murmurs.

  “Mm-hmm.”

  He squeezes my ass in a slow, filthy way that feels so damn good. He pulls me against him, against the ridge of his erection, and I gasp as I try to get closer, need pooling between my thighs.

  When he slides both hands under my ass, I wrap both legs around his hips, my back against the wall, and attempt to kiss the shit out of him. I press my breasts against his chest, wanting to touch all of him that I can. He feels so necessary.

  It’s been so long since I’ve felt this consuming desire, and yet it’s okay, as long as it’s with him. I shift against his cock, and he growls.

  I grin, pleased with the power I have with him.

  How can this be happening to me?

  If only it were just the two of us, all alone in the world, and he could slide right into me.

  But people and traffic are only a few steps away, and it’s one thing to make out in an alley, but I wouldn’t have sex here. Although I’m much less self-conscious than usual today, that’s not something I would do.

  And besides the setting, there’s everything else.

  My past is pushed up against the back corners of my mind, but it’s still there. Although this evening with him has loosened something within me, it hasn’t loosened everything, and that’s okay. It’s not a rush.

  I lower my feet to the ground, but I keep kissing him. I slide a hand under the cotton of his polo shirt, and his muscles tighten beneath my hands. When I scrape my nails over his skin, he hisses out a breath, and then his hand is under my shirt, his fingers slipping under the edge of my bra. He tweaks my nipple.

  “No further...than this.” I pant, and he nods.

  He continues to fondle my breast as he kisses my collarbone, once again tracing a path upward to my mouth. He gives me an open-mouthed kiss and licks his tongue over my bottom lip before sliding it inside my mouth.

  We kiss for a while in a way that’s urgent, yet leisurely.

  At last, he steps away. “What do you want?”

  That’s such a complicated question. Different parts of me want different things.

  “I want...”

  “Yes?”

  Peter is breathing hard, and I can see the outline of his erection through his jeans.

  But his voice is all patience.

  I don’t deserve this.

  The thought flashes through my brain.

  I’m a failed software developer who lives with her parents and works at her friend’s ice cream shop even though I loathe customer service.

  I invented a boyfriend so my mother would think I was less of a loser.

  My only ex tried to blame his cheating on me, and yes, I know that’s ridiculous and he’s an asshole, but it’s my only experience with a relationship.

  Yet here I am.

  Even though I’m standing in an alley filled with graffiti, I feel like someone’s goddamn princess, a woman who commands the utmost respect.

  I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him on
ce more. “I’d like to go home.”

  “You want me to drive you? I didn’t drink, just a sip of your wine.”

  “If it’s not too much of a hassle...”

  “It’s no hassle. Are you up for walking back to my place, or should I get an Uber?”

  “We can walk.”

  It’s a nice night, but the days are getting ever shorter, and this weather won’t last.

  On our walk, I do the unthinkable: I hold his hand.

  Chapter 10

  Valerie

  I head up the walkway to my parents’ house. It’s two in the morning, and I can’t remember the last time I was out this late. My mother’s car is in the driveway.

  Finally! I got home later than my mother!

  All the lights in the house are out. I open the door and creep up the stairs, trying to make as little noise as possible so I don’t wake anyone. I feel like I’m doing something illicit, and it’s thrilling.

  Of course, there’s nothing illicit about eating pupusas and flourless chocolate cake with one’s fake boyfriend. Plus, I only had a single glass of wine, and I only made out with said fake boyfriend in an alley for five minutes, but what a great five minutes it was.

  I wanted to go to bed with him. My body had come alive in a way I thought it might never do again.

  Sex was so tangled up with everything that happened last year, and I had no interest in that mess. Sure, sometimes I still found men attractive. Sometimes I got horny. But I never really felt desire.

  Until now.

  But that’s my body. My head still isn’t ready.

  Peter makes me feel wonderful, but I have to be very comfortable with someone before I can sleep with them. It’s just the way I am, the way it’s always been, even more so now than when I was younger.

  I brush my teeth and change into a flimsy tank top and shorts. Before I climb into bed, I look at myself in the mirror. At the skin he touched and caressed. My cheeks are slightly flushed and my lips are swollen—or is that my imagination?

  I don’t know.

  I push aside the neckline of my shirt and rub my nipple between my fingers. I tip my head back and exhale unsteadily, remembering what it was like to feel his mouth on mine, his hands all over me. The pleasure he gave me, which I’m sure was only a tiny fraction of what he’s capable of.