The Woman Who Pretended to Love Men

by Anna Ferrara

  I was surprised to find myself aroused. Up till that point, I had never seen two women engaged in sexual activity together and, frankly, wasn’t even sure if it could be done. Once I realised it could, once I saw for myself how a woman could affect another woman in such a manner, I realised my body responded to it the way it used to whenever Jackson got us watching regular, male-female pornography. My clit went hard and remained relentlessly prominent the whole time. When the other woman jerked forward and suddenly looked as if she were dying of pleasure, I felt my panties go wet.

  It made sense, when I thought about it, since what I looked at most when watching regular pornography was the female porn star’s face and body. Women were just... more sensuous in intimate moments, somehow.

  I was hoping to see Milla get it on after she finished with the other woman but she didn’t. When Milla saw the other woman limp and motionless on the coffee table, with her eyes closed and a small smile plastered on her face, she went to her sofa, lay down and fell asleep.

  An hour later, the other woman woke and tiptoed out of Milla’s apartment without saying goodbye; she did glance over and sort of sigh or something though. Milla herself woke up at 7am and, upon realising the other woman was no longer anywhere in her apartment, went to her phone and made a call. Something the other person on the line said made her smile. After that, she went to her bedroom, emerged dressed and went out the door, just as I had seen through my binoculars. I pressed the stop button on the video clip after that, partly because I didn’t want to see myself swopping the cameras and partly because—

  —I couldn’t resist the urge to watch the earlier part of the clip again.

  I felt like a lecher doing so, yet I found myself doing it anyway. I returned to the point at which Milla removed the other woman’s panties and played the video till the other woman lay down and went to sleep. Then, I played it again. And again.

  I had a notebook in front of me, set out to write my observations, yet I wrote nothing. I knew I had to label the MultiMediaCards I had taken from the cameras, set the cameras to charge so that they’d be ready for use the next time, pack all the MultiMediaCards in an envelope and get it ready for posting, yet I did none of those things. I simply sat on the floor with my back as upright as a street lamp, staring at my computer, with panties that were damp and cold and a body that felt all jittery and packed full of energy.

  I did three hours on my treadmill until I decided what I really needed was a long, icy cold shower.

  The shower with its knob turned all the way to the right turned out too cold to bear.

  I jumped back the moment the rain of freezing cold water touched my bare shoulders and swung the knob back to the seven o’clock position right away. Just out of reach of the water, I hugged myself and shivered while waiting for the water to warm up. Tiny beads of water rolled off my skin and fell at my feet; I watched them do so until I didn’t because—

  —that other woman’s face as she arched her back, tossed her head backwards and got all stiff with Milla between her legs came to mind.

  When my shower became warm enough, I got under it and tried to wash the image out of my mind for good. I scrubbed shampoo into my hair as tiny needles of pressure fell upon me and tried to scrub away all the jitteriness and energy I was feeling under my skin too but that didn’t work; I remained as jittery and energetic as ever. I soaped my body and rubbed at my skin and muscles vigorously to get those annoying sensations away but that didn’t work either.

  I remained not quite myself, haunted by thoughts I didn’t want to have.

  I thought washing my privates would help; I was so wrong.

  Instead of feeling less aroused, I felt only pleasure—acute, overwhelming sensations of pleasure—when my soapy fingers met my pulsating private regions. I didn’t want to go there; I didn’t want to be masturbating because of a video I had seen at work, yet I found myself unable to contain my body’s urges. My body wouldn’t stop wanting to feel the way it felt each time my fingers ran across my clit so my fingers never once stopped moving. I found myself grabbing the tiled wall for support as my clit and the lips of my vagina began to swell. My foot went up onto the raised ledge that separated my shower from the rest of the bathroom as my hands began to move more furiously.

  I felt horrible; not because I was masturbating but because of why I was masturbating. I had masturbated in the shower many times before of course, I was almost thirty after all, but never because of work and certainly never when that aroused. I felt a great deal of shame about doing so, yet doing so felt way too good for me to want to stop. My eyes shut themselves and my mouth fell open; I started taking in large breaths of air.

  The black and white images of Milla and that other woman on her coffee table came to mind yet again. I thought of that woman’s frowning face, saw her with her mouth wide open, and I felt a thick fluid seep over my fingers.

  I started being able to hear myself straining to breathe. Every stroke my fingers made began to make me wince. I found myself moving faster in that rhythmic way I knew would bring me right into orgasm. Water crashed down on my head and all over my upper body, pushing soap everywhere, yet I hardly felt a drop.

  I was in my own private world again, heading towards a place I knew well but would never talk about. I was starting to sweat, which meant I would have to soap myself all over again, but I didn’t even care. I leaned closer to the wall and opened my legs further. I knew what I was doing was disgusting yet it was too late.

  The pleasure in my private regions wouldn’t stop building. I struggled to keep my breathing quiet as my face began to contort into helplessness... yet I... found myself—

  —gasping aloud when an orgasm came upon me and exploded across my clit and all of my muscles. It was so powerful, so all-consuming, my body literally shook as it gave away control to its ripples of pleasure. I felt nothing but wonderment when it took over and left me one hundred percent gratified. I felt great, I felt healthy, I felt full of life, I felt happy. And then, when the flow of pleasure subsided, I felt completely spent.

  I sank onto the tiled floor, amidst a puddle of water, and set my fatigued hand down to rest by my side; I sighed and dropped my shoulders too because it was a relief to be done with all that desperate wanting after having struggled with keeping it in for hours. Under my warm shower, I stayed very still and waited for my body to regain some semblance of strength.

  By the time it did, by the time I started noticing my surroundings again, started seeing how creased and prune-like my skin had become and feeling how icy cold my shower now was, I had already developed a whole new understanding of myself.

  First off: my body was definitely screwed up; watching two women having sex turned me on, even when I didn’t want to be. I knew I was going to have to get that fixed, somehow; by a man or an American church or... whatever.

  Secondly: I liked Milla Milone way too much; I was even starting to think of her as a person I wouldn’t mind having sex with. That, I definitely had to get fixed.

  That, was so wrong in so many ways.

  Chapter 17

  5 Jul 1999, Monday

  I dreamt of Milla that night; I dreamt, not surprisingly, that she was between my legs whilst I lay on her coffee table, writhing.

  The dream felt so real, I was quite taken aback when I opened my eyes and found myself face down on my own mattress, in my own unfurnished living room, with Milla nowhere in sight. I felt a little disappointed too, especially when I noticed I was naked, with my towel still wrapped around my torso and hair that was flat and stringy because it had dried on its own without having been set in a proper position. My cheek felt numb, possibly from having been slept on for too long, and my neck felt strained, possibly from having been held in a funny position for too many hours. I was also shivering since the air-conditioning was blowing at full blast; wrapping my arms around myself didn’t help one bit.

  To make things worse, my StarTAC began ringing.
>
  I felt myself rolling my eyes as I answered it.

  “Mummy.”

  “Lola, why did you take so long to pick up?”

  “I was asleep.”

  “At this hour? You’re late for work!”

  Was I?

  I checked the time on the phone and realised she was right. It was 9:03 on a Monday morning.

  For six whole years, since the day I started working for Everquest, I started work at 9am sharp every week day. I did so even when I worked from home, when there was no one watching me. My sense of responsibility made me do it—I thought it was only right I gave my office all the time they were paying for. On that morning, however, I felt like I no longer cared about starting work on time. I felt hungover even though I didn’t even have alcohol in my apartment. For a brief moment, I contemplated putting on a show of panic for my mother but eventually decided I was too tired to even bother. “I took the morning off to sleep in. I worked till late the night before,” I told her.

  “You shouldn’t work so hard. Come home for dinner tonight. Mummy will do a soup that will help you get your energy back.”

  “I don’t want to.” All I really wanted to do in that moment was sit next to my binoculars, mope about being sexually abnormal and nurse my devastated heart with lots of lying down and pillow hugging. “I just want to sleep. And I have to go to work later too so please let me rest.”

  I heard my mother sigh. “Alright, alright. You really do sound exhausted. Get some rest and don’t forget to have lunch!”

  “Alright, Mummy.”

  “Call me when you have time and...”

  “Yes?” I found myself starting to frown again, as I always seemed to end up doing when on the phone with my mother.

  “Happy birthday, baby.”

  The frown that had been deepening on my face vanished when she said those three words. Happy birthday? Damn. I had been so caught up with work and Milla I had actually forgotten my own birthday! I slept right through the stroke of midnight that marked the end of my twenties and the beginning of my thirties; I missed one of the most significant moments of my life, all because I had been too tired?

  “Thank you, mummy.” I began to feel a little guilty about having been short with her.

  “Daddy and I have a red packet for you. Come by and pick it up when you have the time, okay?”

  “Okay. Thanks, mummy. I’ll let you know when I’m free. I’ll hang up now, okay?”

  “Okay. Take better care of yourself!”

  “I will, mummy.”

  I couldn’t believe I was thirty. No longer considered young; no longer with a decade of youth ahead of me? I stood quietly with my back against a wall, assessed myself and concluded I didn’t feel any different from how I had felt when in my early twenties or even as a teenager, for that matter. I had more skills and life experience now, but that was about it. In terms of personality and interests, I was still the same person I had been at thirteen. Well, mostly.

  What had I accomplished at age thirty? Educational certification from credible sources? Check. A well-paying, meaningful job? Check. Lots of savings? Check. Assets? Nope. Friends I could count on? Nope. A long-term romantic relationship? Nope. Marriage? Nope. Kids? Nope. Had I succeeded in getting the most out of my twenties? Probably not.

  I remembered what I had been doing the night before and felt my cheeks heat up in shame yet again. What the hell is wrong with me? Why can’t I just be more like... Carla? Why must I be so... gay and alone all the time?

  I felt sick just thinking about it so I went back to my mattress on the floor and threw myself onto it, face down. The one pillow I had, I put over my head to block light and sound and everything that might remind me of the Monday morning I was in. Seconds later, I fell asleep and slept for another three hours straight.

  I was so down on the morning of my thirtieth birthday, I didn’t even bother putting on any clothes.

  At noon, I forced myself to stand up and put on some casual work clothes—shirt and jeans, that was. My sense of responsibility, although not as strong as it normally was, hadn’t entirely vanished. It was a weekday afternoon, after all; I didn’t want to be one of those people who couldn’t be trusted to get work done without supervision.

  Against what my mother would have wished for, I had my cup of instant coffee in place of lunch and pulled my hair back into a messy bun without even bothering to brush it. I decided to pick up my notebook and pen instead of my binoculars because I suspected seeing Milla again would just kill my already weak desire to work. I didn’t want to end up in the shower again—once was enough; I never wanted to do a thing like that again, ever.

  The instant coffee worked wonders. After it went down and found its way through my system, I felt my sense of responsibility return. I felt compelled to complete my tasks, a little driven even.

  While seated cross-legged on the floor, in front of my computer, I flipped through my notebook till I got to the page on which I had written down the list of questions I needed answers to. With my ballpoint pen, I wrote the answers I now knew at the back of each of them.

  1. If C39GF and C39 stayed at The Regent Hong Kong between 6-16 Jun, did they stay together? ‘No. They had separate rooms.’

  2. Was C39GF present when C39’s accident occurred? Was C39’s accident even an ‘accident’? ‘Yes. And no. Milla, Angelo and 81M orchestrated the hit and run. Need to find out why.’

  3. When did C39GF move into the apartment on Hong Kong Island? I left it blank because I didn’t have the answer.

  4. Why is 81M helping C39GF? Why are they always with her? ‘International drug transaction. Likely illegal. Comes complimentary when you order large amounts of ‘product’ from 81M.’

  Hmm. I tapped my pen repeatedly against the apartment’s parquet floor as I struggled to think. Milla, Angelo and 81M tried to kill C39 twice yet they all seemed to think he was worthless. They appeared to know nothing about his terrorist activities too. Why then were they trying to kill him? If it weren’t a job-related kill, then what was it? Personal? Had C39 offended the Milones somehow?

  A thought struck me and got me sitting right up from my hunched position. The answer had been in front of me all along. I felt my eyelids lift.

  The child they shared. How had that child come into being? If C39 wasn’t Milla’s boyfriend, as she said, then they never would have ended up with a child together unless... C39 got Milla pregnant against her will? Raped her, maybe? Was that the reason she came to Hong Kong in the first place? To get away from him? Was that the reason he came to Hong Kong? To chase her down?

  I uncrossed my legs, lifted my knees and rested my arms on them. Milla hadn’t struck me as the sort of woman who fancied men—C39 was undeniably good-looking yet she wanted him dead; Tony of 81M was handsome too but she never looked at him much; and there was that incident with the other woman. How then had C39 ended up in her life? And that child? Where was he or she now? Had Milla aborted him or had she given him away? Was the child the reason Milla wanted C39 dead? Was that the reason Angelo wanted C39 dead? As her brother, Angelo had an obligation to defend his sister’s pride, didn’t he?

  Maybe Milla came to Hong Kong wanting to escape bad memories and C39 came after her because there was something he could gain from doing so. Maybe that was why Angelo came after that? To get rid of C39 for his sister, and also to pick up some ‘product’ for his family while at it?

  That made sense. That would explain why they would want to kill C39 but it didn’t explain why C39 disappeared. Without them or anyone knowing about it too. If C39 was really still in a coma, there must have been other individuals involved in his disappearance. But who?

  Who would want to keep safe or kidnap a man like C39, in a country as foreign to him as Hong Kong was? The terrorist organisation the Milones and 81M knew nothing about, maybe? Question was, who were they?

  I didn’t have any leads that could get me to that answer; I would have to
ask someone who actually knew him. Problem was, the only two people I knew of were Milla and her brother. I doubted her brother would trust me enough to tell me anything after what happened at the ‘ghost village’ so that left me with only Milla.

  Milla who didn’t want me near her ever again. Milla who—I glanced out my window to check—had the curtains in her living room drawn yet again.

  Those uncomfortable sensations started up underneath my skin and this time seemed to penetrate the depths of my bones and also the lowest parts of my torso. I turned away from my window, hugged my legs close to my chest and rested the side of my head against a wall the way a person in great pain might.

  I missed her already.

  It was my thirtieth birthday. In a perfect world, I would have already celebrated the day with my loving husband and adorable young children at breakfast; at lunch, my colleagues would have taken me out for a celebratory meal and at dinner, my closest friends would be throwing me a surprise party and everyone I had ever known and liked would be there. But the world wasn’t perfect. Not at all.

  On the afternoon of my thirtieth birthday, I sat alone on the floor of an unfurnished apartment I didn’t own, fully aware that there would be no surprise birthday party for me in the evening. But that wasn’t what was bad about it. What was bad about it was that I wasn’t even in the least interested in having a party or a bunch of friends or children of my own or a husband.

  On my thirtieth birthday, all I wanted was to be able to talk to Milla again.

  Talk to, and look at and... hold.

  Chapter 18

  6 Jul 1999, Tuesday