by Marr, Maggie
She bends forward, opens those plump lips, and slides my cock into her sweet mouth.
“Fuck yes,” I mumble.
The heat of her mouth is followed by the long stroke of her hand over my shaft. My hips slide up and back with the pleasure of her mouth around my cock.
“Yes,” I whisper. I won’t last long. My hands grasp the comforter and my eyelids blink open. I’m . . . not in my place . . . or Tara’s . . . or a hotel. I am . . . my eyes land on the Foo Fighters poster, circa 1996.
My room.
I am in my room at my parents’. I look down.
The woman sucking my cock isn’t Tara.
A head bobs up and down, up and down on my cock. My God that hair is blonde, and who the fuck is sucking my dick?
I grasp her shoulders. As good as it feels, and as much as I could totally wait two more strokes and come . . . who is sucking my cock?
She looks up at me, her eyes filled with surprise.
It’s her. Kendall.
The mom from the party.
The one who knows me as Wonderfuck.
“Hey,” she says, a smile on her face. When did she get here? She holds my hard cock in one hand, just to the right of her mouth. “Let me finish.” She leans down to start sucking, but I stop her.
“I . . . I can’t.” I pull away from her. I slide back up the bed.
“Come on,” she says, her voice playful.
I don’t feel playful. I feel dirty. And violated. And now I’m starting to feel pissed.
“You liked it last time.” She caresses my thigh. “I thought you’d like it today.”
“I . . .” I put my cock in my pants and stand. I zip up my pants. “I don’t—”
“It’s that woman, isn’t it? You’re involved with her.”
She stands too. Her smile slides from her face and is replaced with a smirk. Anger filters through her eyes.
“No,” I say. “I . . . I . . .” I rub my hands through my hair, back away from her. I don’t know if it’s my composure slipping or my sanity, but the crack inside is growing into a crevasse, and I feel myself falling into it.
“Really? I texted you, I called. I tried to do what you want, but I didn’t get an answer. You’re the Wonderfuck. You’re supposed to answer when I call.”
“That’s not how this works.” Any emotion, any vulnerability I felt upon waking up with a woman sucking my cock is gone. Placed behind a hard exterior of uncaring. “I don’t have to return any calls or texts.”
Her face changes, shifting from anger. In the blink of an eye she’s gone from rage to attempted seductress. She walks toward me slowly, throwing out all the sexual vibes and power she can, trying to make herself alluring to me. Her attempt at seduction would work on most men, probably any man but me. But I’ve had her. I didn’t give her any part of my heart, and I don’t want any part of her at all now.
“Come on,” she whispers, “Just this once. We were really good together, weren’t we?”
“We were.” I will give her this, though I can’t remember many details of our time together. She strokes me, and while I know my body won’t respond now, I grasp her wrist and pull her hand away from my sex. “We were very good, but now we’re finished.”
“Does your sister know?”
My face is stone. I can’t let on what my sister does or doesn’t know. This woman, who is married and has a kid, has much more to lose than I do.
“What about your girlfriend? Wonder how much she’d like to know about Wonderfuck.” She practically hisses the word. I pull her close and stare straight into her eyes.
“Let me give you her number, and you can find out her thoughts yourself.”
She yanks her hand from my grasp and turns to the bedroom door.
“Your loss,” she says, tossing her hair. “I give good head.” She opens the door and exits my boyhood room.
I collapse on the bed. I’ve never before been more thankful for an interrupted blow job.
Chapter 21
My Wonderfuck phone rings, but it’s not the number I want to see on the screen so I don’t pick up. There’s only one number I’m interested in answering, and she hasn’t called in nearly ten days. I haven’t bumped into her in the hall or the elevator or on our block. I almost knocked on her door yesterday, but wondered if it was an intrusion. Was I meant to be Jake or Wonderfuck?
I stare at my view, at the balcony I never go out on. My cleaning lady goes out there, and guests went out there at the one party I had for Rachel at my place, but I don’t. Or I can’t.
Not since that night.
The phone vibrates in my pocket. The number I wanted to see.
How about Wednesday?
Yes, I text back.
Is she across the hall now? Is she laying on her bed working? Is her hair in that messy ponytail that makes her look sexy as hell? Does she have on her grizzly bear leggings?
Does she want Wonderfuck, or does she want me?
Fuck.
I finish my drink. I stare at the skyline. I’m in deep, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I’m uncertain how I’ll escape. I pour myself another bourbon.
What the hell would Wonderfuck do?
* * *
School is finished in two days. Today is Lily’s end-of-year school presentation. I squeeze past the parents already sitting on elfin chairs designed for preschool bodies. Rachel, sitting beside Mom, pats the seat she saved me.
“Glad you could make it.” Rachel lifts an eyebrow.
Technically I’m three minutes late, but they haven’t started. Family members tardier than I scurry into Lily’s classroom.
“Was it busy in court today, Richard?” Mom lays a hand on my arm. I smile and nod. Mom leans close to my ear. “I have no idea who this rude woman is to my left, but I think she’s helps take care of Rachel in class. Rachel seems to like her.” I fight the urge to laugh. Of course the “rude woman” my mother refers to is my sister.
“I’m sorry she scolded you, darling,” Mom whispers in my ear.
“It’s okay.” I pat her hand. I shoot Rachel a look indicating that I realize I’m Mom’s favorite and always have been. Rachel rolls her eyes toward the ceiling in response.
Lily’s teacher walks to the front of the room, and the adults squished into tiny chairs stop their yammering. She welcomes us. Then, from behind a curtain, a passel of five-year-olds file out and onto the risers at the front of the pre-K classroom.
There is no greater proof of God than watching five-year-old children sing “Catch a Falling Star” with hand gestures. Lily’s cherubic smile beams toward Mom, Rachel, and me. She’s too cute with her braids, bright yellow dress with pink flowers, and tiny smattering of freckles. Her giant smile is infectious, and she waves to me, her eyes twinkling. She belts out the words. I swear I can discern her voice from the crowd of angelic warblers.
I peek at Rachel. My hard-ass criminal court judge sister presses a tissue to the corner of each eye and I get it. I understand. This moment is perfect. Beautiful. Life doesn’t get much better than this. Despite Lily having a no-show of a dad, and Mom’s mind being MIA, sitting here watching Lily sing makes each and every pain in life worth it. The pain is worth bearing because of this moment.
The kids finish their first song and start the second. Lily’s told me there are three total. I sweep the room with my gaze. Two rows in front of us sits Kendall, a.k.a. Madame Cocksucker. She’s beside the guy I saw her with at the birthday party, which confirms he must be the Mr. to her Mrs.
The door isn’t too far. I make a mental note to escape quickly after congratulating Lily on her performance.
The final song is “Rainbow Connection.” A tear-jerking showstopper. Not a dry eye in the house, including my own. Except Mom. Mom isn’t crying. She’s sitting there with that beatific smile that makes me believe she’s passed into a Zen state from her disease. She doesn’t get emotionally ruffled much anymore. She’s reached this calm that she seems to exist in as lon
g as neither Rachel nor I argue with her about our identities or what year it is.
The final note ends, and all the family members burst into applause.
“Well, that was . . .” Rachel tries to smile, but her face crumples. She dabs at her eyes with the wilted tissue in her hand then forces a smile. “It’s just going way too fast.”
It is. She’s right. Next year Lily will be in “big girl” school and she’ll go all day. None of this half-day stuff anymore. I remember holding her right after she was born. A red-faced bundle of cries until those big blue eyes latched onto me and she smiled. I don’t give a fuck what anyone says about gas, Lily saw me and she smiled, and that smile saved my life. I knew . . . I knew that I would survive. I might not be okay or normal or involved in a romantic relationship with a woman, but I would be here for Lily, no matter how heartsick or broken or barely able to cope with life I was. I would live for Lily.
“Mama!” Lily rushes over. She holds two fresh pink gerbera daisies. One for Rachel and for Mom.
“Rachel, you did a brilliant job! Didn’t she, Richard?” Mom turns to me and she smiles.
I nod. Big sis presses a finger across her lips in the universal “shhh” symbol to remind Lily that yes, she is in on the big-person secret that Grandma thinks Lily is her mother, and we don’t say anything because Grandma is just confused.
“Grandma, I want you to meet my teacher.”
“Okay, darling,” Mom says, not missing a beat on the Grandma bit because that’s how it is. No rhyme, no reason, no logic involved with this asshole disease, because logic has flown south for the rest of Mom’s life.
“I think I need to be in on this,” Rachel whispers in my ear. She takes Mom’s hand while Lily leads them both across the room. I glance toward Kendall, who stands with her little boy and the man in a suit. He glances at his phone and scrolls. He’s checked out. Not paying attention to his son or his wife. He gives her a quick peck, nods toward the boy, and puts his phone to his ear as he heads out the door. The boy rushes toward his friends and Kendall’s face falls flat. Sad. She is absolutely despondent, at a complete loss with regard to this life she chose.
As pissed as I am over being violated while I slept, I know that Wonderfuck might be the only hint of pleasure she’s had since her son was born, or even before her son was born, and I understand. I get it. I get my pleasure from Wonderfuck too, and it’s easier. Less mess.
She glances toward me. Her eyes go cold. The sadness disappears. She’s projecting her disillusionment over her life, her horrible relationship with her husband, her failure, her sadness, her frustration, she’s projecting every bit of her negative feelings onto me, because I gave her hope and then snatched it away.
And maybe I did.
Maybe the pleasure Wonderfuck provided just put into stark contrast how bereft of desire her real life is. Instead of making her life better, Wonderfuck made it worse.
“I’m ready to go.” Mom stands beside me. Her voice is chilly. “Richard, did you hear me? I wish to leave.”
Rachel lifts both shoulders and shakes her head, both of us uncertain what happened to Mom’s happy mood.
“Are you sure, Mom?” Rachel asks. “They’ve got cake, and Lily wants to play a bit with her friends.”
“Richard and I are going home. Bring Rachel when she’s finished, please.”
Rachel leans toward me. “Got this?”
I nod. No problem. I trail Mom out of the room, glancing back at Kendall one final time. When I turn back to Mom, she stands just outside the doorway, watching me and waiting. Frigid stare, pursed lips. I’ve only seen that look a couple times on Mom’s face. I take her elbow, walk her to my car. I buckle her into the passenger seat and we head for home.
“Why must you always humiliate me?”
I press my turn signal and wait at the light on Sunset Boulevard. “Mo—”
“Every time we go somewhere, you leer at other women. Richard, I thought we agreed when I let you come back home, that business was finished. That part of your life was over.”
My stomach rolls. I’m trapped in a turn lane with my mother who thinks I’m her philandering husband—who also happens to be my deceased father. I don’t want to have this conversation or hear this conversation or—
“That blonde, the woman in Rachel’s classroom, I saw you ogling her. Was she . . . is she . . . one of your . . . one of your women?” Mom’s voice is hard-edged. She clasps her hands together on her lap so tightly that I think her nails will break the skin.
“I . . . Mom . . . I don’t know—”
“Richard, please, don’t patronize me. We discussed this. I know all about your suite at The Beverly Wilshire. I found the receipts, or don’t you remember? I simply cannot live like this. Do you understand? I won’t live like this anymore. Not even for the children. This was part of our agreement. I let you come home and you . . . you stop fucking around.”
“Mom!”
“Stop calling me that! I’m not just the children’s mother, and I’m tired of the man I’m married to calling me ‘Mom’ all the time.”
I breathe. I breathe deep. The light changes. I press the accelerator and gun the car. We whip through the left turn and I’m speeding down the street. I can’t get her home fast enough. I don’t want to hear any of this conversation. I don’t want to replay the memory of Dad moving out for six months. I don’t want to know the details of my parents’ marriage or his infidelity or how they dealt with their marital issues.
“How about some Mozart?” I ask and turn on the stereo, knowing that sometimes, sometimes, classical music soothes my mother and calms her addled mind. I offer a silent prayer that the strings will work their magic on her brain. The music swells in the car and Mom sits silent now. No words. She stares out the front window, her face an emotionless mask. Impenetrable. I don’t know if she’s left me for another memory, or if she’s still reflecting on what she said. I turn onto her street and pull into the driveway.
“Ah, we’re home.” Mom smiles and turns to me. “Jake, want to come in for some tea? Maybe a sandwich before you head home?”
Jake. I’m Jake again. Thank you, God; I’m no longer the philandering man who nearly destroyed my mother and my sister and me and our life.
“Sure, Mom.” I get out of the car and walk around to help her out and up the front steps. Hopeful that maybe we can have that sandwich and I’ll remain Jake all the way through the meal.
Chapter 22
How did this start?”
Tara is naked in bed, her breasts halfway covered. Her left nipple peeks out from beneath the sheet. I twirl chopsticks into the noodles in the Thai take-out box and extend them toward her mouth. Her lips open. How can simply looking at Tara’s mouth make my cock hard? Especially since we’ve already had sex three times.
“You texted me, remember?”
“I don’t mean that.” She smiles around her bite of noodles. “I mean this. The Wonderfuck thing, how did it start? I have theories, but I want to know how.”
Alarm bells sound in my brain. She’s veering dangerously close to Jake territory, not with her question, but with her comment on “having a theory.” I’ve been asked this question before by other women I wonderfuck. We take a break from sex, we eat, we talk. They ask questions. I have responses that don’t venture too close to the truth.
Because I’m Wonderfuck, I create whatever backstory I want for these women. Sometimes, I even tailor the backstory to fit what I think a particular woman might need to hear.
Tara knows too much about me and both my identities for too much falsification to work. She’s pushing. She’s digging. She’s like a Jack Russell Terrier scavenging for a bone. I have to answer her, or she’ll simply ask the same question a half dozen different ways until she gets a response that satisfies her curiosity. She’s a journalist. She seeks the truth, needs to prove her hypothesis.
“I needed a release,” I say. She listens, her blue eyes are intense. “I needed this to survi
ve.”
Empathy softens her gaze. Of course she understands, or thinks she understands, because she needed the same type of connection to survive the loss of her wedding day. “Why did you call?” I ask, turning the tables, getting the story refocused on her instead of me.
“You know why I called.” Her gaze drops to her hands. “It was my wedding day.” Her voice is close to a whisper.
“I know it was your wedding day, but why did you call?” Now I’m digging, trying to get at the emotion beneath the reason, because, ultimately the answers are the same. She called because she didn’t want to be alone. She wanted to be wanted. She needed to feel the physical pleasure of being in another person’s arms.
“I . . .” She pauses. Her eyes look at me. There are tears. Her lips tremble. “I didn’t want to be alone. I . . . wanted to feel alive and be with”—desire filters into her words—“be with you.” A tear rolls down her cheek. I reach out and pull her close. I wrap my arms around her.
I can understand her pain and her vulnerability, even her need to be desired, because I have it too, but I can’t give into my emotions. I move the remnants of our meal off the bed. I press my lips to her trembling mouth. Then I pull back and look into her eyes.
“I’m here. I want to be here, and I want to be with you.” I say it as Wonderfuck, but I mean it as Jake. I want to be with Tara in a way that I can hardly admit.
I press my lips to hers again. I cup her breast, sliding the pad of my thumb over her nipple.
“Oh yes.”
I need to fuck away her doubts, my doubts, her fears, my fears. I want to fuck away this reality and sink into pleasure. I want to wonderfuck.
We slide down the bed. I know her body now. I know what she likes. I know what she wants. I’ve paid attention each time we’ve been together. I press my lips to her nipple and her hips arch.
