by Donna Alam
As the heating element in the kettle sets to work, I lean one hip against the counter. Pulling my phone from my pocket, I begin to type, still angry and wanting to make sense of why my bum is currently posted across the internet.
I’m not going to watch it. I’m not . . . even if I did ask Nat to send me the link. Like she’s not going to ask a multitude of questions about that. But I need to make sense of why this is happening. Why now, at least.
Reasons for releasing a sex tape, I type.
Apparently, almost four million explanations exist, according to the results that flash up on the screen.
Seventeen celebrities who have had sex tapes, reads the first link.
I open the article, skimming across claims of stolen electronic items, compromised luggage, dodgy computer repairmen, and vindictive girl/boyfriends. Lots of finger pointing and the threats of lawsuits, mentions of out-of-court settlements, and insinuations of flagging careers and the hopes of boosted publicity.
None of these explanations ring true; Dylan doesn’t need extra publicity because he’s probably at the height of his fame. The current bad boy darling of Hollywood. The man whose exploits titillate and entertain. In fact, I’m sure he’d like a dose of the opposite; more privacy. I expect he must be tired of seeing his drunken exploits splashed across the screen, along with speculations of who he’s screwing now and how long it’ll last. It seems famous people have literally no privacy. The lengths we had to go to keep our marriage a secret were ridiculous. We’re no longer in touch, so it’s not like I can ask him why the world has knowledge of my bum even existing, never mind them seeing it in 2D.
I suppose it’s possible he had his phone or laptop repaired, providing someone with the chance to make a quick buck. Possible, though not probable. He’s more likely to rip out the hard drive and go buy new.
Would he do this on purpose? I don’t think so. I can’t think he’d gain anything from its release, and it’s been months now since I left. No, his releasing a sex tape as an act of vindictiveness doesn’t make sense, no matter how ugly our ending. Besides, my face wasn’t shown. If he wanted to hurt me, he’d out me, right?
And all the while I’m pondering and hypothesising—weighing the whys and why-fors—the elephant in the room taunts me. Go on, you know you want to watch . . . it isn’t anything you haven’t seen before.
Okay, so I have watched myself have sex with Dylan—lots of times—but it doesn’t make it right in this instance.
When I’d asked Nat to text me the link to the video, I’d told myself it was just to be sure it was me; billions of people live on this planet, and we’re all supposed to have a double somewhere. What if my doppelganger was being banged by Dylan’s doppelganger, and they decided to make a sex tape, too?
Unlikely? Yes. Impossible? There’s no such thing. Just ask the hair stylist who married a movie star. Though, technically, I didn’t. I married a man with great arms; a man who worked as a landscape gardener but happened to be a jobbing actor, too.
So I flick through my text messages, trying to convince myself that I’ll delete the link. Of course, I click it instead.
I may as well add weak and masochistic tendencies to the list of things I don’t like about myself.
It takes only a moment for the clip to load, and a white comforter on a bed is the first thing that comes into view. We were on holiday in Puerto Rico, Isla de Culebra, and had spent the morning on the beach—me under the shade of a palm tree and Dylan catching rays. The house we’d rented had direct access to a private and pristine white piece of coastline, and what the audio doesn’t reveal is that the sounds of the lapping waves could be heard from our bed.
In the room, the light is low, the white shutters almost closed, and the late afternoon sun casting the shadows of palm fronds to dance against the walls.
It was the holiday of a lifetime. A belated honeymoon for a couple who married on a whim and then fell in love.
On screen, I hear myself giggle softly after a bit of static. Dylan whispers something low and indistinct as the bumps of my spine come into view. The camera pans out a little more, though it wasn’t really a camera; he’d used his phone. Dylan’s free hand strokes my neck, my shoulder, as his fingers catch the halter string of my blue bikini top.
Slowly, so slowly, he pulls.
My breath hitches as it falls from chest to waist, or maybe the sound is in response to the drag of his finger down my spine. He loosens the lower tie, the camera following the path of his hand; his fingers wrap around my hip, the digits dark and tanned against my pale skin. His index finger hooks under my bikini bottoms and gooseflesh breaks out there. I shiver, both then and now as, on screen, he pulls at the fabric, exposing one rounded, sand-dusted cheek to the camera. His hand begins to touch and roam, to squeeze and hold like he can’t quite get enough. I moan, and the picture blurs for a second, his head now cradled in the crook of my neck as he whispers words the audio fails to catch.
Memories that echo anyway.
‘Get on your knees,’ he’d whispered, right before pushing me forward and onto the bed. ‘God, you’re so fucking sexy.’
My dark hair splays out against the comforter, breath catching in my throat with a distinct gasp. I remember the feel of the comforter against my bare breasts; the drag of threads against my taut nipples as I’d caught my weight against my palms.
My face turns to the camera, visible yet not, the strands of my hair like a veil.
‘That wasn’t nice,’ I say, my words tinged with laughter. The skin of my arms glistens in the light, a peppering of fine sand from the beach shining like a dusting of sugar.
‘You don’t like nice,’ Dylan replies, the laughter in his words less evident, though still lurking there. ‘You like rough. Hard.’
The knot between my thighs tightens, matched by the sensation in my chest. Perhaps, it’s because of the shame of this knowledge—of being called out—or the fact I’m watching us fuck when I said I would never again. I feel sort of furtive like I’m doing something wrong and likely to be caught; a pleasurable angsty stew of aroused and bad.
Back on the screen, my arm languidly rises to move the hair from my face, but Dylan’s hard body leans over me to do it instead. It’s such a tender action, countered by what he says next.
‘You don’t want soft, babe. You just look like a girl who does.’ He brushes the hair from my shoulders. The camera follows the movement, his shadow obscuring my face as my body trembles. ‘Only I know what’s going on in that head of yours. That you aren’t afraid of a dirty fuck.’
‘What kind of dirty?’ I ask, low and huskily, my words wanton in their intent.
‘You like all the bad words, baby. All the best words. Fuck me,’ he whispers, low and rough. ‘Lick my pussy. Harder. Deeper. Just fuck me, please.’
My God. I try to ignore what his voice does to me as I watch myself trembling on the bed. On the screen, his torso leans left and out of the frame, and for a fleeting second, I’m there—absolutely visible. It only occurs to me briefly to be worried because who would be looking at me when a superstar is about to get undressed? But there, in profile, my long dark hair is splayed across the white linens, my lips slightly parted, and my gaze clouded with desire and need.
‘And my personal favourite.’ His tone is laced with promise and feels like a hundred fingertips dancing across my skin. ‘Fuck my mouth, Dylan.’
‘Is that what we’re doing now,’ I ask, my voice tinged with need.
‘How did I get to be so lucky,’ he asks, the words low in his throat. ‘Where did I find you?’
‘On the strip,’ I say with a sultry giggle. ‘I was waiting for you.’
‘Waiting for my cock? Because you love it, don’t you?’
His murmurs were often a mixture of satisfaction and malevolence, but it worked for us. His taunts and the teasing always preceded mind-blowing orgasms. For us both. And sex wasn’t always like this. Sometimes, it was slow and sensual, and sometimes, fast
and rough.
But it was always good.
I watch Dylan slide his fingers under my tiny bikini bottoms, grabbing the fabric and pulling it away from my body until it’s stretched tight and outlining the space between my legs. The friction caused by the action is enough to make me moan.
‘Good?’ My response is just a garbled noise; his responding chuckle dangerously edged as he pulls the fabric higher still. ‘Where’s it good? Where you feelin’ that?’
The camera focusses between my thighs, specifically where the blue material is pulled tight and dampening. I recall I’d shaken my head, refusing to answer; not that anyone watching would know because the camera had other places to watch. Especially as Dylan loosens his grip, bringing his hand down hard and fast.
In the kitchen, my body jolts, the same as it does against the bed, and my face grows as red as the handprint on the screen.
‘I asked you a question. Don’t make me ask again.’
‘My clit,’ I moan softly, right before the hand comes down once more. ‘Feels so good,’ I groan. Then he asks me where. More explicitly. And who it belongs to.
‘My pussy,’ I moan out, libidinously. ‘My pussy belongs to you.’
Whispers of praise and sounds of pleasure play through the audio as Dylan makes a show of smacking my flesh—grabbing it—making it pink, and pulling the bikini bottoms against me until they’re visibly damp and I’m writhing beneath him.
And all the while, I say the words—words and phrases no one would ever believe I could say.
Fuck me. Make me come. Fuck my pussy. Touch my clit.
All the words I maintain make me uncomfortable, I use here with him.
Moments later, his free hand slides my bottoms down and off, slipping two fingers down the cleft, trailing them further to where I’m wet. He pushes them inside my body, and I cry out, arching my back and impaling myself on his hand. He twists his wrist, plunging those fingers inside again and again. I’m writhing and whimpering as his fingers work—and I’m close—and to my present mortification, I know what comes next.
His fingers slip wetly away.
‘Fuck, baby, you’re wet. So wet.’ His voice is part groan, part wonder as he rubs the evidence between his glistening fingers and thumb. My hips just about collapse under his observations; so much so, he hooks his forearm under me, adjusting my position and lifting me onto my knees. A rustle, a slide of fabric as his shorts come off, and then he’s lining up his hard length between my legs.
The camera pans, the result of a fumble; a flash of fingernails as pink as my cheeks. Why is it I still remember the name of the colour? Pink to Make You Blink. Natasha has the same shade downstairs sitting on a shelf in the treatment room. Silly, but I sometimes catch myself staring at it. Picturing my fingernails clutching Dylan’s tanned shoulders. Hearing his rumbling breath in my ear.
‘You want this, darlin’?’
The camera righted, and his hard, sleek length fills the shot. Hard. Vulgar. Beautiful. Veins straining and wrapped tight in his tanned fist.
I answer with a breathy yesss as his cock disappears inside my body, inch by very slow inch.
I almost can’t watch anymore. I really shouldn’t have begun and not because of any sense of shame. I have no hang-ups about watching sex. In fact, my attitude to porn is somewhat ambivalent, not that anyone would believe. Ambivalent, that is, unless I’m starring in it. And no one would ever believe that, even if this isn’t the only recording we ever made. And right now, it’s not the actual sex I have difficulty watching. Two bodies giving into pleasure; enjoying each other.
No. It’s the intimacy.
The way he twines our fingers together, his body covering mine. The way he kisses my shoulder. Licks my spine. The way, the whole time he films himself sliding in and out of my body, he’s whispering my name, like a catechism of soft whispered praise.
I can’t watch it, yet I am. My toes curl—both then and now—as the pressure builds between my thighs like a dam about to break.
I wished I’d never asked Natasha to send me the link. I wished I never had to think of him again because each tiny fragment of memory knocks me off balance. Takes me back a million steps in my recovery. I don’t need to face what I’ve lost. Not over and over again.
I’m tired of imagining his mouth full of another’s. Tired of asking myself what he’s doing now and who he’s with. All this—the tears streaming down my face and the pain in my chest—and I still can’t tear my eyes from the screen. Of how I push back against him, his movements suddenly tight and almost jolting. Of the camera’s focus suffering, its audio filled with his guttural growls and my cursing as we both come, grinding and drawing the very last drop of pleasure from the other.
The screen goes blank, immediately loading from the beginning again, with the absolute best part of the scene lost. Something so beautiful and personal, I know it’d rival any money shot. I can recall the tiniest detail of how he slides out, semi-hard still, pulling me flush against him. He turns me, and with one touch of the camera, we’re suddenly a smiling and satisfied selfie. He pulls me tight to his chest, wrapping his arm around my waist. And then we turn to each other, and we laugh. We kiss. Oh God, how we kiss.
I don’t need the frames to see it. I know it all by heart—it’s set in stone there. It’s indelibly inked inside my head. And the fact I’ve lost it all now; well, that’s where the bitterness begins.
Chapter Three
Ivy
Saturday morning Fin still isn’t home. I hope she hasn’t forgotten she’s working the front desk this morning. It’s going to be manic—both Natasha and I have back-to-back appointments. Please let her be late rather than a no-show. The last thing I need is to worry about her today.
I get downstairs to the salon, but the lights are on, so I guess Natasha has already arrived. As I turn the corner, I see she has . . . in all her sparkling glory. Black jeans that are more holes than legs and a silver button-down that might be better described as a button off, as in, the buttons are open so low, it may as well not be fastened at all. She’s going to be really cheesed when I hand her the new uniform. The tunics arrived by courier just after closing last night; black with mandarin collars and the salon name embroidered in gold thread. Emporium.
I’m expecting . . . resistance. And hoping that adding her name and managerial title will be an antidote to a full day of pouting.
‘Hey, what are you up to?’ Elbows propped on the reception counter, Nat turns her head as I speak. I can see she has her phone in her hands. Again. ‘Is that thing superglued to your palm?’
‘Morning to you, too,’ she says, turning back to the screen. ‘Did your wand charger go flat?’
‘What?’
‘Oh, well. I know what to get you for your birthday.’
I choose to ignore her muttering. ‘You’re here bright and early.’
‘The coffee here’s better than the instant stuff from the café. Or home. I thought I’d come in and check on my peeps while sipping a latte in peace.’ She peers pointedly at me over her shoulder, but I just laugh. I don’t really care what she’s up to so long as she isn’t watching my secret sex tape again. I’d deleted it from my history last night after deciding it was unhealthy to dwell. I’m also taking comfort in the fact that only two people know that bum belongs to me. I suppose I just have to accept the fact that, for whatever reason, it’s out there now.
For the world to see.
‘What have you got there?’ I gesture to the pad of paper and pen by Natasha’s elbow.
‘I’ve been working on a formula for optimal beard length in relation to attraction.’
‘Dare I ask why?’
Nat shrugs. ‘I got here early, and my phone was flat. I had to do something to keep myself occupied.’
‘Fair enough,’ I answer, half laughing. ‘Let’s hear this list then.’
‘Well, first off, the test subject is me.’
‘You don’t say.’
‘
So the preferences are all mine.’
‘Uh-huh. So therefore, the preferences are weird.’ Beards are so not my thing.
‘I started with sexy stubble because that’s a given. When am I no’ gonna give that level of bilf a go?’ she asks rhetorically. At least, I hope so. And at least, this time, I don’t need to ask her to quantify exactly what a bilf is.
‘A beard you’d like to fondle?’
‘Top of the class,’ she answers back.
‘Please, do continue.’ I make an exaggerated flourish with my hand.
‘So second is sexy pirate,’ she says. ‘Because I am a bit partial to Captain Jack—’
‘Captain Morgan, more like.’
‘I like Captain Morgan and Gentleman Jack.’
‘And vodka cranberry and G and T.’
‘In moderation,’ she says, folding her arms, all schoolmarm.
I scoff in response. ‘Moderation? Is that like your self-control around bearded men? Maybe moderation means something different to me, because it’s not, for sure, dropping your knickers every time some dude with a fuzzy face walks by.’
‘We all have our kryptonite, tequila tits.’
I narrow my gaze, though the venom is wasted as she’s already turned back to her list.
‘Next came sexy seaman. I wish,’ she adds with a ribald laugh.
‘Oh, Lord,’ I reply, rolling my eyes so far back into my head, I think I can see my braid. ‘Out with it—I know you can’t help yourself.’
‘You’re right,’ she says with a snigger. ‘I had sea captain written down first, but it didn’t have the same flavour. You know, seaman . . . semen? Geddit?’
I make a noise like I’m in pain.
‘You know what? I’m just gonna show you the rest because really, there’s no correlation between the length of the beard and how much I want to ride them. I like ‘em all.’ She twists the paper so I can see the list.
Beards: How I Love Them.
sexy stubble.
