Undertow

by Alessandra Torre

  I was, and still am, a dramatic rider. I believe there’s no point in doing something if you aren’t going to do it with all of your heart. I raised my arms, I screamed bloody murder, and he loved every minute of it. We swept through the loading bay after one cycle, the operator amping the riders before pushing the button and letting us ride again.

  The vibration of the seat underneath me, his leg brushing against mine, the anticipation of what was to come … I attacked him as soon as the ride ended, grabbing his hand and tugging him out, the pounding between my legs reaching a fever pitch. I ran, pulling him along with me, our bodies weaving around families, couples, giant stuffed snakes, and dollar games of chance.

  We broke from the crowd and moved faster, our flip-flops slapping against the wood boardwalk, the tinny laugh of children vaguely registering in my head. I broke right when I saw the opening and jogged down sandy steps, glancing behind me to make sure he was there. He was, his eyes bright and curious. “What are we … where are we going?” he called out. I ditched my sandals when I hit the sea of white and ran through hot sand, gripping his hand and pulling him under the boardwalk, past a few homeless tents and down toward the water, where the posts are thicker, the cover more enclosed, privacy at a barely-there standard. I waded into calf-high water, pulling and then pushing him against a square post, my hands frantic on his shirt, my mouth fighting the movement of clothes for another chance at that gorgeous mouth.

  His hands pushed my thin tee up over the curves of my bikini top, his firm fingers sliding the triangles of my bikini over and my breasts spilled free. His hands cupped and squeezed, his breath catching in my mouth. He pulled away, looking down, staring at my breasts in his hands before lifting them into the heat of his mouth. The sensation was incredible, his tongue soft yet firm, pliable against my delicate skin. I could feel him, hard against my thigh, and I reached back, digging into my pocket for what I always kept there—just in case. Just in case I met a man I couldn’t resist.

  He started at the touch of my fingers, dipping under the nylon of his shorts, and lifted off my breasts, surprised. “Here?” This close, I could see tints of green in his blue eyes, the color of ocean water, glittering brilliantly against the brown sand of his skin.

  “Yes, here. I need you.” I met his gaze confidently as I said the words, my hands already sealing the deal, pulling him out—oh my god, hard—and sliding protection over him with one smooth motion. His eyes darkened, intensity stealing over them, and he pushed me back against the wet wooden piling, pushing my skirt up as his hands gripped my ass and lifted.

  Then I was in the air, his pelvis underneath me, supporting me against the post, and his fingers were skimming the line of my bikini bottoms, yanking the side tie loose. His mouth left mine, a gasp in his tone as his fingers pushed inside of me, one digit and then two. “Jesus. Are you sure?”

  A stupid question as I hung before him, my breasts exposed, legs wrapped around his waist, my need dripping a path for his cock. “Give it to me,” I breathed. “Hard.”

  He didn’t ask again, didn’t do anything but prop me hard against the piling and thrust. Quick strokes, his breath hard against my neck, his hands digging into the flesh of my ass, pulling and gripping the skin as he made his mark on my body. His fucks were wild, out of control, and I moaned against his neck, loving the fervor of his movements.

  I cried out as I came and his mouth quickly moved to mine, muffling the sound as my body trembled, my legs squeezing his waist as intensity shook my body. It was too much, too great, the heat of my orgasm and clench of my sex, and I felt him as he came, the twitch and raw emotion that flowed through him, his breath gasping as he grunted, slowing his fucks and giving me a few final pushes.

  “Oh my God,” he whispered against my neck, his cock softening inside of me. “Oh my God. I think I’m in love with you.”

  He wasn’t in love. Not yet. He was just surprised that a girl with perfect teeth and a bred-in-the-Valley smile would fuck a stranger under the Santa Monica Pier. And I thought, as I dropped to my knees in the water and peeled off the condom, taking him into my mouth and sucking the cum off his cock, that I would never see him again. That it would be that one fuckable moment and nothing else. But here we are, two years later and incredibly in love.

  That’s right. In love. Yes, I’m the same hoochie who got my brains fucked out on the weight bench. The one who has dated Stewart Brand, one of the most eligible bachelors in downtown Hollywood for the last two and a half years. I know what you’re thinking. That dropped jaw and disgusted look on your face? I’ve seen it before. But wait. Please.

  Don’t judge me quite yet.

  5

  Venice Beach, CA

  I am barefoot on the couch when Paul gets home, the door slamming open and shaking the wall art. I slide the headphones off my head and rise to my feet. “Hey lover,” I say, wrapping my arms around his neck.

  “Hey beautiful. How was life with the other half?”

  “Bearable.” I pull him tightly to me for a kiss. “I need you.”

  He welcomes me home with a kitchen fuck, my ass bare on the counter, legs wrapped tight around his waist. His mouth plays with my neck as he fucks, his pace smooth and unhurried, as if we have all the time in the world. And, in a way, we do. Nothing to do today, no appointments or places to be. He whispers dirty things as his hands slide around and beneath me, gripping my ass and pulling me into his strokes. My legs tighten around him, my walls constricting and squeezing, and his speed increases enough to take me over the edge and gently back down. Then, we move to the bed, him still hard and firm inside of me. There, on our worn sheets, he rolls me onto my side, and takes me to orgasm another two times, finishing with a groan.

  We lay entwined in each other’s arms, a strong breeze of salt and sand blowing through the open window and over our damp skin. He pulls me closer and presses a soft kiss on my neck. “I love you, Madd.”

  “I love you, too.” And I do. I love this man, who has not one stressed out bone in his body. He concerns himself with two things: surfing and keeping me happy. I love his outlook on life, a Bob Marley style philosophy. We fuck, we surf, and we love. There isn’t too much else to our life. To this half of my life.

  “Waves are supposed to be strong this afternoon. Wanna ride some today?”

  “I think I’ll hit the bookstore and log in a few hours. You go out this morning?”

  “Yeah. Got up about five. Mavericks Invitational is in three weeks, so I’ll hit it hard until then.”

  Paul doesn’t need to practice. He is a god on a stick. His arms and legs work in perfect synchronization, his body gliding and bending at the perfect moment to stay balanced. Watching him surf makes my heart pound and my body clench. It is pure sex, the push and pull of muscles in a graceful movement that displays his athleticism. He’s consistently ranked in the top twenty surfers in the world, a ranking that means little when it comes to his finances. Every competition is a negative investment, unless he wins. When he does win, sponsors are happy and prize money covers a few months of rent. When he loses, he’s out his travel expenses, and we eat Ramen until the next big event.

  I twist until my head is on his stomach, his hand beginning to run through my hair, pulling at bits of blonde and curling them around his fingers. I close my eyes, the movement soothing and familiar. Outside, some music starts up, the strands of reggae floating through the air and over our space. To Ziggy Marley’s voice and against Paul’s sun-kissed abs, I close my eyes and fall asleep.

  6

  Hollywood, CA

  I hate society’s notion that there is something wrong with sex. Something wrong with a woman who loves sex. I’ve loved sex for as long as I can remember. I lost my virginity at fourteen, when Gus Blankenship showed me his penis behind the gym, and I got so hot and bothered that I let him put it in me. We did it right there, with hard gravel digging into my back, his excited acne-covered face swinging above me. It was the best forty-two seconds of my life
thus far.

  That was back in the day when fourteen-year-olds were still pure, and not the makeup covered, push-up bra tramps they are today. Now, sixth grade sleepovers double as orgies where the girls fight over who’s gonna get to suck the barely-handsome dad off first.

  It’s all wrong, the evolution of our innocent youth into cock-gobbling sluts. Which seems hypocritical coming from me, but it’s not. I fuck because I love it, because I want to, because it brings me pleasure. They fuck because they think that they have to—for the guy, for the queen-bee girl, for the proverbial ‘fuck you’ to society that they imagine it creates.

  They have it so backward, so twistedly screwed. Sex should be about mutual enjoyment, connection, the borrowing from another’s fire at a moment when you want it most.

  I pity them, with their glossy red lips and pierced belly buttons. Because, when it all comes to pass? When they ‘grow up’ and getting fucked during halftime is no longer cool but suddenly slutty? They will feel dirty, used and ruined. And all because they did it for the wrong reasons.

  My phone rings, shrill and demanding. I sigh, the ringtone reserved for only one individual.

  “Would you like me to get that?” The soft voice of the masseuse matches the dim room, soothing sounds, and eucalyptus scent.

  “Do you mind bringing it to me? I’ll put it on silent.” I push up, taking the cell and silencing the call, flipping the button on the side to mute any future interruptions. “Sorry about that.” I lay back down, holding out the phone, the woman taking it from me with a gracious smile.

  It was my mother. I will need to call her back, as soon as Kindi finishes melting every muscle of my body. Paul needs this, to let this woman work her magic on his sore back and tight legs. But that will never happen. Kindi is a Stewart perk, her oiled hands rubbing me down in the spa of Stewart’s skyscraper. Bringing Paul by would be combining my worlds, and as stupid as I am to have the two worlds, even I realize the danger in mixing their components. Overlapping cannot happen.

  I take a deep breath and exhale, intentionally relaxing my shoulders, her fingers digging and pushing, breaking up a bundle of nerves, the pain excruciatingly pleasurable. I push all thoughts of Paul out of my head and focus on her hands.

  7

  Hollywood, CA

  I grew up a charmed child of La Jolla. Nannies wiped my dirty ass, Christmas was spent in Aspen, and school uniforms shared closet space with miniature lines of Dior and Versace. I lived a privileged life between surfer chick and spoiled brat, sandy cheeks and wet bikinis chafing the leather seats of my ice blue BMW convertible. I smoked weed with friends in million-dollar mansions with ocean views while our parents cruised the Black Sea. I fucked preppy boys who wore Lacoste and Rolexes and played lacrosse. I was in a bubble of ridiculousness and grew up thinking that life never said no, credit cards were never declined, and happiness was a given.

  Life was perfect until my father, a hedge fund manager with a minor addiction to cocaine, drove off the manicured edge of a Malibu cliff to the polished astonishment of a restaurant full of Orange County’s upper society. His mistress, a surgically enhanced blonde three years older than me, was in the front seat, a fact which was hidden from no one, and embraced by many of my mom’s arch enemies. They both died, killed by the cliffs.

  In that moment, perfection became flawed and fragile.

  Our money lasted another ten months until the fat mortgage, civil lawsuits, and attorneys took it all. I spent my senior year at the public high school, my BMW repossessed, my school uniforms left in the closet of a home that the bank quickly seized. I was unceremoniously dumped into normality alongside my mother, both of us immediately abandoned by our ‘friends.’

  Looking back, I see the turning point that occurred during that time. I miss my father. Despite his shortcomings and mistakes, I loved him, and can recognize bits of him throughout my personality. But the person that I was becoming? The type of individual bred by easy wealth and never-told-no parenting? I was a bitch. A self-assured, my-way-or-the-highway bitch. I didn’t appreciate what I had and demanded more at every turn. I’m grateful that I got kicked in the ass and had a taste of reality before I traveled too far, and that persona became permanent.

  My mother, on the other hand, was a lost cause. She was born and raised in those twenty thousand square foot mansions and handled middle-class life with the reluctance of an offended cat. She drowned herself in top-shelf martinis we couldn’t afford, refusing to cook, clean, or pay bills—her breeding too far above such blue-collar work. I became the adult, she became the child, and our relationship dissolved until I moved out and she found a man. Now she is the wife and full-time dependent of Maurice Fulton, an old man who she can’t possibly love, but one who keeps her groomed and outfitted in his big house and keeps her glass filled. I speak to her occasionally, when I get the sadistic urge to see what a society-bred alcoholic sounds like.

  Isolation is one thing I have in common with my men. We are all loners, floating through life unattached, except to each other. We don’t talk about our pasts and our lack of familial ties. There’s no point in dwelling on the darkness, not when our life is full of such light.

  Five months before Paul, I met Stewart on the street in downtown Hollywood. It was November and snowing. Not thick, heavy snow that allowed snowmen and powder fights, but a light flurry that swirled through the air and fell softly on open tongues, melting upon contact. It doesn’t snow in our part of the world and the barely-there flurries were an event worth celebrating.

  I was downtown, meeting my stepfather’s attorney to sign some paperwork. Halfway through our meeting, I noticed the snow, and moved to the window, my hands and nose pressed to the glass like a child. I signed the final pages and ran down six flights of stairwell steps and burst into the frigid air.

  I was spinning under the flurries, hands outstretched and face turned up to the sky, when I stumbled out of place and into the hard polish of his suit. He was walking, pausing only to right my stride before moving on. But my ankle turned in the stumble, and I let out a small cry of pain that had his eyes meeting mine, concern thick in his features. He stopped, gripping my arms, his stare intent on my face. “Are you all right?”

  I winced, pushing against his chest and put some weight on my ankle, moving away from him and gripping the metal rod of a street sign. “I’m fine.” I glanced up, watching the erratic swirl of flakes, my mouth curving back into a smile. “It’s snowing!”

  He dismissed the miracle of snow with one shrug of his suit. “Is your car close by?”

  “It’s just a few blocks up.” I leaned against the pole, putting weight on my good foot. I held out my hand and watched as dots of white sprinkled my palm. I glanced over at him, momentarily distracted from the snow as I took in the gorgeous stranger. He had a custom suit stretched across a strong, tall build. Black hair, swept back and dotted with snow. Blue eyes staring at me with a mixture of impatience and concern. I smiled. “I’m good, really.”

  He sighed, then stepped closer, holding out his arm. “May I … please? Let me carry you inside. I can have a driver take you home.”

  I laughed. “And not be able to get back to my car? That is thoughtful, but driving won’t be a problem, it’s my other foot.”

  He moved closer, his hand brushing my arm, and I started at the contact, the brush of touch electric. “Then I’ll carry you to your car. Please.” His eyes softened, the urgency in them gone, and I relaxed.

  “If you insist.” I smiled, giggling when he scooped me up. Cradling me to his chest, his intense eyes stared bemusedly down at me.

  “This is funny?” he questioned, a flow of minty fresh breath floating down on me.

  “Quite romantic, actually.”

  His hands supported me easily, my weight not slipping and sliding through his arms. I leaned in, resting my head against the wool of his suit, the bump of our movement slightly rocky. “Take a right here. It might be a hair more than a few blocks.” I discreetl
y inhaled, a delicious blend of vanilla and forest hitting my nose, and I burrowed my face further into his chest.

  “What’s your name?” The words vibrated through his chest, and I lifted my head, staring at the strong muscles of his neck, and had the insane urge to lift my mouth to them, to trail playful kisses up, until I reached the fine shadow of his jaw, over that strong feature and to those lips.

  I swallowed. “Madison. Decater.”

  He stopped walking, the abrupt change causing instability, my arms gripping his shoulders for balance, then snaking around his neck. He looked down, smiling, the bright flash of white teeth against the stubble of his five-o-clock shadow breathtaking. “Stewart Brand. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “Same here.”

  He then asked me where I lived and what I did. We laughed over his lack of book knowledge and his admission of no social life. We flirted, his hands tightened, and we walked two blocks past my car before I realized it and made him turn around.

  We parted awkwardly, neither one of us wanting to step away, then his cell rang, and he glanced at his watch, muttering a curse. He passed me a business card while stepping away, answering the phone and bringing it to his ear.

  “Call me,” he mouthed. “Please.”

  Then he winked at me and left, talking quickly, his steps turning into a jog as he headed back up the street. I hobbled into the car and watched him disappear, waiting to see if he would glance back. But he didn’t, and I stuffed his card into my purse and left, my tender ankle almost causing my Suzuki to sideswipe an adjacent Mercedes.

  I sat on the card for a week, occasionally pulling it out and running my fingers over the surface. Women shouldn’t call men. We should be pursued, should play the offhand, casual game until the men tackled us to the ground with flowers and affection. But his hurried exit, the urgency on his face when the phone rang, didn’t give us the customary time to find pen and paper and exchange numbers. I bent the card slightly in my hand and considered tossing it the trash to end the dilemma.