by Kristen Mae
I sat for a while, absorbing piece after piece until my nerves wound themselves so tight that I felt like a violin string myself—pluck me, and I’ll vibrate. Leaning back on the couch and letting the haunting notes of the Sibelius Violin Concerto work their way into my bones, I grew rigid with angst, scraped my fingernails up my thighs so ravenously that I left bright red marks and bits of torn skin in their wake. It was as if I’d been trapped inside my own my body and had been cracked open, and now I was rushing out of myself like molten lava, hot with readiness to finally be loose. When I could take no more, I turned off the music, stuffed myself back where I belonged, and sutured the crack.
That night, for the first time since I’d known him, I stood in front of Oren and undressed for him. Of course I’d undressed many times in front of him, but never for him. I’d never invited his eyes to roam my body, never studied his face while he drank in the sight of me.
But I wanted to see if I could open up that suture just a little, try to let myself go with him. He sat on the couch with his palms lying flat on his thighs, some student’s research paper discarded in a pile beside him. I pulled my T-shirt over my head slowly, took my time sliding my bra straps down my arms before pulling at the cups and letting my breasts spill over the tops. Oren gaped at that and I heard his breath hitch. My hands shook as I reached behind my back and undid the clasp.
For bravery, I reminded myself what my body had looked like in the mirror only a few days before. I tried to see myself as Oren saw me, tried to tell myself that it was not a bad thing for him to see me as beautiful. The pens in his pocket protector rose and fell with his breath, but his face remained stoic. Most men would have been too eager here—they’d have unzipped their pants and stood at attention before I’d even finished undressing. But Oren knew something was happening. He knew he needed to be careful and patient and sweet.
I slid my jeans down over my hips, wary of overdoing it with the seductiveness—I’d look ridiculous if I tried too hard. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, then hooked my thumbs in the sides of my underwear and pushed them to the floor with my jeans. Tiny, invisible tremors passed through me. I’d never stood like this, naked and exposed before my husband.
I opened my eyes and moved closer to him, removed his pens and highlighters and laid them neatly on the table beside the couch, then unzipped his pants and pulled everything down. He lifted up to help me. The room was quiet as a catacomb, and since we still hadn’t bought curtains or a rug, every scrape of cloth, every shift of our bodies, echoed off the bare walls and windows. My own breath was percussive against the silence.
I straddled Oren and slid him into me right away, knowing I was plenty wet enough. I hadn’t dried out since the day in the shower when the first wild thoughts of Claire had carved themselves into my consciousness. Oren’s face filled with such delighted surprise at my readiness that I almost burst into tears for him. Instead, I put a hand on either side of his face and kissed him—not my usual peck, but full on, opening his lips with mine and slipping my tongue into his mouth, lapping his breath into me.
I forced myself to pay attention to what Oren felt like inside me. I tried to recall that feeling of flowing out of myself, that cracked molten lava feeling. My heart fluttered—Oren felt…like something. I pulled away from our kiss and looked at his face while I continued moving against him, surprised by the building sensation between my legs. Had I not been feeling anything before? I was so damn wet.
Oren’s eyes were closed, mouth open as if in awe. He opened his eyes and caught me watching him. “Fuck, Hazel.” He put his hands on my hips and I felt his fingers shaking.
This was all because of Claire, I thought suddenly, and my insides tensed. I kept moving. I love Oren. I love Oren. But even as I reasoned with myself, my insides coiled tighter and my throat constricted with the urge to cry. I threw myself into fucking him, pushed my hands into his hair and moved my hips against him, drowning him in my wet heat before it could disappear. Every part of me was tight, rigid, and everything about what I was doing felt wrong, but I kept going, kept riding him with frantic, desperate intensity until he shuddered and groaned and made a sound like he was hurt.
I stilled and laid my head against his shoulder as we waited for our breathing to slow. He stroked my back, and although I couldn’t see his face, I knew his brow must be furrowed with confusion. After a few minutes, he whispered, “What was that?”
“I don’t know. I just…I guess I felt…horny? …or something.” I was glad he couldn’t see the tear that escaped and slid down my cheek.
“You ready for Italy?” Claire was talking around a giant, partially chewed bite of taco.
I frowned. “That’s disgusting, Claire. But yes, I’m ready.”
I was glad that she chewed with her mouth open—it helped that there was at least one thing about her I could find repulsive. Claire and her sparkly blue eyes. I almost wanted to punch her just to prove I didn’t desire her. But no, I didn’t really want to punch her, least of all today. Today I felt almost normal, like it was possible to be Claire’s friend without being consumed by lust. Maybe it was the rundown taco joint. There was nothing sexy about it.
“Sorry,” she said, swallowing. “Mike nags me about that all the time too. He says I eat like I was raised in a barn.”
I arched an eyebrow at her. “Usually it’s the guy who’s gross, isn’t it?”
“Not with me and Mike.” She grinned. “He’s prim as shit. That’s why I have a separate room for my music stuff. He wanted me to have a place where I could be gross but keep it apart from the rest of the house.”
I recalled the image of Claire stretched out on her fluffy white rug and shoved it roughly away. “I wouldn’t call your music room gross.” I took a giant bite of my taco and spoke around a mouthful of meat and cheese: “Messy as hell, maybe, but not gross.”
Claire cringed and threw a napkin at me. “Oh geez, you’re right. That’s nasty.”
I laughed until I almost choked on a piece of lettuce. I couldn’t even pretend to be mad at her.
TEN
Saturday at the grocery store standing in front of the cantaloupes, a new image sprang out of nowhere—me laying timid hands on Claire’s bare skin, my fingers trembling as I traced her curves. I didn’t dare fantasize any further than that, but that lone image was enough to cover my arms in goosebumps.
I discovered I could give myself goosebumps anytime, anywhere. I made it into a game: relax, think of some boring thing, and then imagine Claire daring me with her eyes to come a little closer, and kablammo—goosebumps everywhere. You’re just fucking horny, I told myself. Do something about it.
There was a period when I was fearless. Before I met Oren, I used to go to nightclubs, often by myself, find a nice-looking guy, and then go home with him and tease him until he turned crimson with frustration. I’d think, Who’s in control now, fucker? or Go ahead and rape me. Occasionally I let them have me, like if I got scared they actually would rape me, because that thought shook the bravery right out of me. Then I would spend the next few days on fire with hatred for myself.
But usually I managed to exert exactly the right amount of control. With some, I stripped to sexy, bass-thumping music, whispered nasty things in their ear, and left. With others, I dragged my naked body up and down theirs until they quivered with need, and again, I would get dressed and go. Once, I let one of them give me a massage, and as he ran his palms over the backs of my thighs, he ejaculated on me. I got up, washed myself off, and walked out the door to the sound of his embarrassed apologies.
At the time, it felt like I was getting what I wanted.
I straddled Oren in our bed Sunday night, nearly choking with lust, trying to find a way to let myself free. My throat felt squeezed, bound up, as if I were gagging on all the words I couldn’t make myself say.
I bent to kiss him, shoved my hands through his blond curls, scraped my teeth along his neck and shoulders. I clawed at his chest, trying to c
onvey my need through my fingertips.
Feel something, I silently begged myself. I didn’t want to be the girl who faked it anymore. But there was still a tightness inside, an invisible power that wouldn’t let me loose.
I was dripping wet, but not for Oren.
The room was completely without light. Though I could feel we were surrounded by great, hulking shapes, I couldn’t quite make them out, and the bed we lay on, the pillows, the blankets—it was all too black to see. I could see only Claire, naked Claire, hovering over me and panting at me, her milky skin glowing against the surrounding blackness.
She gazed at me with her eyelids lowered, daring me to…to what? She was close enough to kiss, and her lips were parted. I lifted up as if to kiss her, but instead grabbed a thick wad of her hair in my fist and pulled her head back to expose her neck. She closed her eyes and moaned as I set my mouth on her, licking, sucking, biting her. God, she made me so…hungry.
Then she laughed a quiet, almost sinister laugh and leaned in to kiss me on the mouth. When her lips met mine, my hand melted out of her hair as her hands skated across my breasts, down my waist, and over my hips, every inch of my skin releasing and submitting to her touch. She moved her kiss from my mouth and over my jaw until she was sucking my neck, and then her wet mouth was on my chest, traveling between my breasts and down my stomach. One of her hands was on my inner thigh. Her tongue was unbearable. My body flamed.
Then—oh god—her mouth and hand met together between my legs. She was on me. In me. Mouth, tongue, fingers.
Just as I exploded into orgasm, Claire disappeared. I kicked at the sheets, first the dark sheets of the dream, then my own white bedsheets, trembling and quaking as the orgasm racked my body. Someone was moaning. Me. I was moaning—very loudly.
My body twitched as I sat up and struggled to catch my breath, clutching a wad of sheets to me. My chest rose and fell as riotously as if I’d just sprinted a 400. I hadn’t even touched myself and yet had managed to orgasm…from a dream.
Oren still slept—praise everything in the universe—peacefully beside me in our bed. Never again would I complain that he could sleep through a tornado siren.
The sheets beneath me were damp with sweat, and my pillow was so wet it would need to go in the trash. I brought my hand to my face and found beads of sweat still clinging to my skin. What the hell is wrong with me? The clock on my nightstand read 5:42 a.m. I turned off the alarm that had been set to go off at seven o’clock for my morning run and climbed out of bed as quietly as I could, grabbing a towel from the linen closet to absorb some of the sweat from the bedsheets. Between the dream and the…all the sweat, I felt like I was sick, literally sick over Claire. This was not normal.
This was bad.
I went to the bathroom, pulled off my soaked nightshirt and sopping underwear and tossed them in the hamper, then used the towel to pat myself dry and threw that in the hamper too. God—how could I ever look Claire in the eye again? And what if I’d woken up Oren? What would he think of me being unable to come during sex with him but apparently capable of earth-shattering orgasms while dreaming of a woman?
Back in the dim bedroom, I fumbled in the dresser for a pair of dry underwear, running shorts, and a sports bra. Might as well start the day with a long run on the beach to purge any leftover sexual tension. I imagined myself glancing over at Claire during orchestra rehearsal and exploding into spontaneous orgasm. That would doubtless elicit a very mixed reaction from the rest of the orchestra.
I pulled on my running clothes, grabbed my armband, headphones, phone, and keys, and slunk out the door. Oren would know where I was when he woke up. Hopefully he wouldn’t reach over and feel the cold, damp spot where I’d just experienced the biggest orgasm of my life.
This was going to be a very long run.
After the dream, the secret became bigger than itself. I considered releasing it, telling…whom? Claire? I imagined the conversation going something like this:
“I have feelings for you.”
“What do you mean, ‘feelings’?”
“I want your body, but I still love my husband and have no intention of leaving him. I’m not even a lesbian. I just really want to do all sorts of nasty things with you and can’t stop fantasizing about it.”
“Oh my god, you fucking sicko.”
Claire wasn’t one to be judgmental, though. She might try to normalize the whole thing:
“I have feelings for you.”
“I understand. That’s totally normal considering what you’ve been dealing with lately.”
“It doesn’t feel normal.”
“It’s perfectly normal to not feel normal.”
“But I feel crazy.”
“Who wouldn’t feel crazy given everything you’ve been through?”
“Goddammit, Claire!”
“I understand. It’s normal to feel angry.”
No, she wouldn’t do that. But maybe she would see right into me, all the way down into my crazy, and do the right thing:
“I have feelings for you.”
“You do? I…well, gosh, I don’t know what to say.”
“I’m sorry. It’s really been messing with my head.”
“I can see this is causing you a lot of grief. Perhaps it would be best if we distanced ourselves from one another.”
That last one hurt the most.
I avoided Claire for a few days. We didn’t jog or study Italian together, and at orchestra rehearsal I kept my eyes on my music. I responded only briefly to her texts if I responded at all.
By the time quartet rehearsal began Thursday night, I was so tightly wound that I couldn’t even bring myself to make eye contact with Claire. I was grateful Katrina got down to business before any awkwardness could arise. “I suppose you all got the email I sent about the recital next week. Bill scheduled us for next Tuesday evening at seven, here in the hall.”
Claire’s head perked up and I cast my glance downward, terrified she’d know everything if she looked into my eyes. “Here? We’ll never fill this space in a million years. And what about acoustics?”
Katrina set down her phone. “Bill seems to think it will be fine. And anyway, it was kind of a personal request by one of our major patrons. They’re even hosting a party afterwards at Bill’s house out on the river. Very posh, supposedly.”
Raymond was typing the information into his own calendar. “And lemme guess: attendance at the party is mandatory?”
“‘Strongly encouraged’ were Bill’s words.”
“What is the dress?” I asked, careful to look only at Katrina and not Claire.
“We don’t try to coordinate in any special way. Typical recital attire, formal, but not too bright. Probably what you’re used to.”
I nodded, and we began working on our music. I’d hoped the playing at least would distract me, but every minute that ticked by made me feel more nauseous, like I was sick with a virus of some sort. Maybe I really was. It would explain my insane dream and all the sweat, wouldn’t it? But deep down, I knew that my unsettled stomach was not due to a virus at all.
When we finished, Claire packed away her cello slowly. I’d felt her eyes checking in on me throughout rehearsal, as though she thought if she looked at me hard enough she could figure out why I’d been avoiding her. I almost packed up and ran out with Katrina and Raymond, but I couldn’t do that to Claire. It wasn’t her fault I was falling apart.
Finally, I turned to face her. She was standing by her cello case with her arm draped around it in that slouchy habit of hers, and her mouth was pursed in a funny way I hadn’t seen before.
I looked down at the floor.
“Did I do something?” Her voice was tentative, almost a whisper. “Hazel?”
I looked at her again, felt my body slump. “No. You didn’t do anything.”
“You would tell me, though? If I did?”
I nodded. My eyes stung with the urge to cry. I knew she was going to assume I was upset about my past
again. God, I wished it were only that.
“Did something else happen?”
I had a sex dream about you and I cannot get you out of my fucking head. “Kinda.” I didn’t move. I was afraid my secrets would pour out of me if I did.
She smiled a little. “I can be there for you, you know. Don’t pull away.”
I nodded and turned to zip up my violin case. It was still so hard to look at her. I slung my violin case over my shoulders and we walked out into the hallway together. “I feel like an asshole,” I said finally. “I’m really sorry.”
She linked her arm in mine and I somehow managed to not get goosebumps or burst into flames. “Nothing to be sorry about. You’re going through some shit. Whatever. You sounded fantastic in rehearsal tonight, by the way.”
“Did I? Thanks. You too.” I loved how adept she was at changing the subject.
“No, really, the second violin part for the Sibelius is crazy. At least as hard as the first part. You fucking killed it.”
I laughed at Claire’s return to gratuitous fowl language, knowing it meant she was at ease again. I pushed open the door to the outside and, though it was long past sunset, the heat rolled over me like a wave of steam. “Holy crap,” I said. “I hope it’s not this hot in Italy.”
“It’s not. I’ve been researching. Bring sweaters for nighttime.” She pulled her arm out of mine so we could get through the door. “And Lucca has a hopping nightlife, just so you know. You’ll go out on the town with me, right?”
I hadn’t even thought about Lucca’s nightlife. I’d only been picturing peaceful, bucolic days, countrysides patched with grape vineyards and punctuated by those funny-looking, tall, skinny trees. Educational tours of old clock towers and tiled roofs, medieval cathedrals and crumbling coliseums. But, in theory, going out with Claire should be fun. “Of course I’ll go out with you,” I said.
