by Martin, M.
“Yes, but even more than that, it’s always been a sanctuary for artists who made it to mainstream success, and yet crave this reclusion that looms in these dark and mysterious rooms that you can run away to in the middle of LA.”
“So it’s kind of an irony, right?” I whisper in Catherine’s ear as my hands make it to the front of her still well zippered dress.
Catherine walks to the console and places her slight black bag on it. She opens the bejeweled top to pull out an iPhone that she carefully places in the docking station. She plays an unexpectedly folksy song as she hovers over the stereo a moment to adjust the sound to a perfect 1:00 a.m. volume that’s neither too loud nor too soft as her hips sway seductively back and forth to the music.
“In the sixties, this hotel, actually, I think this very room was packed with the most famous rockers who ever lived.”
“This one?” I respond in surprise.
“I think Led Zeppelin took a famous picture for their album cover just outside your window. The Mamas and the Papas did a famous magazine cover in your bathtub because they were too high to leave the room.”
“And in between, you have people like us who would check in and out, getting to know each other more and more,” I add.
“They’d also bring their groupies back to the room and have wild nights, at least until they found the one they liked the most. They all eventually pair off, at least for a little while.”
“How do you keep all this information in your pretty little head?” I ask slyly.
“It’s just so romantic; it makes you feel like you’re part of their story, even after all these years. And then you had the Rolling Stones and the Beatles who would come and go in between weekends, where Jim Morrison would fall in and out of love, while Janis Joplin would wander the halls under a halo of pot smoke.”
Catherine slowly unzips her corset-like dress down the side; the black fabric falls to the sides and reveals the blush of her pink skin. The dress cascades to the floor as she steps out from inside its capture. She walks to me in just her creamy pink garter and underwear that raises high on her waist with a lacy bra that attempts to constrain her breasts that erupt over the top. She’s more playful than I have seen—part show and part innocent—as she moves to the instrumental sound that rolls across the room.
“Do you know who this is?” she says as she gazes into my eyes looking almost irresistible.
I remain silent and shrug.
“Oh my god, you’ve got to be kidding.” She slaps my rear end.
“I’m sorry, I’m more of the hip-hop generation, I guess.”
“That’s simply unacceptable, Mr. Summers,” she says playfully. “This is one of the greatest love stories ever told in music. When I looked into your eyes, those steely grayish-blue eyes, this song popped into my mind.”
“These eyes?” I respond as I peer like an owl closer to her own perfect eyes wide-awake amid her story.
“‘Judy Blue Eyes.’ Actually, I think it’s called ‘Suite: Judy Blue Eyes.’ It’s the very reason the band Crosby, Stills, and Nash came to be in the first place. I think they lived in one of the bungalows for a while.”
“Did they all love the same American woman?” I say, duplicating her back-and-forth dance as she slowly unbuttons my shirt down the front and caresses my skin as she progresses to my waist.
“Actually, the main singer was in love with this songwriter named Judy Collins. She has this impossibly angelic voice and intense blue eyes. The two of them had this hopelessly tumultuous relationship during a period of two or three years. And then, like so many other passionate relationships, they broke up, but not before he wrote this song and sang it to her.”
“And now just the song remains?”
“‘For all of us to feel and love and anguish with through hard times as we partake in the love that was and will always be as long as the song is played.’”
Then the song is interrupted by an incoming-text sound that halts the moment. Catherine seems shocked, concerned even, as she rushes over to her phone. I can see that a dark photo has popped up on her phone screen as she rushes it away with an almost frantic fingering.
“Boyfriend checking in on us, love?” I say in jest with an element of sarcasm.
“No, no, just work, my love,” she dismisses.
“Work texting you at three a.m.?”
“I think it was from earlier today. It must have been delayed or something.”
The music returns as I let the topic fade. Catherine grabs me by the waist and inserts both her hands into the brim of my trousers.
“Do I sense some jealousy, Mr. Summers?”
“Not at all; I just wanted the music to come back.”
“So you like ‘Judy Blue Eyes?’” she says slyly, pulling off my belt and unbuttoning my pants, which fall to the floor and leave me standing there naked in front of her.
“The only music I can hear is you, Catherine,” I say as my erection rises.
She tries to lead, but this is where I take control. I grab her from behind and pull her in closer, thrusting my dick against her body as our mouths collide to the strum of love-struck rockers singing their wholehearted anthems in a mix of Spanish and English lyrics.
I unhook her bra from the back as it drops to the floor, massaging her delicate shoulders that frame her back and down her spine, working my way to the inside of her skirt that clings to her waist. She pulls me tighter as I scour the garment for its zipper. Her hand reaches back to help mine, and she pulls it loose from her torso, leaving her there in just her stockings. She tries to touch me, but I pull her hands away and place them on her body as she caresses herself. My actions become more aggressive as I lead her into the bedroom, holding her from behind at the waist as I push her down on all fours atop the bed. Her angelic hips round the edges of her garter. I pull it off in slow motion along with her stockings as she arches her back.
“Tell me what you want,” I say again, pulling her tight and close into my dick, which intersects her pink flesh.
“I want you as close to me as possible.”
She tries to rise to her knees, but I push her down again, dropping to my own knees on the side of the bed and caressing her calves as I make my way up her legs with my tongue. My hands trace the inside of her legs and pelvis. I can feel the heat from inside her against my hand, as I intentionally pass over her perfect pinkness again and again. She’s the quick-sex kind of lover, as I try to strip her of years of bad habits that will ultimately have her dripping before I’m even inside her.
She struggles to get out of position, and I push her down again. My face makes its way to her ass, licking it on the outside, wetting it with my tongue before working my thumb up and down, and then penetrating just barely and then again. I want her to say something; I want her wild and begging, uttering words I’d never expect from those polite lips that remain lost in subtle, pleasurable moans. I hear her breath becoming long for what she wants most. I work her deeper and deeper from behind with my hands, as my tongue follows and enters her amid a personal scent that intoxicates me almost to the point of erupting.
“I want you inside me. I want you now!” she screams, squirming to get up as I push her back down and rise to my feet. I pull her up onto her knees and massage her breasts. Her back leans up against me and her head contorts back as our lips violently lock. She rocks harder and harder against me as my hands work their way down her stomach and inside to find her fully wet. I grab her with both of my hands and tip myself inside her ever so gently the first time. She arches back and takes me inside as deep as she can manage in an exhaustive breath, alas quenched as I thrust harder and harder to get deeper and deeper inside her. She exalts a sound so euphoric, so complete that I erupt fully within her and our bodies collapse atop one another.
A potent mix of pink Dom, jet lag, and sex that takes every ounce of you kept me
in a deep sleep through morning. My eyes open to do a once-over of the room to recognize where I am. Although the location was unknown, I was thoroughly aware Catherine was no longer by my side. I rubbed my hand across the sheets that had turned cold and the pillow that looked as if it hadn’t even been slept on. My thoughts churn as I wonder if perhaps she went back to her own room once I had fallen asleep, or perhaps she had other plans and failed to mention them to me. She’s so hot and cold, consumed in the moments we’re together and then she whisks away to her work-filled life. I’ve never had a woman whom I’ve had to chase, and quite honestly, it’s refreshing.
Rain beats on a metal drain that drops onto the terrace just outside the bedroom window. It patters like loose change at the bottom of a rusty tin bowl, and it gives me a clue of what LA has in store for me today. Then a scent seems to arrive in my room out of nowhere, a mix of crispy toast and bacon that must be from a passing room service trolley, but as I listen beyond the sound of the rain, I hear the rattling of pots and pans and wonder if perhaps Catherine is still here.
I throw on my white boxers and wander the wooden planks of the hallway into the living room engulfed in a scent to a sizzling sound. I look through to the little kitchen that until now just seemed an unnecessary architectural addendum to this hotel’s history. I see Catherine standing in a fluffy white robe, her hair pulled up over her spectacled morning face studying a frying pan in front of her.
I’ve never had a woman make breakfast for me aside from my mother, and that was so long ago. I cower and then step back to watch just a minute more. I see her delicate wrist maneuvering the plastic spatula, her elbow in the air, and a concentrated stare. The gas flame glows yellow and blue underneath a metal pan that appears as if it’s been around since the hotel opened.
A surge of guilt drives through me as I watch her turn this anonymous hotel room into a home, if only for a moment, that’s so contrary to what I allowed to happen with Jamila. My soul shrinks to face such a woman as Catherine with such a memory so fresh in my mind.
“Are you making me breakfast? Do I believe my own eyes?” I peek out from behind the wall; I startle her and she drops the spatula on the floor. She quickly picks it up and rushes to me with a tender, slow kiss.
“You know, it seemed like such a good idea until I actually had to cook it.”
I wrap my hand inside her robe and around her back. I feel her gray-flannel sweats and white tank top that’s even sexy on her.
“It smells extraordinary. I was lying in bed wondering where you might be, and then it was just this smell.”
“I woke up early and got some work done and thought it might be nice to actually cook breakfast. I mean, how often is it that you have an actual kitchen in your hotel room?”
“I’d always just looked at it as a really large minibar.” I laugh. “So, let’s see what you have here … there’s bacon and fancy eggs and some sort of fruit concoction.”
“I know it’s not much, but that’s all I could bribe room service to bring me. They couldn’t really understand why I would want to cook when they could just bring it already made.”
“Well, I get it, and I love it. Is this a perk I can expect in the future?” I ask as I kiss her again on the back of the neck, pulling back her hair that smells of summer berries and cream.
“I always thought it was beneath a successful woman to want to cook, but to be honest with you, I find it really soothing and even fulfilling,” she says. “I mean, how many things in life can you work on and at the end of it you actually put it in your mouth and savor?”
“Well, I can think of a few things,” I say as I snuggle her in closer.
She slaps my hand away from the plate of bacon spread out on a paper towel blotted in oil.
“What can I do?” I ask as Catherine’s attention turns back to what looks like some sort of frittata on the burner nearest the bacon. Toast sits ready on small square plates as well as a pot of French press coffee that’s yet to be strained.
“You go sit over there, and I’ll be there in two seconds.”
Catherine has already set up a small seating area on the floor next to the terrace doors: a blanket lay out over the carpet with pillows tossed from the couch and a chunky candle she might have pulled from the bathroom. It somehow completes her entire fashionable breakfast scene.
“How do you take your coffee, David?” Catherine hollers from the kitchen.
“Strong and black, please.” I like that she knows how I take my coffee now.
“How do you take your coffee?” I yell back at her, wanting to know every detail of her morning ritual.
“A little milk, but not much. Why do you ask?” She peers out from the kitchen for the answer.
“Just want to know, that’s all.”
Catherine emerges from the kitchen with a tray full of breakfast that frames her face in a zigzag vapor. She eases it onto the floor and an aroma of coffee, toast, fruit, and bacon envelops me. She firmly plants a kiss on my face before she snuggles next to me on the blanket.
“Go ahead, eat; it’s going to get cold.”
“What about you, aren’t you going to join me? Oh, wow, this bacon is delicious. What’s on it?”
“A little maple syrup and some pepper. It’s in the magazine this month.”
“I mean, does life get better than this?”
“You mean the girls don’t cook for you in every port?”
“Ha-ha, very funny. Just you and my mom, actually,” I say, fully consumed by my food.
“Was your mom a good cook?” Catherine asks innocently.
“She actually was. She would make me eggs in toast every morning before school and let me pretend they were eyeballs.”
There’s a nurturing side to Catherine that I actually haven’t known since my mother passed away; she lingers with her stare to listen as I speak instead of looking away or getting lost in her own mind.
“When did your mother pass away?”
“She died two years after my parents divorced. She had lung cancer, and it was a truly agonizing six-month decline. In the end, I wished for her death. It was a very intense time for me. She died alone.”
As I look down at the food, I realize the conversation has taken me back to a place I rarely speak about, but it comes natural with Catherine. She takes my hand gently, but not so tight that the moment feels forced.
“And why did your parents’ divorce again?”
“Oh, you know how it goes. My father was a philanderer. We all kind of knew. It would creep up now and then as a kid; hints that I would catch in conversations between them. When I was at university, he got sloppier and finally found a woman he wanted for more than a night. It didn’t last long, either; he did the same thing to her.”
I take another slice of bacon that I eat with a wide, forced smile, somewhat surprised I confessed so much when I generally choose to avoid such a subject.
“Did he visit your mother while she was sick?”
“Let’s change the topic; this is still a hard subject for me. The fact is they’re both gone, and there’s really no reason to discuss it and replay the whole thing in my mind.”
“I’m sorry, I was just …”
“No, and I want you to know. It just feels treacherous to judge the dead. I do love my father; it’s just that his actions were so ghastly.”
Catherine rises to take the tray back to the kitchen, perhaps a reaction to my pulling away emotionally. She holds eye contact with me in a solemn stare, retreating to a soft and soothing smile that looks down at me from above, as my mom would have given me as a child.
“Do you want some more coffee? I can go grab you some.”
“Yes, please, that would be lovely.”
CHAPTER 5
LONDOLOZI
I TELL MYSELF this is where it ends. This is where I stop before it goes too far.
It will ruin my marriage and everyone, including David, when they find out about the incredible lie I’ve been living for almost six months. LA was supposed to be the end, the place where I told him I started seeing someone else or that I simply cannot continue this relationship. Then comes the long afternoons and lonely nights where I dream of him, his touch, and the endless conversations that leave me intertwined in emotion, unable to imagine my world without him. Then I tell myself just one more time, I’ll give myself one more hit, just one more plunge into this hedonist fantasy that our relationship has become.
Shortly after returning from LA, I learned Rogue would be cutting back on travel stories and limiting budgets for travel even for interviews. The news sent my heart to a full stop. While they promised it was only temporary, it immediately deflated any hope I had of being able to sneak a weekend away to be with David. I resorted to seeking out freelance assignments like this one I’ve taken with Departures, the private American Express member’s monthly. It’s normally a gig when you’re between magazines or building a résumé early on in your career, given the poor rates most publications pay and the amount of work you have go through to get an assignment.
And that is how I got here once more, this time packed into seat 32A on an eighteen-hour flight to Johannesburg, and using money that was tough to siphon from our monthly expenses and school savings. Freelance jobs like Departures pay a flat rate for a story, but reimburse for airfare and accommodations that are usually in some spectacular places. Being that it’s a freelance assignment, it means economy-class airfare, unless someone at the airline is kind enough to upgrade you, which in my case didn’t happen because the flight was full.
It’s an odd assortment of travelers in the mid-plane en route from JFK to JoBurg. A mix of dapper African men in business suits who seem uncomfortable sitting next to their wives in traditional headdress, and American couples in their most casual of fleece, clinching their iPads, streaming flashing images that keeps the top of the cabin in permanent northern lights.
There’s a refueling stop in Senegal on this flight, when at about eight hours after boarding, a flight attendant awakens me to realize I actually did the unthinkable and crossing halfway around the world to continue the affair I never should have begun in the first place.
