by Harper Bliss
When orgasm shudders through her, and the sight of it floors me so much a tear wells in the corner of my eye, I know I’m hers. She’s got me. She played and won. Not that I consider myself the losing party at all.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
When I wake up the next morning the first thing I see is my own reflection in one of Joy’s mirrors. The woman I see is me, undoubtedly so, but something has changed. She’s in love, I think. This is me completely infatuated with someone twenty-two years younger than me.
I turn to look at Joy, and my shifting in the bed must have woken her, because she opens her eyes and, instantly, a smile transforms her sleepy face into one of wonder and pleasure and, I guess, love.
“Why so many mirrors?” I ask, my hand finding hers under the sheet.
“Trust me, Alice,” Joy says, her voice still croaky from just waking up, “it’s only a matter of time before you fully understand.”
“What does that mean—” I ask, but Joy has shuffled towards me and kisses me on the mouth.
“Good morning, Cougar,” she whispers in between kisses. “You made me miss dinner last night and I’m positively starving.”
“Do you have anything in your fridge that can serve as breakfast?”
“No.” Joy hoists herself on top of me, reviving images of last night. “But I have you.” She slinks her body down mine, her hard nipples drawing a straight line down my belly, then my legs.
Is she really going to do what I think she’s going to do? After all we did last night? Is her hunger for me really so great?
Joy throws the sheets off us, and the air against my skin makes me break out in goosebumps. She kisses the line of skin above my pubic hair, then makes her way down, and I wonder if there’s a limit to this. If there’s such a thing as a given number of climaxes in twenty-four hours that the human body can’t exceed without consequences. But then Joy pushes my legs apart, and I draw up my knees, and her breath is on my sex—I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the word pussy—and then her tongue touches me, and then I’m lost. When I thrash my head to the left in pleasure, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My first instinct is to look away, to not want to see myself like that, but the reflection is strangely compelling and, I must admit, arousing. Joy’s tongue slips in and out of me, and flicks along my clitoris, along my pulsing lips and I keep staring at myself in the mirror. At the transformation on my face, the bewilderment in my eyes, at how my body meets her movements with its own, accommodates her.
As Joy brings me closer, my eyes narrow, but I don’t close them because, by now, I want to see. I want to see what she sees when I come. I want to know the secret. And what I see is a woman who is writhing and groaning at an ever-increasing pace, and whose face contorts as if in agony, while actually she’s in the midst of, she has recently learned, one of life’s greatest pleasures.
Despite my desire to see, the world goes black for a few instants as a hot glow passes through my body, and I’ve given myself up to her once again, shown my truest self, and I cry out, I guess, louder than any of the times I did last night.
“Now we can go for breakfast,” Joy says after she has crawled back up my body the way she slithered down earlier, before my world shifted in her direction a little more again. If it keeps changing, if I keep coming unstuck from who I used to be, I wonder where I will end up?
“You have to give me a few minutes to recover. I am middle-aged, remember?” I snicker at my own silly joke, more to ignore the truth of it than because it’s funny.
“Alice.” No one has ever let my name slip from their lips the way Joy has, I think. “Take all the time you need.”
Time, I think suddenly. It’s Sunday. I have to go to work tomorrow and face Miranda. Whatever will I say when she asks how my weekend was?
To distract myself from the encroaching despair of having to face reality, I ask, “Do you really not have any breakfast ingredients or were you just saying that?” I have turned on my side, certain body parts still throbbing, so past feeling any qualms about being naked with another person, it doesn’t fail to astound me once again.
“I may have an egg or two. I’m not sure.” She kisses me on the tip of my nose and I can smell myself on her lips. “But I’m seriously starving, and they do a marvellous Sunday brunch just around the corner.”
“Is that, er, a good idea?” I ask. “Should we maybe go to another neighbourhood instead? Somewhere nobody knows you?”
“We could…” Joy’s voice trails off as she ponders. “But fuck, if I don’t eat something within the next half hour I may die of starvation. I’m not kidding, Alice. You’ve depleted me of all my energy. I’ll barely make it into the shower, but I really do think I owe it to our fellow restaurant goers to wash the hours of sex we had off me.” She shoots me one of her smiles. “I know you’re worried, but at this hour of the day, it’s highly unlikely we’ll bump into anyone familiar and, well, if we’re going to do this we can’t always go to Enfield or Bromley.”
“Are we then?” I ask. “Doing… this?” The answer is so blindingly clear it makes my question obsolete, but still, some things need to be said out loud a few times before they can actually begin to make sense.
“You tell me, Alice?” I feel her breath run across my cheeks as she speaks. “Do you want to go back to pretending I don’t exist? Or did I make enough of a case to make you try?”
“The case you made was unusually devoid of words and extremely tactile.” I trace my finger along her arm, unable to resist touching her.
“I’m in love with you, Alice. I want to go out with you. I want to know everything about you. I want to wake up next to you as many times as I can. And, by God, I want to fuck you. I want to see you come alive like that time and time again.” She kisses my nose again. “Is that enough of a case?”
“It is.” I let myself fall onto my back and stare into her eyes. “I have no counterarguments.”
“Then will you go to breakfast with me?”
I nod and pull her closer again, because keeping my distance has, overnight, become a thing of the past.
✶ ✶ ✶
Joy orders a double omelette with two slices of toast, a fruit salad, a bowl of yoghurt and a glass of champagne for breakfast. I’m hungry, but also nervous, so I limit myself to a cup of black coffee and a croissant.
“The decreasing need for food should only start after seventy, you know,” Joy says after the waiter has taken our order, and I wonder if he was thinking, how lovely, a mother and daughter on a brunch date. “Relax, Alice. Just breathe. It’s no fun when you’re uptight like that.”
“You’re not the one who has a daily staff meeting with Miranda on top of two big client meetings the upcoming week. So give me a break, please.”
“We can sit here and compare grief over this all day long. It’s not going to change anything. The only thing that will need to change if we want this—and I think we’ve established that we do—is you and your perspective.”
“I’m sorry, Joy. I feel so ill at ease. I feel so… gawked at. I mean, people may assume I’m your mother, but that actually makes it even worse.”
Joy extends her arm over the table and reaches for my hand just as the waiter brings our beverages. While he deposits my cup and her glass on the table, she strokes the top of my hand with her thumb. “There,” she says, once the waiter has retreated, “now at least one person in this establishment won’t think of you as my mother anymore.”
Whereas I had expected her touch to jolt me, to make me feel on display even more, it has a calming effect on my frayed nerves. “I’m going to need some time to adjust to this.” I squeeze her fingers between mine, not wanting her to retract her hand.
“As I said, you have all the time in the world.” With her other hand, she lifts her champagne glass and takes a quick sip. “Ah, brunch was invented to drink champagne before lunch, you know, but I digress.” Her thumb is still stroking my skin. “I’m not a teenager, Alice. My father di
ed when I was fifteen. I went off to college in the States on my own when I was eighteen. I’ve seen a thing or two. I’m not some naive, spoiled brat. This is entirely a two-way street and, well, fuck what anyone else thinks. I’ve told you before, I truly don’t care.”
“Why did you go to college in LA?”
“Because no reputable university in the UK would take me.” She chuckles, then shrugs. “I just wanted a change, wanted to get away… wanted a place away from home to discover myself. And perhaps it was also an act of rebellion against Mum and Jeff.” She sips again. “I don’t know. There’s no clearly defined reason. It’s just something I wanted to do. And I’ve never regretted it.”
“So… when you were in LA discovering yourself…” It’s as if Joy can so easily read me, as if she has a clear view into my brain and can follow my train of thought. She’s smiling already. Somehow, she knows what’s coming. It’s a question I had wanted to ask her back in Portugal but I wasn’t yet able to work up the nerve. “How many, er, people did you, huh, discover yourself with?”
“Good grief, Alice, you are so bloody adorable when you get all flustered like that.” She removes her hand and leans back in her seat, regarding me while she makes a show of counting on her fingers. “So you want to know how many women I slept with before you, right?” She shrugs again. “It’s a fair enough question. No need to get your knickers in a twist about it.”
“Oh Christ, I wish I’d never asked.” Joy doesn’t annoy me when she’s coy with me like this, when she toys with my emotions and my boundaries. Her wit and mild sarcasm amuse and delight me.
“I’d say… eight and a half.” She nods. “Yes, that’s my final number.”
“Eight and a half?” It’s my turn to give her a faux-mocking smile. “Do explain.”
“Well, there was this girl called Ellen who I felt up at a party once, but then we got distracted, I guess, and we didn’t actually consummate. I can’t discount her, but I can’t really count her either.”
I’m astounded once again by how completely different Joy’s coming-of-age process was from mine. Alan was my first and, up until a month ago, my last.
“Do tell me more,” I say, and while we eat our breakfast—Joy taking giant bites of omelette and occasionally speaking with her mouth full—she takes me through the stories of the first girl she was with, the first one who really broke her heart, the one she almost stayed in the US for, and all the ones in between. “Of all of them, only two were pure one-night stands, but I quickly figured out that’s not really my thing,” she says. And later, “Alex and I fucked for the first time in her office.”
I love hearing her talk, love how easy she is with divulging all this personal information and I don’t even mind the complete lack of discretion she displays because I can see that this is how she is. A girl with her heart on her sleeve. I listen to her with ever-growing amazement, and every time she uses the completely unnecessary word fuck, be it as a verb or just as an expletive, my ears burn.
“Were you in love with Alex?” I ask, because I may as well know it all now. My question gives her pause, though, and I guess that says enough.
“It was difficult. I mean, I surely had feelings for her, but it’s hard to really see them for what they were. Were they more intense because of the thrill of sleeping with my boss?” She lifts her shoulders. “It could be. But, most of all, it was pure madness. Now that was sneaking around. No one in the office could find out, because, well, that workplace was not the sort of place where things like that happened, let alone were condoned. She was my superior, but not the big chief, you know? She had people to answer to as well. It was just messy, I guess. Irresponsible.” Joy’s tone has changed. She sounds less excited, more sedate—perhaps it’s all the food she jammed down her throat in record time.
“Does she still text you?” I remember the messages she received on the night we first kissed in Portugal, when she made a point of switching her phone off.
“Only when she’s drunk.” Joy’s gaze drifts to her phone, which she always keeps somewhere in sight. “Do I detect a hint of jealousy in your line of questioning?”
“No,” I say, despite a merciless blush creeping from my neck to my cheeks. “I’m just curious.”
“Again, nothing wrong with that.” She winks at me, and paints that grin on her face again, and I feel it all the way to my core.
“How about we go for a stroll and walk off all this food?” she asks.
We settle the bill and make our way out to the street. There she takes my hand in hers and we meander through her neighbourhood like that. Joy points out some interesting bars and restaurants, and once I’ve got used to the sensation of walking down the street hand-in-hand with someone else, and lean into her a bit, just because I can, an unexpected sense of freedom settles in me. A sense that with Joy by my side, I can do anything.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Three weeks go by during which the balance of my life shifts from work, home, sleep to work, Joy, sleep together. We find a rhythm: Joy comes to my place once or twice during the week and I stay at hers over the weekend. It’s a rhythm that suits me and allows me to process the changes in my life, and in myself, as gradually as possible. The weather changes abruptly from late summer to autumn, and we spend most of our time indoors, hidden away from everyone.
During work hours, my ever-growing guilt stands in stark contrast to the giddiness I feel when I’m with Joy: the ease of it all, the sexiness, and how she can play my body as though she hasn’t done anything else in her adult life. I almost sigh with relief when Miranda tells me she’s going to Paris for a long weekend with Jeff. Because whenever I see her, and I see Miranda all the time, the nagging voice in my head reminds me of all the acts I engage in with her daughter. Also, there’s the realisation that I’m deceiving her, that the longer this goes on without her knowing, the bigger the damage will be.
Yet, the mere notion of telling her is completely inconceivable. On Fridays after work I usually need at least half of bottle of wine to calm my nerves. I’m always so tense after a week of coping with my workload, and now, on top of that is the voice of guilt, and, increasingly, the shame.
But what Joy and I have is more powerful than any shame and, when I’m with her, I don’t feel the slightest twinge of it. While we do go out for meals and we went to see a movie together once, I also realise that our relationship is not lived in the real world. The realm of our affair is her flat, my house, and a handful of restaurants. I don’t tell anyone about her and every time she asks me if I would, perhaps, like to meet one of her friends, like her best friend Marcy, who is starting to wonder what the hell is going on with her, I reply, “Not yet.”
“I’m not asking you to come out to Mum, Alice,” Joy says on the Friday that Miranda leaves for Paris. “I just, I don’t know, want to integrate you—us—into my life more. I’m the opposite of a hermit. Keep me inside for too long and I’ll go mad. Besides, I’m proud to be seen with you. I want you to meet my friends.”
“Please, feel free to go out as much as you like. You don’t have to stay in because of me.”
“I’m not saying we should go clubbing or anything. I could just have some friends over and introduce you. They’re a very diverse group. I’m sure you’ll like them.”
And, perhaps because Miranda is out of town, I’m more amenable to the idea than I would otherwise be. “Okay,” I say. “We can do that.”
“We can?” Joy’s eyes grow wide with excitement.
“Well, yes, like you said, we can’t pretend there’s no outside world forever. Just be sure you can trust them. I don’t want this reaching Miranda’s ears.”
“Not to worry. All my friends are very trustworthy.” We are at Joy’s flat in Shoreditch, sitting with our legs intertwined, playing with each other’s fingers while just talking the way we have grown accustomed to. It has only taken three weeks to make the thought of going home to my own empty house on a Friday evening completely unbearable. �
��But, Alice, my feelings for you are hardly diminishing and we’re going to have to come clean to Mum sooner rather than later.”
“I know, but first things first. Let’s start by seeing how your friends feel about me. Then, we’ll take it from there. Who are you inviting?”
“Marcy and Ben, for sure. And perhaps Justin and Bobby, although they can be bit crass.”
“More crass than you?”
“Compared to them, I speak like Princess Anne.” She chuckles and runs a hand through her hair.
✶ ✶ ✶
Joy has invited five of her friends for afternoon tea that Sunday. For this occasion, she has amazed me once again and baked two cakes the day before—while I looked on in bewilderment. To my surprise, when we went to Tesco after breakfast, she also insisted on hauling six bottles of Prosecco back to her flat.
“But it’s afternoon tea,” I argued.
“That’s exactly right, Alice,” was all Joy had to say to that, and I was, once again, left to conclude that most of Joy’s social activities come with a serious tipple.
My alcohol intake has surely increased since I started seeing Joy, but I’ve always made a point of not drinking more than one glass of wine on Sunday—Mondays are hard enough these days without a hangover. I used to love Mondays, that exciting buzz of a new week, of going to the firm that Miranda and I built from nothing. But nowadays a lot of these sentiments are drowned out by guilt, and, in my head at least, my Monday morning entrance into the office has transformed into a walk of shame.
By three, all of Joy’s friends have arrived and it becomes clear that her flat is actually not as big as I always thought it was. Marcy and Ben are parked on the sofa—the same one on which she gave me a shuddering climax only the evening before—and Justin and Bobby, two men closer in age to me than to Joy, each perch on an armrest, while Mindy, a former colleague from the job Joy left because of Alex, hangs—rather uncomfortably from the look of it—in a bean bag. Joy and I dispense drinks. By then, I’m not at all surprised that no one is drinking actual tea.
