The real sex diary of Ashley Caulfield, November 12
I’ve wanted her from the moment my eyes first shone on her. Not in the way I was supposed to, but in the deep, aching need only a woman scorned could have. How could The One be here for him and not for me? I remember making my first move. She laughed and fended me off like the schoolgirl that I was. But I knew then as sure as I do today that she wanted me just as badly as I needed her to. I saw it, hell, still see it in every look she gives me. She tried to hold back, to temper herself, to tell me it’s not right. But I knew that desire could only be held at bay for so long. Finally, on one of the many occasions when we were left all alone in that big house, I made my move. Nobody can resist supple young flesh, least of all a woman in a bad marriage to a much older man. I was her passport to pleasure. She was my punishment with kisses.
Oh no, Ash was a bad girl at school today. She can’t go on the weekend trip with Megan and Daddy-O. But it’s not my fault. You remember how hard high school was, right? After all, it was only two years ago. She tried to fight it, but there are just some things I can do that a man can’t, and even at seventeen, I was already an expert at them. She joined me by the pool one day when no one was around. I watched her watching me and I knew she was lonely. He had wronged her, too. She wanted me like everyone else had, but with her I wanted to give in.
She watched me put suntan lotion all over myself, long, smooth strokes meant to remind her how young and supple and flexible I was. And when I was done, I looked her squarely in the eyes and said it.
“You want some?” You should have seen her face pale.
“Excuse me?” She tried to regain composure, but I knew she was mine right then and there. I pulled my arms under my bikini straps, flipping my wrists upside down so they were bound with my straps and my breasts were bared.
“I’m all tied up. Maybe you can help me out?” Any man her age would have jumped on me right then and there, but The One wasn’t easy. She bolted from the pool so quickly I was scurrying after her with my hands strapped to my sides, bikini twisted up around my waist.
I found her in her bedroom and we tumbled onto the bed like two lovers with a death sentence hanging over their affair. I devoured every inch of her until, panting, she begged me to stop. I can still imagine her that day. Her flaxen hair matted and stringy from the pool, her bronzed skin the perfect setting for the most beautiful blue eyes I’ve ever stared into.
It was never as glorious as it was that first day, but for years it was amazing still. She tried to call it off repeatedly, but each time I threatened to tell Father what she had done. I loved her and was willing to do anything to keep her. But still, she left, again and again. She called my bluff and wouldn’t see me, wouldn’t touch me, wouldn’t hold me anymore. It’s a cruel fate, to be discarded by the woman you love.
Each time I believed it hardly mattered. Love was dead and I took refuge in the cunts of strangers, each ignominious hookup a reminder that I’m a bitch, hardened to the meaning of love.
Oh, The One, how could you leave me like this? Last week, I told Pat I needed something really shocking to stir me up. Something more than a coke-snorting wife swap—not that those modern day key parties aren’t fun, but I need more out of my adventures. And this time Pat delivered.
Pat had me dress up in this little flapper dress with champagne-colored fringe and a hemline that barely covered my crotch. I wore peep toe Christian Louboutin heels with little black bows. Besides the Nana de Bary perfume, I wore nothing else, not even a bra. Pat put on a large leather mask that covered my eyes completely, and had me follow him to the taxi and then up two flights of stairs at our destination. There was a scratchy old jazz record playing, something that recalled a Mississippi bluesman’s deal with the devil, and a lot of hushed whispers. Pat led me to a bed or a divan or something and sat me there, closing a door behind himself. I could hear more talk outside the door but couldn’t hear what they were saying. I was tempted to lift up the mask, to figure out where the hell I was, but hadn’t I been the one to ask for this mystery?
Soon, the door swung open and there were hands grabbing at me, pulling my arms back and my legs apart, and before I could even say anything my mouth was full too. I didn’t know how many people were there that day, or even if they were all women or men. I was never sure how safe I was, though I never bothered to protest. Yet with all that danger, with twenty? Thirty? strangers having their way with me, I was still fairly bored, albeit a bit nonplussed. Who were these thirty strangers who so desired to have me bound and gagged? What were their lives like? Was this a thrilling night or an everyday occurrence? What had they done to be here?
I felt a little out of my body that night. Sure, an orgasm is an orgasm, but when it’s not with The One, there’s a pure hollowness to my sexual conquests. I fuck ’em and leave ’em, but it doesn’t even matter to me. I watched a documentary about Annabel Chong once. The porn star had sex with 251 men. She was all post-feminist, women’s sexuality is maligned, and there are double standards. All true, all things I agreed with, but when I watched her banging those dudes, I knew this wasn’t about feminism or double standards or even her pleasure. Somebody had taken power away from Annabel Chong and she was getting it back, one hairy dude at a time. I just saw a little girl lost in all that carnality. Not the viper whore her fans wanted to see, but a little girl who probably never meant to take things this far. I recognized the same look when Pat showed me the Polaroids of that night—the hordes of women, each wearing a macabre, smiling carnival masque, penetrating me in nearly every possible way.
I’ve been behind the green door, and without The One, it’s an empty, hollow journey.
I was trying to tell Dr. Finnegan about one of Ash’s last journal entries before her death, and I could tell the doc was a little disturbed.
“The thing is, Dr. Finnegan, I’m worried about, um, my sister’s ex.”
Finnegan was silent, looking pained. “You mean the woman she called the one?” I had refrained from telling Finnegan that The One was probably my stepmother Tabitha.
“Well, yeah. I don’t know how much of her diaries are real or fantasy. It all sort of blends together. Hell, in my own life I don’t know anymore.”
“Do you feel like you’re losing touch with reality, Megan?” Finnegan was being concerned, I was sure, but it dawned on me that she was a licensed shrink. If, God forbid, she thought I was slipping out of reality she could probably have me locked up.
“Oh no, no, nothing like that.” I backpedaled. “It’s just that sometimes I feel like someone is watching me. I can’t explain it. In her diaries, Ash says that her, um, The One, hires a private investigator to follow her. I don’t really think a PI is following me, but the break-in has me on edge I guess, so I’m always watching over my shoulder. Maybe I’m just as paranoid as Ash was.”
Finnegan was thoughtful. “Megan, it’s hard to know in our grief and loss sometimes where the lines are between fantasy and reality. I can tell you’ve gone through a lot of changes this year, and I was wondering if there’s a healthier way to channel your energy than reading these diaries and acting out your sister’s adventures in the name of journalism.”
The old lady was a lost cause. She had slipped into shrink speak and I could tell our next scene would include a lecture about healthy sexuality. That was a little more than I could handle right now so I played down her questions and ducked out of her apartment gracefully.
If Tabitha or Father or even Ash’s killer had hired someone to spy on me, I had to figure out what they were after before they found it—or before they killed me to keep it hidden. Moreover, I wanted to give them a little show for their money. I would respond to the surveillance the same way Ash did. I started with my little black book, courtesy of sis.
“Bethany, hi, this is Megan Caulfield.”
The voice on the other end of the line sounded sleepy. I pictured sweet Bethany Hanks in her pj’s and was even more interested in ticking her of
f my list. “Yes, Ash’s little sister. I was wondering if you’d like to have coffee sometime?”
“Sure, yeah, okay.”
We made a date for Tuesday and I was free to dial up another of my sister’s old pals. Thus would begin my month of fucking my way through all of Ash’s old conquests. Whoever wanted me followed would be getting detailed reports of my liaisons. If the killer was one of Ash’s lovers, I’d be getting to her soon enough.
Chapter Fifteen
The private dick that was hired to follow me was worse than a wise guy in an old Columbo episode. Old flatfoot was easy to spot and even easier to lose. If he was supposed to curtail my activities in any way, he most certainly failed. I was so bored with the surveillance that I tried for a while to find creative ways to give flatfoot the slip. I climbed out the bathroom window at Saucebox, took the fire escape at Powell’s, hid in a Porta-Potty at the Jazz Fest for an hour. After a while I grew bored with my own shenanigans and decided to turn the tables on him. After a week of following the gumshoe hired to follow me, he just seemed to disappear.
Good riddance. I assumed by now that his reports back to the home office—whoever that client was—had given them enough salaciousness to work with. Subject had sex in parking lot of the Egyptian Club. Subject took a shot of ecstasy and danced at the Crystal Ballroom with twelve different women. Subject flashed me her tits in the men’s section of Fred Meyer. I had worked my way through Ash’s Rolodex. Tina, Julie, Evy, Beatrice, Leisha, Susan, Ariel—I bedded them all and made sure the private dick was around to see it. Or at least hear about it through the walls of my otherwise soundproof apartment.
The thing that happened, though, was that with all this baseless eroticism, I started to wonder about this woman that Ash pined after for years. How could one secret ten-month love affair affect the next several years of her life? It had always seemed like Ash could have anyone she wanted, her pick of the litter, so to speak, so it made me wonder, what was so damn special about Tabitha, the stepmother I barely knew?
All the signs pointed to Tabitha being the one Ash was in love with, and now, thinking back on the things that Ash had said and done, it seemed obvious, like a giant dumbbell hitting me over the head. Of course it was her all along. But how, why, when? Had they been lovers only that year and never again, or had their affair resumed years later? How could this one woman—a high school educated gold digger Father had married for her youth and beauty—have so enthralled a savvy girl like Ash?
I started to realize that the only way to understand Ash was to understand the woman she was in love with. Had her forbidden attraction to our stepmother gotten Ash killed? Did one of her other lovers fly into a jealous rage when they learned Ash would never love them the way she loved Tabitha?
My quest needed to change. I had to give up my erotic explorations in search of something deeper: the story behind this mystery. Just thinking about it was nerve-wracking, as I realized that I didn’t know where to start. And if I hired someone, I was almost positive it would get back to Father. Did he even know about his wife’s illicit Sapphic indiscretion?
I needed to find out who Tabitha really was. My Junior League charity-driven stepmother? My sister’s true love? Or some sick Sapphic version of Mary Kay Letourneau who preyed on my vulnerable sister? I decided not to trust a PI. I was capable of doing the job myself. So I followed Tabitha from the estate to the bank to the florist, where almost all of her stops were pedantic and typical. She volunteered once a week at some charity, though she was rarely there long enough to get her hands dirty, so I assume she was gabbing and dropping off a check. Poor Father—cuckolded by a young wife who just spent his money and screwed his daughter. Still, there was something captivating about Tabitha and her secrets. She had the ability to surprise me sometimes. Last night, she was at the Q Center at a lesbian literary salon, in a red dress and a black wig. The other day, I watched her walk into Union Jacks, a rather notorious strip club in town. Even when she was incognito she was cautious, constantly looking around furtively, ducking in and out of aisles so she was harder to track than one would imagine a suburban housewife would be.
By now, I realized she was no ordinary housewife. Tuesday’s journey was most intriguing. She parked her car at Lloyd Center Mall, got on the railway to downtown, then got off two blocks from the river and walked to a giant glass building called The Pinnacle. I followed her inside at a safe distance, but by then had lost her to the crowds around the elevators. I’d never been to this part of the Pearl District and couldn’t imagine whom Tabitha could be seeing there. Again today, she did the exact same thing. Only this time I managed to watch which floor her elevator stopped at—fourteen—and so I followed her up on a different elevator. She was in loft 1411, a corner unit at the end of the hallway, loudly playing that Eric Clapton song “Tears in Heaven” over and over again. I waited in the utility room down the hall, peaking out through the door’s tiny hatched window every time I heard a new shuffling, mumbling, or electronic noise, but it was over an hour before I saw anything. Tabitha reappeared in the hall, distracted but red faced and empty-handed, and to my surprise, the door shut on her coat and she broke down crying in the hallway, trapped in the door. Instead of opening the door, she tugged at the camel colored trench, eventually tearing a swatch from it. She turned the knob to make sure the door was locked as she looked nervously up and down the hallway. She looked like a trapped woman, and not just because of the coat.
As soon as she’d rescued her now tattered coat from the door she ran to the elevator as if she couldn’t wait to get out of there. Funnily enough, I couldn’t wait to get in that apartment. I grabbed the pocketknife thingy from my purse, a rather humorous gift from a former lover who, after I ditched her, suggested that since I had balls I should act like a man. Little did either of us know at the time I could use the little contraption to break into an apartment. Fortunately for me, as I was struggling to open the little knife, I leaned on the door and realized the leftover fabric from Tabitha’s coat was wedged in between the door and the lock, so while the lock was set, the door wasn’t pulled all the way into the frame. I guess since Tabitha only pulled, not pushed, the knob, she had no idea her lock paranoia didn’t pay off. I just pushed the door open and walked right in.
As soon as I did, I felt like I had been hit over the head. I fell to the ground and passed out and when I awoke, it was dark inside and I was cold and damp, still lying on the floor. I gave my eyes a few moments to adjust then I crawled to the table in search of a lamp to flick. As soon as the apartment was flooded with light, I remembered why I was instantly struck. It wasn’t a bop over the head that did me in. It was the sight of the larger than life shrine to my sister. There were photos of Ash everywhere, along with some of her jewelry and trinkets, and right at the center of it all were Ash’s two missing diaries that were stolen from my apartment. I felt like I was in a horror movie, my own Silence of the Lambs, with mementos from the murder victim all around me. Had Father and Tabitha lured me away from the apartment with that bullshit lecture so Tabitha could break in and steal these things? Why were there vestiges of my sister everywhere in this loft?
I stayed in the apartment the rest of the day, rifling through the drawers and cabinets. I tossed through the closet, a veritable smorgasbord of outfits and disguises that would fit Tabitha and my sister both. While the front room was an Ash shrine, the bedroom was an erotic play land. The armoire held leather couture of all sorts, whips, floggers, masks, even a face mask with a leather dildo attached where the mouthpiece would normally be. How could that even work? Handcuffs and feathers and oils and tons of silicone toys were strewn about. There were erotic magazines, including dozens of old copies of a black and white lesbian magazine called On Our Backs. There were more than a couple of Pookie Michaels films, each emblazoned with my sister in all her glory on the front of the box. My God, my stepmother knew about my sister’s porn past. What else did she know? What did Father know? Had he been here? Or was this apa
rtment Tabitha’s secret love nest?
I read through the remainder of Ash’s journals, the ones that were taken from me and another I had never seen before. She talked about lesbian play parties and orgies and showing a group of women how to have anal sex with some girl named Tristan. Clearly, there was pathos in there, a desire to titillate and shock the reader—which was who? Tabitha? Me? But so much of it was matter-of-fact. I couldn’t help but be turned on, and the one way I could stick it to Tabitha for stealing my sister was to masturbate in her bed. I grabbed the red dress from the other night and put it on. It smelled of Nana de Bary perfume and perspiration and desire and maybe a little shame. Or maybe that was just me. I didn’t know, but I was aroused by the magazines and the movies and the orgies and I plunged my hand between my legs and just started rubbing like crazy until I felt everything constrict and I began to scream like a banshee.
Punishment with Kisses Page 15
