by Isabel Jolie
I exhale and stretch, leaning my head far to the side to stretch my always so tight shoulder muscles. Jason kneads my shoulder one-handed. “You are tight.” He moves both of our coffees and sets them on the side table. Then he aligns his back with the headboard again and positions me between his legs, my back to him. With a firm grip, he squeezes my tight, tense shoulder muscles, then releases and kneads my upper back and up along my neck. His strong fingers twist through my mass of hair and massage the base of my scalp.
It’s been years since I had a massage, or anyone touched me like this, working my muscles and releasing tension. Outside, rain patters against the window, but in my room, right now, is heaven. My head drops like a rag doll’s, and a moan escapes.
His hands abruptly drop to my sides, and he squeezes my hip. I lift my head and plead, “Don’t stop.”
He pulls at the base of my t-shirt. “Take this off and lie down.”
I lift the pajama top and hesitate midway as the cool air touches my exposed belly and the underside of my breasts. He caresses my bare waist gingerly as if I am fragile or valuable.
“It’s okay. I’ve seen it all, remember?”
My cheeks burn, and my heartbeat races higher on a sprint, sprung out of the blissful, restful state from seconds ago. He gently pushes me forward, silently instructing me to lie face down.
I exhale and pull the shirt off over my head, my back to Jason, and lie down flat on the bed, over the top of the comforter. Jason grabs onto my flannel pajama pants. “These too. I’m going to pull them down. Your muscles are tight. You need a massage.”
He’s correct. I do. I believe in the therapeutic benefits of massage; it’s just I haven’t prioritized massages in my financial budget. Or in my calendar either. I didn’t mean for so much time to go by without taking care of myself.
Cool air tingles against my skin as he lowers my flannel bottoms. For a moment, I’m laid bare to him, in only my black cotton panties. He’s silent and still. The dip in the mattress on one end shows he’s still on the bed, but I rise on my elbow to see him. His eyes are dark, and he breathes in and out of his mouth.
“Are you—”
He straddles me, the sudden movement halting my words as he covers my back with his strong hands, stroking up and down. He pushes me flat onto the bed, and I turn my head to the side so I can breathe. For minutes, he rubs my back, up and down, kneading the muscles, manipulating knots and forcing release. Magical. Glorious. Heavenly. These are the words that are floating through my mind as I relax into his touch. I won’t overthink this. I will enjoy this. No, I will revel in this.
He shifts farther back, off my rump and onto the back of my thighs. I brace myself, expecting his hands to return to my body, wondering where they’ll land, what he’ll touch. I have had masseuses manipulate the muscles in my ass, and it’s a combination of peculiar and restorative. The buttock muscles are strong muscles that tie into major muscle groups. Intellectually, I recognize it’s good for the body. However, the movement feels intimate, and imagining Jason’s hands touching my private areas has me tensing in anticipation.
He positions his body over mine, straddling me, radiating heat mere inches above me. Goosebumps rise all over my exposed flesh.
“Do you have massage oil?”
I involuntarily clench my thighs together in reaction to his deep timbre.
“I don’t.”
He shifts back onto my thighs. The cold air and his pulling back sounds off an internal alarm because the last thing I want is for this to end.
“I have baby oil.”
He hops off me and pads barefoot into my bathroom. Cool air wraps around me. I stretch my arms above my head. My body flattens to the bed, and my breasts spill out from the sides. Jason comes to stand by the bed, and I roll onto my side to better see him. His gaze sears. It’s a hard, heated gaze, one he rarely makes. I roll farther onto my side, giving him a more complete view of my bare breast. My breath catches, but I do not look away. My panties are damp, and I shift my hips, squeezing the muscles to coax my sex. He focuses on the subtle movement. In silence, I dare him to touch me. Not as a friend, but as a lover.
He grips the bottom of his t-shirt, raises it over his head, and throws it to the floor. I watch his nimble fingers unbutton his jeans, and they drop to the floor. He’s wearing cotton boxers, but from the tented shape, I know he’s affected, and it’s not in a friend zone kind of way. He’s turned on.
He climbs back on the bed and resumes his position, straddling me over my thighs. A warm liquid drips down my spine. The mattress shifts from his weight as he leans to place the baby oil bottle at the end of the bed. Then he spreads the silky oil on my back in smooth strokes, up and down, caressing the curves of my waist, across my shoulders. His oily hands slip between my body and the sheet, and he cups my breasts, spreading the oil while tweaking my sensitized nipples. I gasp, and he pauses. Fear that he’s going to stop, that my noise made him aware of what he’s doing courses through me. He does not notice. He firmly grasps my breasts, kneading the hypersensitive skin, and I can’t hold back a louder moan of pleasure. As he leans over me, his hard erection presses along my ass. I lift my upper body slightly to give him greater access. His fingers circle my nipples and pinch. I close my eyes, luxuriating in the sensation. The knife’s edge of pain and pleasure.
I rotate onto my back, baring myself completely to him, and he lowers his body, covering my lips with his. When he kisses me, it’s gentle at first. Soft, tender, and slow. And as I open for him, and our tongues tease and explore, a surreal sensation falls over me. None of this feels real. The rain outside composes a soothing backdrop for this erotic massage playing out in my bed on a slow Sunday morning.
Then the slowness intensifies as Jason repositions himself between my legs, his hard cock pressing against the apex of my thighs, and an urgency arises as his hips thrust against me. I reach down, sliding my hand below the waistband of his boxers, and find his silky tip. My thumb smooths the bead of moisture, then I grip his cock and squeeze while sliding my hand up and down. He groans as I pick up the pace, applying strong pressure. His eyelids half close, his expression one of ecstasy. I move to slide down his body, to take him in my mouth, but he stops me.
He reaches over for the baby oil and applies pressure to my shoulder to force me to lie on the bed, then drips oil from the center of my breasts to the top of my panties. He spreads the oil along my belly, my waist, and arms, but he spends extra time with my breasts, kneading and caressing and dropping to take my nipple in his mouth, using his tongue to caress them into peaks.
I’m on the verge of begging as the need to have him climbs, and I whimper. With a trail of baby soft, tender kisses, he works his way down. He drags my drenched panties down my legs then nips and kisses his way back up my thigh, situating himself between my legs. I rise up on my elbows so I can watch. I want to see. I don’t want to ever forget this. My thigh muscles quiver. I’m sensitized, reactive to the softest touch, but he doesn’t seem to mind as his tongue travels up and down, working me, until he homes in on my most sensitive area. His mouth clamps down on my clit, and I shriek as my first orgasm rolls through me. My toes curl in, the sensation forcing my eyes closed, sending me spiraling. I gasp from pleasure, for air, as my core quivers.
When I open my eyes, he’s between my legs and easing into me, and all I can repeat is, “Yes. Yes. Yes,” over and over, barely coherent, as he thrusts up and takes me the way I’ve wanted him and needed him. We move in unison, gasping at times as he hits the very best spot deep within me. He angles my knee upward and drives forward, pounding over and over, and I swear he slams against my cervix. I look to the side of the room as emotion rocks through me, and he grunts, “Look at me.”
I do, and those soulful eyes sear me. I love this man. With every ounce of my being. He is my everything, and I would do anything for him. Give him anything.
“Mags. Love you. So much.” The intensity of the moment pushes me over, and I quiver. H
is movements become erratic as he penetrates deep within, and another orgasm rolls through me, my muscles clenching and coaxing him as his facial muscles contract. He arches as he moans, loses control, and releases into me. I feel him, deep inside me, contracting, filling me. His expression is one of pure rapture. He falls onto me, his back damp from exertion. I rub his back, exploring the contours and loving my newfound freedom to do so.
There’s a quick tap at the door, and I hear it open. Yara’s voice fills the room. “Hey, you wanna—” Then there’s a quick pause and the door slams shut. I press my mouth to Jason’s shoulder as I giggle, imagining what she just saw. Jason’s bare ass lying between my spread legs, both of us completely naked.
Jason pulls away from me and sits on the end of the bed. He slaps my thigh and pops a loud kiss on my forehead then jumps off the bed and lumbers around searching for his clothes.
I roll to my side to watch him. He tosses my clothes my way when he finds them. Except for my panties. He leaves those on the floor. He walks to my dresser and opens my panty drawer, because yes, he knows where I keep them. He’s been in here more than once while I put away laundry. He pulls out a white pair and sends them sailing through the air to me.
“You might need a fresh pair.”
I still haven’t moved from the bed. It’s Sunday, and my personal preference would be for us to stay here. Maybe order lunch in.
He rubs his hand in rapid-fire succession on his scalp, back and forth, as if he’s aiming to make the hairs stick up. I watch him while I lie naked in the bed. He rests his arm against the window, staring out at the dark, gray sky. “Get dressed. Let’s go grab lunch.”
I glance at the clock. It’s not even 10:30. I exhale slowly, counting to ten in my head. He raps the window with his knuckle, facing the rain. “Get dressed.”
My face heats as I sit up, unease stirring in my belly. I pull on the white panties, my flannel bottoms, then my top. He remains fixated on something outside, his back to me.
I step up to him and stroke his back. He exhales and turns to face me, his movement forcing me to let go. “I forgot. I’m supposed to meet Sam this afternoon. I should probably head down to his place.” His head is shaking back and forth like a bobble doll. I’ve never seen anything like it. Right before he reaches my door, he turns back to me.
“We didn’t use a condom again. Shit.”
My lungs contract, and for a moment it’s like they aren’t working, like they stopped taking in air. “I’ll go on the pill.”
“Okay, good.” With his hand on the doorknob, his back to me, and his head angled down to the floor, he adds, “If I’m with anyone else, I’ll be sure to use a condom,” he mutters.
Anyone else.
He said it like an afterthought, reassuring himself. When the door closes behind him, I slump on the floor.
Anyone else.
At some point later, the door opens. “It’s about—”
Once again, Yara doesn’t finish her sentence. She stoops beside me and pulls me into her arms. She doesn’t ask questions. She simply repeats things along the lines of him being an asshole. He doesn’t deserve my friendship. She goes on and on saying things to make me feel better, and I let her. I let her hold me as shock waffles through my core.
I never would have expected that…not from him. Friends, who fuck? That’s what he wants?
That’s what he wants.
Chapter 15
Jason
The Day It Returned
When I moved to New York, it was for grad school. I did my master’s and doctorate at Columbia. Before we moved, our senior year, applications to grad school, interviews, campus visits, making plans for the move, all of it consumed most of my time.
My cancer had been in remission. We weren’t using the acronym NED, meaning no evidence of disease, but it was a thing of the past. Kind of. I mean, I had a scar. A daily reminder of my past. Little things worried me. Fevers. If I didn’t feel good. If my glands felt swollen. Nausea.
I figured I’d find a new doctor when I got settled in New York. I was a little late on my check-up and scan that year. Nothing to be too concerned about. I felt fine. Energized.
Maggie took a job in New York too. She found an apartment near mine. She sold her Honda before moving, so we rode together from New Hampshire to New York. It felt pretty exciting that day, driving down. My Jeep packed to the gills, so crammed with stuff I couldn’t see out the rearview mirror. We blared the music, windows down.
I didn’t tell Maggie when I got around to going in for my scan. It was supposed to be a simple check-up. When I got the call to come in to discuss my results, just from her tone, before the nurse finished her first sentence, I knew.
I had decided I was going to keep it from Maggie. She’d lost Adam. Had been devastated. She’d be worried about me. We’d just moved to Manhattan. We were twenty-two. She had other things to be doing with her time. New friends to make. New career.
I had some papers from the doctor on my kitchen counter. Some papers I needed to go through. Insurance. It could be such a pain in the ass.
Anyway, she saw the papers. I stood there, watching her read them. I should’ve been pissed that she picked them up. I had every right to decide who to tell. Who to bring into it. But she looked so sad, standing there processing my results. And it hurt me. Like my chest was being ripped open and pummeled. I never ever wanted to hurt her. In any way.
And you know, that’s the thing. A life with me, every fucking year that goes by, life can get flipped upside down. It could come back. Any day. My plans are meaningless. Can’t count on anything. That’s not the life I want for her. Not then. Not now. Not ever.
Chapter 16
Maggie
“So, what do you think?” Yara asks, poking the corner of the menu into my bicep so hard it’ll probably bruise.
“Ow! It’s cool.” It’s a Tuesday night, and Yara has forced me off the sofa. We’re at Helen’s, a rather novel downtown restaurant she’s been wanting to come to for ages. I’m drawn to the brick-vaulted ceilings, but the East Asian design elements are what set this place apart.
I scan the menu, and it’s clear the East Asian influence extends to the cocktail menu as well. I’m drawn to the Lost in Tokyo drink, but it includes prune juice, and that’s a no. Prune juice reminds me of my grandmother’s home remedies. I ultimately choose the lychee martini after confirming with our waitress it’s not too sweet, and Yara chooses a drink with tapioca pearls mixed in.
Yara picks up her phone to continue a text conversation she’s having with a colleague. They have a business partner who is being a tad secretive about an upcoming meeting, and they’ve converted into conspiracy theorists, debating all the possible interpretations of the woman’s behavior. More than once, I’ve been thankful I didn’t choose corporate America after being subjected to Yara’s detailed analysis of inner company political workings. And at this moment, I’m filled with gratitude that Yara has her colleague to dissect today’s events with, and therefore I don’t have to sit there and constantly ask questions like, “And who is Jim again?”
While she taps away on her cell, at times looping me in with an update like, “Ronnie says there’s a possibility they may be looking to sell the division,” I read the menu. I learn that the focal point of the restaurant, a lotus wall panel, represents the wheel of life, the law of cause and effect, and reincarnation. I also learn that a lotus represents purity, rooted in mud, and growing toward the light. Something that could apply to each of us, I suppose.
The teakwood paneling lining the sides of the restaurant depicts the deepest forest, where few humans ever go. I am sure they are referencing some sort of spiritual quest, but I can’t help but wonder if maybe that deep forest lies within. A forest so thick we build walls to avoid risking losing ourselves in the nebulous depths. Our fear so great of what might consume us, we are afraid to tread in the unlit unknown. And yes, of course, I’m thinking of Jason. I know in my heart of hearts he lov
es me. Sunday proved he does, in fact, or at least can, find me sexually attractive. Yet, for the second time, he closed down. Built a wall. Shut me out.
I’m sipping my white martini, perusing a Cambodian temple sculpture, when Yara’s hand over mine draws me out of my spiraling rumination. A twisted range of emotion has been flowing up and down on repeat since Sunday, and I haven’t been able to eliminate the disturbance.
She flips her phone over, face down. “Enough. I’m here for you. No more work. Tell me, how’d day two of Jason detox go?”
I haven’t responded to any calls or texts since Sunday. That’s the main reason I agreed to travel downtown this evening. The probability he will come over tonight is high. He doesn’t do well when I don’t answer him. My avoidance will only go so far, though. He’ll most likely show up at my office tomorrow. And I don’t want to lose our friendship. I’ll play it off, like what he did didn’t hurt me. I just need some time and space before then. I sip my drink without answering her. It feels like a bitchy question.
She sighs and sets about hunting down tapioca pearls with her straw, downing about half her cocktail in the process. Then she slaps her palm on the table, resolute.
“You know, I feel like a woman counseling a friend, and I’m telling her all the time, ‘He’s never gonna leave her,’ and the friend nods and says, ‘I know,’ and continues seeing the guy. But here’s the thing—there is no her. He’s just not that into you. I don’t know why. But he’s not. Maybe it’s that you guys fart around each other. You’ve been hanging out forever. Like that bridge has been crossed, and there’s no crossing back to the side with possibilities. You are now firmly entrenched on the other side, and you need to venture forward on your own.”
