by Eden Bradley
“There's been nothing else to my life, really, for the last nine years. I'm either working or I'm alone. There is nothing in between. I've tried dating a few times, but it's always horribly disappointing. The sex is such a letdown. And I can never be myself, because no one who is not a client can ever know what I do. And so I gave it up, finally, the dating. Trying to have any kind of normal life. I suppose I was resigned. Numb. And then I met you.”
“And?”
I know what he's asking.
“And I knew from the first moment I met you that something was different. That things could be different. And they have been. Everything is different with you, Joshua. The sex is … amazing. A revelation, if you want to know the truth. For the first time in so long, ever maybe, I'm feeling … something. Everything! But it's turned my life upside down. Maybe that needed to happen. I know it did. But now I'm just… I know what I need to do. I just don't know how to go about it.”
He nods his head a few times. “Okay.” He gets up, starts the pacing all over again while I sit there with my heart pounding out of my chest, my fingers clamping together so hard it hurts. “Thank you for telling me.”
Ever the gentleman. Even now.
My heart is thudding like a series of hammer blows in my chest. I'm almost sober again. I watch him pace, wait for the verdict. I already know what's coming: that he will walk out the door, walk out of my life. But like some twisted masochist, I have to hear the words from him. I have to hear him say it's over.
Finally, he sits down again, asks, “So, what happens now?”
“You're asking me?”
“Yes.”
I shake my head, unable to grasp what he's saying. “Are you telling me I have some choice here?”
“Don't you?”
“Joshua …” But my throat closes up. I swallow, hard, forcing it open so I can talk to him. “Are you saying you're not… walking out? Walking away from me?”
“That all depends on where you'd like to go from here. If you want to try.”
“I … I've quit work. Is that what you're asking?”
“Partly. Yes. It's necessary. If you hadn't told me you'd quit, without me having to ask, I would have been out that door already.”
“I'm not going back. No matter what. I swear it.”
“I believe you.”
“You do?”
“Christ, Valentine. If I didn't, how could we possibly have anything?”
“You're angry.”
“Hell, yes, I'm angry. I'm angry that you didn't tell me, even though I understand why you didn't. Why you couldn't. I'm trying to imagine what it must have taken for you to tell me now. But, yeah, I'm angry. Because there's something beautiful and intense between us, and I don't want anything to fuck it up, and this very well might. It sure as hell should. But I'm not sure I'm willing to let it. Not if you can really stop. If you're willing to change your life. But you can't do that for me. You have to do it for yourself, or it won't work. It won't mean anything.”
My hands are twisted together in my lap, my fingers biting into each other. “Joshua, so much of this is about you, in that you were the starting point. The point at which I had to stop and question what the hell I was doing with my life. But the answer is that I have no life. Not really. And I need to change that. I want to. I can't do it anymore; it's become impossible. So while you may have been the catalyst, it ultimately comes down to the fact that I'm done. Even if you walk out the door this very moment…” I have to stop, catch my breath. I don't want that to happen. I want him to stay. More than I've wanted anything in my life. “I'm not going back. I can't. That part of me has changed already.”
He's quiet, watching me once more. My face is hot. My head feels as though there is an immense pressure, in my brain, beneath my skin.
Finally he says, “I needed to know that.”
I nod. The tears are back, waiting for me to let them fall, but I clench my jaw, refusing.
He takes my hand, looking down at it as he runs his fingers over the knuckles, turns it over, rubs his thumb over my palm.
He says very quietly, “You're shaking.”
“Yes.”
He looks at me, and I cannot believe what I see in his eyes: sympathy. Understanding. Pain.
The tears fall then. I can't stop them. Fucking awful that he's watching me cry, my face contorting. But fucking wonderful that he's still here with me.
“I can't believe you're willing to do this. To even try,” I tell him.
He lifts my hand, lays a soft kiss on the palm. “Maybe I can't, either. I don't understand it all yet. But there's something so deep between us, Valentine. I'm not ready to let that go. And I have to admit that all of my sleeping around, all those years of fucking everything in sight, wasn't any different than what you did. Except that I didn't get paid for it.”
I want to throw my arms around him. But I feel too undeserving. If I am to find any comfort with him, he has to be the one to offer it.
“What now?” I ask, even though it scares me to think about what his answer might be.
“Now we just… spend some time together. Try to work through this. If you're willing.”
“I want to. But, Joshua, I have to tell you, I don't know what the hell I'm doing. I've never had a normal relationship.”
He smiles then, just a small, crooked smile. “I don't know that this will ever be a ‘normal’ relationship.”
A small sob escapes me. “No. I suppose it couldn't be.”
“It'll be whatever we make it.”
“Okay.”
“Come here.”
He grabs me, his hand snaking around the back of my neck, holding me hard, and he kisses me. His lips are firm, insistent. They taste like my tears.
How can I be so incredibly sad and hopeful and hot for him all at the same time?
But he presses closer, his other hand grasping my hip, pulling me toward him. Holding me tightly, he stands, lifting me to my feet, then he picks me up and walks down the hall to my bedroom.
“No, Joshua.”
“What?” I can feel his body tense.
“Not in my bed. Take me into the shower. I… I have to be clean.”
How can I explain that I need some sort of ritual to mark this moment? I hardly understand it myself. But he seems to understand. He takes me into the bathroom, sets me on my feet. I reach in to turn on the shower while he leaves for a moment, coming back with a condom package, which he sets on one of the small shelves built into the big red granite shower stall.
I wait for him, as passive as I've ever been with any man.
I don't want to think about other men.
He begins to undress me. Slowly, carefully, as though he's never seen me naked before. Maybe he hasn't. Not like this. Not with my entire being open to him.
When I'm bare he strips his own clothes off quickly, takes my hand, and leads me into the water.
We stand under the rain showerhead for a long time, our arms entwined. I can barely think. I don't want to. I simply want to be here with him, in the wet, steamy heat. He holds me, tighter and tighter, until I can barely breathe. I don't care.
Then he starts to kiss me, his lush mouth on mine. Tender kisses, like nothing I have ever felt before, not even from him. I don't know if he's different, or if it's about what's happening inside me, or both, maybe. And my chest is filling with some sort of dense warmth. Like honey: that thick, that heavy.
His kisses are so lovely. And as his hands grip me, his strong fingers digging into my flesh, owning me, my body is heating up, a slow burn that is almost dreamlike in the misty steam. And the sensation of his wet skin against mine, the water seeping in between our closely pressed bodies, is more real than anything I've ever felt in my life.
His hands begin to roam over my skin: my back, my buttocks, the back of my thighs. He pulls his lips from mine and dips his head, laying open-mouthed kisses on my throat, between my breasts. And my hands go into his wet hair, pulling him closer. H
e kisses my breasts, my nipples coming up hard. And once more I'm amazed at how I can burn for him, physically and emotionally all at the same time.
“Valentine, I can't wait.”
“No, don't wait. I need you.”
In moments he's rolled the condom over his rigid cock, and he lifts me, pushing me up against the wall of the shower. I wrap my legs around his waist, and he sinks into me, sweet and smooth. Like the water coming down on us. Like everything I have ever needed.
He pushes in, his cock sliding deeper. And already my body is arcing into his, clenching, pleasure sweeping through me in long, undulating waves.
He kisses me again, our mouths pressed together, tongues twining, that sweet, wet heat, the taste of him, filling my mouth, my mind.
Pleasure rises in my body, higher, higher, as he presses his hips into mine, his cock thrusting harder and harder, slamming into me, and his grip on me tightening, hurting, possessing. But this is exactly what I need from him. My muscles go loose, and I am his. His. We move in perfect rhythm: our mouths, his cock in my sex. My body is filled with him; my heart is filled in a way it never has been in my life. And as I come onto him I am too caught up in how good he feels, how good we feel together, to be scared.
WE SPENT ALL OF last night and the entire day today in bed. I couldn't stand to be away from him, too afraid that if he left my side for even a few moments, I would start to think. I admitted this to him, and he canceled all of his work appointments, just to stay with me.
I still can't believe anyone would do this for me. For me.
It's late now, the night all around us, like some dark blanket, hiding us away from the world. He has made love to me over and over. We've talked about meaningless things, both of us being careful not to address the really important issues. After the shock of my revelation yesterday we need things to be as simple as possible between us for a little while. We both have too much to absorb; it can't be done all at once.
He's in the other room now, checking his messages. I don't want to check mine. Even seeing there aren't any will remind me of how my life has emptied out. I know I can't fill it entirely with Joshua. That wouldn't be fair. I'll have to figure out the rest of it.
Not now.
No, there will be time for that later. If I have to think about it now, it will ruin everything.
He comes back into the bedroom, climbs into bed with me. I love it when he looks like this: his hair spiky, a little beard stubble on his cheeks, his eyes sleepy. Smelling like sex. Like love.
My heart stutters, and I swear it skips a few beats.
Love?
Is that what this is? How can someone like me even know?
We have known each other two and a half weeks. This is not possible.
What else could this warmth be expanding in my chest, filling me, making me weak as he takes me into his arms? It's not sex. Oh, no. I know what that feels like. This is something else entirely.
But love?
Too much to deal with right now. I can't do it. No, just be here with him, lie in his arms, listen to his breathing grow shallow as he slips into sleep.
And wonder for the first time about the limitless possibilities before me.
Absolutely terrifying. I have been such a sexual adventurer. But maybe the truth is that in every other area of my life, I have been hiding, too scared to take any real chances.
Turning to Joshua, I concentrate on the slow cadence of his breath. Careful not to wake him, I slide my hand onto his bare chest, feel the rise and fall of it. I need to know he's really here. I need him to ground me.
He draws in a deep breath, mutters, but he's still sleeping. Part of me wishes he'd wake up, make love to me again. But I've hidden behind sex for far too long already, haven't I? Perhaps that's actually been my specialty all these years.
I slip out of bed, finally, go into the kitchen and make a cup of tea. The floor is cold beneath my bare feet as I pad back into the living room, curl up on the sofa under a blanket. The tea is too hot to drink, but the mug warms my hands, the fragrant steam comforts me. Still, I think of the small plastic bag of gummi bears in my nightstand drawer. I want them, but I don't want to risk waking up Joshua. I need a little time to myself, despite the constant craving to be near him, to touch him.
It's one of those pitch-black nights outside, no moon to illuminate the sky. Just velvet darkness and the distant stars. That same sky I watched as a child. But I'm not the same, am I? Maybe some part of me has never let that child go, on the inside. Have I ever really grown up, gotten over my past? Have I ever really let it go? Or have I just shoved it down deep where I don't have to deal with it?
I'm going to have to deal with it now, or nothing will really change.
I sip my tea carefully and let myself think for a moment about my clients, my regulars. Bennett, Colin, Zayed, Louis. Enzo. I'll have to talk to him eventually. Tell him I won't see him anymore. I can't decide whether any of them will truly care, beyond their own selfish need for the sex. I hope some of them will. Sweet Louis. Enzo.
How ridiculous is that? I'm a prostitute. They pay me for sex. I am not a wife. Not even a mistress. Why do I care?
But I do. And maybe, just maybe, that was part of the magic, too. Maybe it wasn't just that I got off on the sex. Maybe I can allow myself that much credit. Perhaps I can even allow myself to feel a little sad. To grieve.
I am tight with grief, like a cord strung to the breaking point.
Almost. Because I'm not breaking, am I?
I don't know how long I sit in the dark before Joshua comes into the room, so quiet I don't even know he's there until he is sitting next to me, pulling me into his arms.
“What is it, baby?”
“I'm just… feeling everything, you know?”
“Yes.” He holds me tighter. “It's okay.”
“Joshua, I feel like … I'm some sort of emotional infant. Trying to figure it all out. I'm trying to find my strength here, but it's hard.”
He squeezes my hand. “I'm having a hard time with this, too. I'm trying to process it, but when I stop to think about it… Fuck, I don't mean to make you feel worse, but it's hard, you know? I have to be able to say that to you.”
“Of course.”
I know it's not his intention, but it does make me feel worse. Even though I am also deliriously happy that I have this chance, that he is here with me.
“Maybe we need to get you out of here? Change your environment? Maybe we both need to get out of here.”
I nod.
“I should take you to my house. I'll take another day or two off work.”
“When? How soon can we go?” Suddenly I want nothing more than to leave this place.
“We can go tonight, if you want. We can be there in twenty minutes if I drive fast enough.”
“Yes, please, Joshua. Let's just go.”
He pulls me up with him, pauses to tuck my hair behind my ears.
“Go and pack a bag and we'll do it. We'll leave right now.”
I feel an enormous sense of relief. I know it's only a temporary solution. But I feel like all I can do right now is survive this with him. It has to be that basic.
I leave him to go into the bedroom, throw a few things into an overnight bag: a silk nightgown, a pair of loose linen drawstring pants and a pair of jeans, a few cotton tank tops, my favorite cashmere sweater, a pair of sandals. I take my toothbrush and hairbrush from the bathroom, a bottle of lotion, throw those into the bag.
When I come back into the bedroom, he's dressed. He's holding a dress for me that he must have pulled from my closet, a soft gray knit piece with long sleeves. He goes to my drawer and pulls out a bra, underwear, and helps me into them, handling me as though I'm fragile. But for the first time in a long time, I'm not. Whether I ever wanted to admit to my own weakness, it's been there, beneath the smooth veneer. Now I've dug deeper and found something more, something better.
He sits me down on the bed, slides my feet into a pair of black
boots. Then he takes my hand, picks up my bag, and leads me into the living room. I pause to scribble a note to my housekeeper to take care of my orchids before picking up my purse. My heart is pounding. I need to go.
In minutes we are in his car, flying down the empty streets. The sky is just beginning to glow with the first light of dawn. I normally hate to see the sun come up. It's always felt incredibly lonely to me. It still does. But there is also a sense of absolute safety, here in the car with Joshua.
He has a Hummer, one of the new smaller ones, but still ridiculously enormous. All black, sleek, masculine. Totally decadent. I love it immediately. It feels like him. Beautiful and luxurious but still a little bad boy.
He holds my hand the entire time, but we don't talk. I am exhausted, half out of my head. But so damn grateful to be here with him. His profile is almost too beautiful to look at, with the slowly rising sun lighting him up just a little in purple and gold that fades to gray as we get closer to the beach.
How is it that I've never been to his place? I don't even know where we're going until we hit Washington Boulevard and I can smell the ocean through the closed windows of the Hummer. A few more blocks and we're on Pacific Avenue, that funky end of Marina del Rey where there are a handful of restaurants and cafés on a winding road leading to the beach. As we move away from the big hotel strip, it feels more like one of those small beach towns that dot the southern coast of California: Huntington Beach, Sunset Beach, Laguna.
He takes a right, pulling into one of the back alleys all of these beachfront houses have. He hits a button on the remote built into the dash and the garage door on a two-story Spanish-style goes up.
Joshua insists on helping me from the car, which I secretly love. Taking my hand, he leads me into the house.
His house.
It smells like him. That's the first thing I notice. The second thing I notice is that it feels like home.
“I'll show it all to you later. Let's get you into bed.”
I follow him silently, through the shadows of his house. Down a wide hallway and into his bedroom.
