by Gage Grayson
With my back to Aaron, I pull my shirt over my head and add it to the pile. Removing my earrings, I put them in the little basket and then unhook my bra. Dropping it down my arms, I put it on top of my clothes.
Do I take my underwear off?
That’s how it’s done here, I guess, and I’ll look like a prude if I don’t.
Besides, what’s the big deal? He’s already seen everything.
For some reason, that thought doesn’t make me feel any better.
Stepping out of my underwear, I throw is as quickly and casually as I can into the cabinet.
I’m relieved to see that Aaron didn’t take the table closest to me. I try to be cool as I move towards it—at what I hope looks like a leisurely pace even though I feel like sprinting.
Arranging the sheet over me for maximum coverage, I hear him again.
“This is a weird fucking painting.”
What the hell is he talking about?
Swiveling my head, I see Aaron—in all his naked glory—standing in front of the designer painting with his hands on his hips.
“Uh, yeah, It’s different.” I can’t really see it that well with the dim light and with him standing in front of it. But who could focus on the painting with his naked butt in front of it?
He turns away from the painting and starts circling the tables.
When I close my eyes to relax, all I see is his backside, plus the ripped muscles in his arms and the indentations in his butt cheeks.
Fucking hell.
I hope this massage relaxes me.
“What do you suppose this is?” He’s on my left and my eyes pop open at his question.
He’s holding a bottle with sticks hanging out the top.
“It’s a diffuser.” I whisper. “Put it down!”
Sniffing it, he shrugs and casually puts it back on the shelf. His cock is literally eye level and less than a foot away. My gaze is drawn to it, but I think that’s just gravity—it’s a dick with substantial mass.
The atmosphere is suddenly less relaxing, though.
Taking a deep breath through my nose, I exhale slowly through my mouth and focus on a point on the ceiling.
In through the nose, out through the mouth.
His feet make a shuffling sound on the tiled floor as he continues making his way around the room. Thankfully, he doesn’t say any more as he finishes his perusal, and finally lays down on his table.
Less than five seconds later, there’s a light tap on the door before it’s cracked and then opened.
Celia moves to the far corner and turns on some soothing soundtrack with ocean waves and chimes.
“Are you newlyweds?”
At Manuel’s question, Aaron and I look at each other.
Aaron’s quicker than me, and answers in the affirmative. “Yes.”
“Wonderful, wonderful.” His voice is soothing, and I’m still looking at Aaron as Manuel moves to his feet and Celia does the same to me.
Rolling back the sheet to my upper thighs, she starts oiling her hands, and, within seconds, I feel her warm hands start manipulating my feet.
“I’ve been married for twenty-five years, and it’s not always easy.” Manuel seems just old enough for that to be believable—not a wise old man type by any stretch—yet his voice is full of calm knowledge.
Aaron winks at me and I realize I’m still staring at him.
“But it’s definitely worth it. Sure, it’s easy for the first little while, in that first blush of being in love, but start adding in kids and work and money issues. And that honeymoon enthusiasm you feel for each other, that starts to fade.”
There’s a brief pause, and I think Manuel’s done. Finally.
But no.
“The key is to not give up when it starts to get hard, and to keeping working at it. It’s not easy for any couple, but you can’t just walk away. At the end of the day—or year, or life—you still have the most important thing: each other.”
The disgust must show on my face because Aaron is so clearly trying not to laugh.
Smirking at each other, I hold in my own laughter as we share our private moment of amusement at poor Manuel’s expense.
I see no sign that Manuel doesn’t believe every word of his sappy, kind of sweet but really fucking cheesy speech.
“It’s important to keep the spark alive sexually, too.”
What? Is this really where he’s going now?
“The honeymoon’s always hot but remember to keep the spark going. It just takes some creativity.”
That’s it. I look away from Aaron as I realize my face in on fire.
Feeling the heat, I try to concentrate on what Celia is doing to my legs. Breathing in through my nose and slowly out through my mouth. What is wrong with people? How can they feel it’s okay to just start spewing helpful advice like that to total strangers?
Maybe it’s some big joke. Does he actually believe what’s coming out of his mouth?
Or, do long term married couples just figure that if they’re miserable, they should point the path behind them, encouraging everyone else to join in on the fun?
A free massage, and I’m wasting it worrying about this bullshit.
I need to quit thinking and start relaxing.
Easier said than done, as my thoughts drift back to Aaron and our honeymoon suite negotiations.
I feel a weird, tingling sensation not just at the massage’s current focal point, but all over my body. Almost anticipatory.
It feels odd, but it’s so nice that I figure it must be part of the massage—some sort of endorphin release, triggered by relieved tension.
Celia is nearly finished with my legs, and it feels like years of useless weightiness and pressure are evaporating into the air.
It feels wonderful.
Using my own body weight, she’s getting to pressure points in my hips and even to points above. She’s being as thorough as she needs to be, channeling every bit of toxic tension.
As much as I don’t care for how things went sideways with Aaron showing up, it’s had its upsides, too.
I wouldn’t be here enjoying this massage if it wasn’t for him.
I guess it’s true that you have to take the good with the bad. There’s a little of both in everything. Maybe that’s what marriage is like. Acknowledging that both good and bad exist, but working together through the problems you have some control over, supporting each other to weather the problems you don’t, and building upon the good that is there.
Yet with all that effort to build and maintain a strong marriage, what’s the end game?
I’m happy to lead my own life and save the fucking effort.
The massage is nice and quiet now.
Maybe Manuel saw me blush earlier and realized I’m uncomfortable, because nothing else is said for the rest of the massage.
Thank fucking God.
18
Aaron
For a moment, I forget where I am.
The couple’s massage and the newlywed treatment did wonders for my body and Macy’s disposition. Who would’ve thought?
Sitting at one of the bar stools, I watch as she explores the kitchen, looking to make herself a snack.
I offered the watermelon I cut up just a minute ago, but she wanted something else.
As she walks back to the bar stools, I see that something else is a plate of concord grapes.
Out of nowhere, she covers her mouth, trying to hush her sudden burst of laughter.
Her laugh is especially musical, almost angelic, as she tries to hold it in.
Impulsively, I smile at her.
“What’s so funny?” I ask innocently. I’m genuinely fucking interested in what’s making her laugh so randomly.
I mean, laughing at random shit seems to be one thing we enjoy doing together. And even when I don’t know what the random shit is, like now, it’s still damn contagious.
“Oh, I’m remembering what Manuel said. I find it amusing how people can believe
in the notion of a ‘perfect other.’” She puts the last two words in air quotes. “It seems so archaic.”
I listen, but I’m distracted by her fingers playing with the grapes on her plate. It’s quickly becoming one of my favorite shows.
“Yeah, it’s just a lot of unrealistic or otherwise just plain ridiculous concepts informing and damaging real lives. But let me tell you, people will always pay to see it,” I respond, amused by her wise proclamations.
“Hah, that’s for sure. I can’t stand the romantic melodramas, especially the contemporary ones. Don’t even get me started on romcoms.”
She winks, knowing damn well they’re my forte.
I curve my mouth in the most exaggerated frown, pretending to be hurt by her obvious dig. But I have the same attitude now that I’ve had since day one. If she wants to have a bit of a laugh at my expense, who the fuck am I to stop her?
Especially when she’s so good at it?
And especially now, when she’s got a serious point to back it up.
I can’t speak for everything that could happen or has happened between two people in the fucking world, but the mass-marketed, Hollywood concept of love and long-term romance is about as real as Middle Earth or the Merry Old Land of Oz.
Though I do love to ironically celebrate monogamy and the atrocity of the wedding industry in my films, some people get it, while others fall immune to the romanticized, fluffy layer. They’re the kinds of films everyone can enjoy.
It’s honestly smart business.
“Ah, romcoms. The most formulaic. Boy meets girl, girl likes boy, boy loses girl and then happily ever after.” I arrogantly laugh, knowing damn well how that formula works.
“You cut off the story before it’s supposed to be over, but I like that version much better than the usual. Girl realizes she doesn’t need boy, even though that’s what everyone keeps fucking telling her, but she finally wises up and stays wise!” She claps her hands to emphasize the latter points.
“Oh no, what do you mean? A woman without a man? Good heavens!” I clutch my chest, fully embracing my inner ham. If only I was wearing a pearl necklace.
Laughing, Macy shakes her head at me. She looks so…comfortable.
Fun.
Carefree.
Hearing and seeing her like this is another surprise this week has brought. The way it makes me feel is also a surprise.
Warm.
I have no fucking idea why, and it’s concerning. It’s not the first time I’ve felt this way, nor recognized this new dynamic and my feelings about it.
This shit has been going on since our date with Harpo, at least. I should probably feel panic realizing that, and I do, for a moment.
Then I’m not. There’s no panic, no concern really. I don’t know why.
All I do know is that I want to make her laugh…more.
“What will become of her? She’ll probably just shrivel up and die. Or she’ll spread her shrew-ness to all women. The horror!” She follows my acting cues, placing the back of her hand on her forehead dramatically.
“What a whore!” I gasp.
“Or she works too hard! She hasn’t realized yet how soft and lovable she could be, or really is, until one day, when that one handsome man—the one who she’s never looked at twice—shows her how lovable she is.”
She walks over to me, in character. Placing her hands on either side of my head.
Continuing her dialogue, “Thank god for that damn attractive man. If it wasn’t for him, she would have died without knowing how truly lovable and happy she could be.”
It’s a very simple pitch, the story’s far from believable, and it was invented and delivered in the spirit of mocking and scorn, but…
Holy shit, what a pitch.
I don’t remember the last time I was so affected by a pitch from anyone. Especially with the type of story I feel nothing but cynicism for.
And for a second, I get caught believing.
Her touch mesmerizes me and makes me fall for our world of make believe.
She lets go, retreating to her fruit plate.
Regaining my consciousness, I continue to play along, not wanting to let this carefree, charming iteration of Macy go.
Maybe it’s not about hooking up with Macy and my precious vacation fling. Maybe this week is really about improvising some scenes with her.
Although I bet we could still fit in a fling, our pretend world is so much fucking fun…
“My favorite are grand gestures. When he tells her that it was always her, that he was so stupid. The hearts and flowers, the huge diamond rings…”
She finishes my sentence by reciting the cheesiest romcom one-liners with a delivery that’s so maudlin and so loud I can barely make out the words.
I enjoy the short show to say the least, though. And I recognize all the references, I think.
Jerry McGuire and Notting Hill are the two she performed the most over-the-top.
I’m impressed, but not surprised–after all, she is a grad student at NYU.
As her monologue ends, she falls quickly out of character, and smiles.
I don’t know if I need to get fitted for contacts, or if I’m dreaming, or if Miguel’s massage techniques have me seeing fucking visions or some shit, but I could swear that Ms. Macy Evans from spring break in St. Maarten is smiling at me.
My breath hitches, and I swallow hard.
She’s fucking stunning.
Her eyes sparkle, and my cock twitches.
I wonder how far into this pitch she’s interested in going?
“The kiss, you can’t forget about the kiss. Most of the time it’s the first kiss that changes everything.” I’m dipping back into my formidable pitch skill set.
“Ugh, right! That’s another terrible cliché. One kiss will not change everything. You don’t just stop hating someone because of one kiss!”
Biting down on a grape, she rolls her eyes.
I can’t look away from her mouth and the sensuous way she eats. Rolling the grape around with her tongue—it’s almost like soft core porn.
Damn, I’m having a fucking great time.
“Oh, but have you ever had that life-changing kiss?” I quiz her, playfully.
“I have to admit, I have not. Unfortunately, I don’t live in the movies.”
She pretends to pout.
She’s fucking adorable. And I never use that word.
Everything about her is irresistible.
I’m screwed, fucking screwed.
“I’ve heard that you haven’t lived until you’ve had that heel-popping, whirlwind of a kiss,” I challenger her, presenting it with a wink and my most enchanting fucking smirk.
To my surprise, she doesn’t relent.
“Well, what’s a damsel in distress to do?”
Walking over to me, she runs her hands up my arms and bats her eyes. She leans closer, pressing her chest against mine. “Will my Prince Charming ever come and save me from my meaningless life?”
She squeezes my biceps, holding me for a moment longer and then letting go.
As I travel further into the scene, she’s staying right there with me. And as much as I’m ready to keep going down this road, I can’t help but pay her a compliment.
“You’re pretty damn good at the damsel in distress thing.”
“Well, I am a girl. We learned how to play that part when we were young. I’m sure you know how to play the ‘hot guy to the rescue’ role just as well.”
Was that a compliment? And did she just call me hot?
Hah! We’re making big strides today.
“It’s one of the main reasons why I work out. I have to make sure I can lift any woman in need of rescue.” I flex my muscles, mimicking the infamous Gaston—the man Belle should’ve ended up with.
“It all makes sense now. What would a woman do without a man, like yourself, and those big, strong muscles?”
She eyes me up and down, biting her lip.
Fuck! She is laying i
t on thick.
I don’t know where our scene ends and reality begins—until Macy’s face transforms magically back into its usual disposition.
“Ugh, those kisses though—especially the ones during the golden age of Hollywood. They almost look painful.”
I laugh the way only Macy can inspire—with both her words and her adorable delivery.
There’s that fucking word again.
“One thing I know is that they’re not painful. I’ve definitely made sure of that.”
“Oh, really? So how would you direct a kissing scene?”
Is she being serious? I take a moment to decipher what world we’re in now.
I proceed, delicately. “You have to capture the right angle, making sure to highlight the passion.”
She nods, signaling that she understands what I’m saying.
I see her blush.
“How do you capture passion?” She asks innocently, though I see a faint spark in her eyes.
“Let me show you…exactly how the professionals do it.”
“Okay. Like the professionals.”
I reach for her, cradling her head in my hands and capturing her lips to mine. I memorize their details, their fullness.
At first, I refrain from kissing her, merely brushing my lips over hers.
She closes her eyes and opens her mouth, inviting me.
I trace her jaw with my thumb, and tug at her damned bottom lip.
She opens her eyes, curious.
And I kiss her. Softly at first, growing in firmness as our lips find a passionate rhythm.
I move my hand to her lower back, pinning her against me tightly.
The touch and feel of her in my arms is overwhelming. It ignites a heated, tingly sensation that spreads throughout my body. It’s fucking amazing, and I can’t get enough. I crave it even when I have it.
Suddenly, she pushes my chest away, breaking our embrace.
My body immediately aches, and I feel like she punched me in the gut.
I fall back on my heels, struggling to find my ground.
“Okay, interesting. But that’s over,” she says through heavy breathing, walking to the other side of the kitchen.
“Why? What does that mean?”
“Fuck, I knew you’d take this too fucking far, and now you’re pretending we were serious?” She points at me, her voice growing louder by the minute.
