by CD Reiss
I slipped out from under his arm and went to find my clothes.
My dress and underwear were draped over a chair by the door and smelled like last night’s whiskey and fresh porch air. I slipped into them and went into the kitchen for water.
I looked onto the backyard, with its dark green furniture and bean-shaped pool, sipping my water. I ran over the night in my mind, which was hard, because after a certain point, it just became a blur of skin, sweat, and orgasms. I must have said his name a hundred times, starting with me begging him to fuck me and ending with an orgasm he’d delayed eternally. When he finally let me come, it must have lasted fifteen minutes.
The first time he had thrust into me with such force, it was almost like he wanted to shut me up. Like he was saying, “here, take it, but please stop.”
Please. I’m begging you. I’m begging. I’ll do anything you want. I’ll be anything you want. Just don’t—
I was going to stay don’t stop, but in a different circumstance, when the love of your life was walking out the door, you might say don’t leave.
The buzz of a phone brought me back to my senses. I was making stuff up. The phone buzzed again. I didn’t know if it was mine, but I located the source on the kitchen counter, plugged into the wall. Jonathan’s phone, and it was facing up.
The caller: Jess.
Ex-wife.
Fuck.
I threw the rest of the water down my throat and put the glass in the sink. I had to go. I didn’t want to get in the middle of whatever that was.
“Good morning,” he said, sleep all over his face, T-shirt stretched over his perfect body.
“I took the glass from the rack and got water from the little thing in the fridge door. Didn’t even open it.” He shrugged, and I relaxed. He didn’t seem to feel invaded.
“Can I make you coffee?” he asked. “I can scramble eggs if you want.”
“No, I’m okay.”
As I rinsed the glass, he came up behind me and kissed my neck, fingering my zipper. “How about another go?”
“The sun is up,” I teased. I wanted another go. On the counter. On the floor. His lips caressed my earlobe, and I leaned my head back.
He slipped the dress’s zipper down. “You need to beg again. You’re good at it.” He kissed my back. I wanted to. I wanted to cry for it, one more time, before he became a memory. He pushed my dress off my shoulders with a perfect touch that rode between firm and light, a touch on a collarbone, maybe, like the one caught on camera from his wedding day.
“Your phone rang,” I said. Stupid. Another go would have been nice, but it was too late now.
“It’s always ringing.” He reached inside the dress and caressed my breasts, nipples hardening at his touch.
The phone buzzed. His lips left me, and I knew he was looking at it. His hands fell, and a palpable chill filled the room. I cleared my throat.
“I think I need to take this,” he said, zipping me back up.
“Sure,” I whispered. “My shoes are upstairs.”
I walked to the door, and when I looked back, he was popping the cable from the phone. His hands might have been shaking. I couldn’t tell.
I scooped up my shoes from the bedroom floor and went back to the kitchen. He was on the patio, elbows on his knees, looking at the flagstones with the phone pressed to his ear. His hands gestured, but I couldn’t hear him. It wasn’t my business.
“Good-bye, Jonathan,” I said before I slipped out the front door.
tease.
one
Jonathan was master of my nudity, my positions, and my orgasms, and though the first screw of the evening should have satisfied any normal woman for the night, minutes after it was done, I wanted him again.
His dick was beautiful: proportional, with a head just the right size and a straight and hard shaft. I’d only seen two other dicks in person, and though I’d seen those two a lot, I wouldn’t pretend I had enough experience to judge if he was as huge as he seemed. But as we talked and he stroked my hair, his penis got hard again, and I couldn’t resist putting it in my mouth. Minutes later, he twisted my hips around, and we became a gorgeous ball of sweat and heat, sixty-nining with me on top. I took the whole length of him while he put his tongue into my pussy. He grabbed my ass hard, digging his fingers into my skin, and drew his tongue out, then stuck it in again.
“Jonathan,” I’d groaned, kissing the head of his prick, “I’m going to come if you keep doing that.”
“No, you’re not,” he said, giving my clit a peck before turning me around. He guided my body around until I was on top and facing him. He grabbed my ass again, fingers in my crack where it was sensitive, and pushed me down. His penis went flush with my lips, and he pulled me toward him, then away, rubbing my lips against the length of his dick.
I put my face to his, breathing on his cheek, and said, “I want you.”
“You want what?”
“I want you to fuck me.”
He reached into the nightstand drawer and got a condom while I rubbed myself on him. I rolled it on, my hands shaking. When I started guiding him in, he said, “I want to see.”
I moved my hips up so I squatted over him. He looked between my legs and watched as I slid his dick into me. I put my knees back on the bed and moved up and down. He put his hand between my legs to shift my hips. My ass stuck out, and the triangle between my legs pressed against his cock, making my clit rub right against it as I moved.
I shuddered from the heat and friction. I didn’t think I could keep any kind of rhythm, but I did, because I had to. He moved his hand to my breast, but I knew what to do. The way I held my hips was everything, and I’d never forget it. The direct clitoral contact, him inside me, surrounded by his smell and his voice and his touch made me blind to everything outside my pussy.
As if he sensed how hot I was, he rolled over and got on top. “You’re close.”
I couldn’t answer. If I agreed, he’d probably have gone to do the laundry. “Harder,” I said in a breath.
He pulled my legs up and apart and pounded me. I cried out, clawing at his back. He pummeled himself into me until I was about to come. I tried to tell him, but I didn’t have any words.
Then he slowed down.
“Oh, God no,” I moaned.
“Take it easy,” he breathed in my ear, rocking so gently, so slowly.
“You’re killing me.” I hovered at the edge of climax. Tension and pleasure tugged at each other inside me.
“I don’t know how much longer I’m going to last,” he said. But he lasted, at that pace, until the buildup almost pushed pleasure over the edge. I thought, for a second, I’m going to come without telling him, because he won’t let me.
“Please,” I gasped, my resolve gone, “I need to come.”
“No, you don’t.”
“May I? Please?” As much as I wanted to come, I wanted to ask even more. I wanted to beg for it. I wanted him to make me lose myself in him.
He pushed against me, and I groaned. He didn’t answer.
I was supposed to know what to do. “Jonathan, please. Please let me come. I can’t…” He put his nose to mine and looked into my eyes. I felt surrounded by him and safe in his attention. “I’m going to lose it…please. Please do it so I come.”
“Do what?”
“Fuck me hard. Please. I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll suck anywhere you want. I’ll be yours. It’s all I have, but please fuck me so I come.”
“Come then.” He pushed into me, slowly but forcefully, and I felt my world tip over as he grunted and heaved with his own fulfillment. My hands went over my head and clutched the headboard. My back arched, and I must have screamed, because I felt his hand on the side of my face, his thumb hooking into my open mouth. He kept moving, churning his hips and gasping, and every push sent a new wave of sensation through my lips, my pussy, my clit, everything.
Warmth had shot up the curve of my spine. The feelings went on and on with changing breaths
and sensations. My voice wasn’t my own, but the expression of a built-up explosive detonating inside me. When he bit me hard, at the base of my neck, another point of gratification had been found. The pain was a counterpoint to everything else, bringing me back to consciousness and reigniting my orgasm. I cried out again, pushing myself into his dick, feeling nothing but wetness and hardness and shocks of pleasure between us. I’d entered a timeless zone, and when I realized he was softening inside me, I slowed down, even as my orgasm took on a life of its own.
“Monica?” asked Debbie’s voice, not Jonathan’s.
“Huh?” I was at work. Early afternoon, Thursday. I had five full tables and a tray of sucked-dry glasses in my hand.
Debbie, my boss, looked at me with concern and a little irritation. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah, I was just thinking.”
“About what? You just stopped dead in the middle of the floor.”
“Nothing. I’m sorry.”
“You have Ute Yanix on seven. Please, if you need a sick day, let me know. Otherwise—” She twisted her hand at the wrist to let me know it was time to get moving. I ran to Ute Yanix’s table with a smile and an apology. I took the actress’s order with a temporarily clear head that got muddied by thoughts of Jonathan’s belly hair just three minutes later.
Two weeks ago before I’d met Jonathan, I felt like a normal person. I worked. I sang. I bitched about my manager. I took care of Gabby and drank a little too much. I pleasured myself maybe once a week if I thought of it. I went from place to place, daydreaming about winning a Grammy or ruining my ex-boyfriend’s life forever. I didn’t realize how much time I’d spent plotting Kevin’s demise, but when I stopped, I filled the spaces with Jonathan.
After Jonathan, my brain seemed hard-wired for sex. I walked around in a state of constant arousal. The past year and a half had caught up with me like a train crashing into a wall. After the initial impact, the rest of the train kept moving, pushing into that front car until eighteen months of desire got squashed into two weeks.
The afternoon following my first night at his house, he sent me a text message from some lounge at LAX. He thanked me for a great night and made promises I didn’t believe he meant at all, and then… nothing. I didn’t expect anything. He wasn’t my boyfriend. He wasn’t even my lover. He was some guy I used to work for who happened to get me into bed after I’d spent a year and a half intentionally celibate. He opened a jack-in-the-box of sexuality by turning a handle I didn’t even know I had.
He’d done a whole list of little things before that, naturally. He’d been confident and charming and vulnerable all at once. He had a way of touching me that felt like static electricity without the shock, and he made me come like no man ever had before. Scratch that. I’d never even made myself come like that.
The hot heaviness between my legs was why I ran home from work most days, shut the bathroom door behind me and masturbated like a thirteen year-old. I had trouble functioning outside of work, too. I’d sent my band manager, Vinny, a termination notice littered with typos, fielded a call from Eugene Testarossa’s assistant mid-masturbation session and stopped eating. My friend Darren had started cooking for me and watching me like a hawk.
The only thing I could do better than ever was sing.
Fuck, I was on fire. Rehearsals with Gabby, my pianist and best friend, were almost as good as the sex eating my mind. She and I could do no wrong. I could make changes on the fly, and she went with it. Two weeks ago, I’d been ashamed to sing old-time standards at a dinner club, but the performances of the past two weeks had drawn the attention of the agents at WDE. That night, they were coming to see us. Our version of Under My Skin would send Sinatra running and Stormy Weather would make it rain in L.A. In my life, I’d never felt better about my work.
I just needed to keep my mind on the paying job.
“You playing again tonight?” Robert asked as he poured alcohol into iced glasses.
“Yeah,” I said. “Late set.”
“I’m glad I saw you last week. You were hot.”
“Thanks.” The compliment was about the extent of Robert’s vocabulary, and I accepted it with a smile.
“You been okay?” he asked. “You just stopped moving for a second earlier. I wondered if you were going to fall over or something.”
“I’m fine. Just a little distracted.”
“Probably the music. Got your mind in the game.” He winked and clicked his tongue on his teeth. He was a nice guy but a bit of a douchebag.
I took care of Ute Yanix and the rest of my tables, making a concerted effort to smile and keep my mind on my job.
Toward the middle of my shift, I saw Debbie talking to a big woman by the door. The big woman wore grey, pleated pants and a matching grey jacket with darker velvet lapels.
“Who’s that with Debbie?” I asked Robert as I handed him a ticket.
“Dunno, but I wouldn’t wanna meet her, or him, in a dark alley.”
The woman was built like a rectangle topped with a blond-tipped brown mullet. Her left ear was encircled by small silver hoops from lobe to helix.
“I’m sure it’s a her,” I whispered. “She doesn’t look like a customer.”
“She probably has a script under her shirt,” he murmured, keeping quieter than the white noise of the instrumental trip-hop.
“Rolf Wente’s at table six. Maybe she wants to drop it in his lap.”
“He’ll read page one if she sucks his dick.”
“He can read?”
We giggled, trying to keep quiet for the lunchtime crowd. I swooped up my tray and delivered my drinks, took an order, and checked on the rest of my tables. I forgot about the lady in the grey suit until I went back to the service bar and saw her standing with Debbie, looking at me as though I was the reason she was there. Robert arched an eyebrow at me, and I told him to shut the hell up with my pursed lips and narrowed eyes.
“Hi,” I said when I reached Debbie and The Rectangle.
“Monica,” Debbie said, “this is Lily.”
“You can call me Lil.” The Rectangle had a genuine smile and feminine voice.
“Hi, Lil.” I slid my tray onto the bar and pressed a damp terry towel to my soda-sticky palms before offering my hand. She shook it, but only for a second, as if the familiarity made her uncomfortable.
Lil handed me a small beige envelope that seemed only wide enough for a check. My name was scribbled on the front in blue ballpoint.
“It’s not a subpoena, is it?” I joked.
“Nah.”
I looked from her, to Debbie, and back. Lil gave me a short nod and said, “Thank you,” before walking out.
“What was that about?” I asked Debbie.
“Yeah,” said Robert, appearing like a bad penny, elbow on the bar, peering at my envelope. I smacked him with it.
“Take your break,” Debbie said to me. “Maddy has you covered.”
I took my little envelope to the back room, which had a few long tables, a vending machine, microwaves, and our lockers. I was alone. I opened the envelope.
Dear Monica,
Can you meet me at the Loft Club after work? I’d like to talk to you, at length, until morning if possible.
Lil will meet you out front after your shift.
If you can’t make it, let her know.
—Jonathan
The print was tightly written with the same blue ballpoint. As though he’d dashed it off without thinking, or as if he had been in a rush. For the billionth time that afternoon, I counted the days since we’d last seen each other. He’d said he was going to Korea for two weeks, and it had been just about that. I put the paper to my nose and got his dry smell full in the face. A controlled scent, it was truly original.
I had no idea how I would get through the second half of my shift. I had a gig that night, and it was an important one. According to the assistant’s assistant I had spoken to at WDE, half of their talent agents would be at Frontage to see me
and Gabby, though she and I were still a nameless pairing. I had four hours between my lunch shift and my gig. I could squeeze Jonathan in. Making plans with him before the show was foolish and reckless, but I wanted to see Jonathan Drazen almost as much as I wanted to play.
two
Lil waited out front, leaning on a grey Bentley in a loading zone. When she saw me, she opened the back door.
“Hi. Uh…” I felt weird getting into the car without knowing where I was going or who was driving.
Lil spoke as if reading my mind. “I’m Mister Drazen’s driver. I’ll take you there and back. If you’re going to be out late, you can give me your car key, and I’ll take care of your car for you.”
“How?”
“Take it back to your house.”
“How would you get back to your car?”
Lil smiled as if I was a seven-year-old asking why water floated down, not up. “I’m not the only staff. Don’t worry. Please. I do this for a living.”
I smiled at her, broadcasting pure discomfort, and slid into the back seat.
I’d never been in a car like that before. Darren and I had taken a limo to prom, but it smelled of beer and vomit and the carpet was damp from a recent shampoo. I’d ridden in Bennet Mattewich’s Ferarri down the 405 at two a.m. He thought the ride bought him a blow job, but it almost bought him a slashed tire. We’d stayed friends, but he never took me out in his dad’s car again.
The Bentley was huge. The leather seats faced each other and it had brushed chrome buttons I didn’t understand without a crumb or speck of grime anywhere around them. The paneling was wood—real wood, dark and warm—and though the ride took about ten minutes, I felt as if I’d been transported from one world to another via spacecraft.
The car stopped on a dead end street in the most industrial part of downtown, somewhere between the arts district and the river. Next to the car was an old warehouse with a top floor made exclusively of windows. The side of the building facing the parking lot was painted in matte black with modernist lettering listing each tenant. No mention of a Loft Club or anything like it.
