They can't see me cry…
For my sleeping Prince Charming, Master, lover, mentor, friend, George Burns to my Gracie, Daddy to my baby girl. It can't be real-how could that lion's heart be giving way? A ruptured aorta, standing at the kitchen counter, mixing juice one minute, collapsed to the tile the next, his life hanging in the balance, a list of complications so bad, and yet I'd give anything to get that far along, to be talking about tomorrow, about a wheel chair and therapy and cognitive re-orientation.
Those hands … all male, powerful enough to be gentle. Let me show you how that looks, he told me once. Hands with fifty five years of experience, pain and love, hands that have awakened, healed and aroused me, enthralled me … set me free.
He's not mine. I have to tell myself that … he has a wife. I'm an employee, a friend if I don't stretch it too far.
This man is not mine … but I'm his.
Has it been just a day since the heart attack?
Just a year since he came into my life?
I have to have a cigarette. I've been avoiding them-because I know I will break down, but the stress load is too much. Monica is here and I have so many mixed emotions about this. Thomas adores her, he's given everything and she probably can't help it but she's been a terrible burden to him, a cause very possibly of his heart exploding. She's a needy, busy little blonde, the trophy wife he calls her.
She has only one of the three things he must have in a woman. Big tits. The other two, a hairy pussy and a penchant for tobacco are my department.
It's a second marriage for both of them. Monica's first husband died of cancer, when her two girls were little, so I feel extra bad for her. She's not really reacting to things because of the shock but there's a role for her here at least, when she comes around.
Me, I'm just all consumed about the cigarette. Thomas went ga ga for them. It got to be a joke at the tidy little office we kept for two, me his ever-faithful assistant and go-to girl. Bend over girl more like; because all I had to do was light up in front of him and I was going to end up bent over something. If I happened to be distracting him-like that was my fault-I'd get a few healthy swats. Otherwise, I would get his hard, wet cock, fed between my sex lips.
Yes, I said wet cock. Thomas had this thing he did, where he would ooze pre come, more than any man I have ever known. The first time I thought he had already ejaculated.
I can't describe that feeling, a hot, turgid shaft in my hand, almost purple with pulsing blood … and covered in tantalizing, man-lubrication.
It meant one thing to me. That my Daddy owned me completely and naturally, being able all on his own to make the liquid he needed to maneuver himself inside my tight asshole.
Oh … jeezus, I need the cigarette. And a hard fucking. I need Daddy to look me in the eye, center me, make me squirm like the sweet little baby girl slut he loved to see me as.
"I'll get Kasey or Erin,” I say to Monica, sniffling into a handkerchief, golden hair disheveled over her padded shoulders.
I must have said it like an apology because she looks at me with bloodshot eyes. “It's all right, Caroline, stay, I know he was close to you."
"You can only have two visitors in ICU,” I say quickly. “One of the girls should be here."
"Thank you,” she releases me with a smile.
I find Kasey first. Sixteen years old, auburn eyes and chestnut hair. She is Thomas all over; you'd swear there was a biological link. She has some of the same expressions, the twinkle in the eye. She is passionately devoted about everything, she's a gung ho first child, clear proof what having a good and devoted daddy in your corner can mean for a little girl. She was eight years old when Monica and Thomas married. He made it clear to her up front, and to five-year-old Erin, too, that he would not try and replace their father; that he only ever wanted to help them treasure his memory.
To that end he helped them each make up a scrapbook of favorite photos and mementos of Craig, their biological father. Those are some lucky girls, let me tell you, to have a man step in like that.
I would have given my real one up to have that kind of step dad, trust me.
"What's the deal?” Kasey tucks her straight hair behind her ears. She is frustrated as hell that she can't grow larger breasts and she is having a real problem with one of her girl friends who is bisexual and is starting to have feelings for her.
I know this through Thomas. I know all kinds of things through Thomas I'm not supposed to. If only this were France where the mistress could stand proudly beside the widow at the funerals of presidents and dignitaries.
Fuck. I said funeral. Will someone shut me up, please?
Say goodnight, Gracie.
Goodnight Gracie.
I don't know how that started, except he thought I was just like Gracie Allen, the cute as a button little straight woman who ran poor George Burns ragged.
"Your mom needs a little TLC,” I tell her.
Kasey nods. She's all about helping. That's like Thomas, too. “I'm on it."
Erin is different. Erin is a little version of Monica. Since Thomas started living half time down here a year and a half ago to start Montage Property Development, he has gotten a dozen calls a day, half from Monica and half from Erin. Monica's crises concern their business ventures in Atlanta, everything from paint schemes for their corporate office to maintaining the perpetually disorganized books.
Erin calls about nail polish, boyfriends, the latest pop groups and who is in or out of her all important inner retinue. I get such a kick out of hearing this man, so much on his plate down here, deal with equal and total respect for both of them. Sometimes he'll have me hop on the Net to check and see who the Blog Boys are or why Hillary Duff is soooo five minutes ago compared to her little sister.
To fit the part, Erin has the lighter hair and it's curlier, too. Kasey favors her father, who looked a little like Thomas. Presumably Monica has a type of man; though Thomas sometimes jokes the main thing that attracted her to him was the fact that he was dating her sister Julie before he went out with her.
Erin's down in the waiting room, text messaging. I remind her about not using a cell phone in the hospital.
"I'm not calling anyone."
"You're using the phone, though."
She sighs, rolls her eyes to the fluorescent ceiling in high drama.
I think Erin is a smidgen spoiled. Thomas won't admit this, and I could be biased. But I need nicotine, so I'm not responsible for my opinions.
"Where's K?"
"She went in with your dad."
"Brian was here."
Freeze frame. “What did you say?"
"Brian,” Erin repeats, her head bobbing slightly to the music piping into her brain from the Ipod. “He was here."
"Where did he go?"
"I don't know,” she makes a halfhearted effort to relate to the outside world. “For coffee, maybe?"
"He said that-he was going for coffee?"
"I guess."
My imagination is racing. “Did he say anything else?"
"I don't know. He has a beard like dad. Weird."
I blink. “That's all you have to say. You just meet your half brother for the first time and that's it?"
I'm being hard on her. I don't want to see Brian, but I know I have to. I've never met him; it's not that. It's just … well I'm not sure what it is.
"Take a pill, Caroline."
She means a chill pill, but I'm thinking of the other kind. Thomas has a thing about that, he likes to make sure I take mine and when he can, he watches me.
"That's it sweetie, that's my baby girl,” he will kiss and hold me, knowing as he strokes my hair how important this is to me, how I have vowed that I will never have children for very good reasons. It's not like I wasn't taking them already or like I would stop without him-that's not the kind of power that turns Thomas on. It has to do with the affirmation, with seeing how his praise turns me on … how much I want to be a good girl for the right reasons, for once in my life.
"If there's a regret,” he told me once, while we were having our daily tea and philosophy session across the street from the office at Starbrew's. “It's that I had to wait so long to find you; that I didn't get to tell you all along how special and beautiful you are."
Comments like that put me in la la land, so much so that after I go to the bathroom and come back I forget how my panties are hanging at the moment over his leather desk chair, a little trophy from our lunch time lust session.
"You're going to give them quite a view,” he points out of the two men at a nearby table who are in full range to see up my skirt.
"Omigod.” I quickly go to close my legs, red with shame, but he stops me, a hand between my thighs. “No. Stay as you are. I want them to see what they can't have."
His voice has deepened, silk over steel, the seductive tone of the Master, pushing his submissive girl to new limits. My eyes convey my panic, my passion, and my need.
He knows what a stretch this is, how I am terrified of the least little embarrassment, how I can't bear to stand out in public, a legacy, probably of growing up in a family with so many dark little secrets.
I am so wet. I am dripping for him. “Yes, Daddy."
My breath comes in short stabs, the tea we are drinking forgotten. Outside a gathering storm, electricity in the air, the sounds of the patrons, smell of exotic coffees, snooty Winter Park aromas. And us, in our own little world.
Boom. A clap of thunder. The plink of rain on the windows.
"Bingo.” Master rises to his feet, takes my hand. We are going.
We run up the street to the hotel we sometimes play hooky at for the afternoon. “Why did we leave so fast?” I ask as he takes out two cigarettes for us to smoke under the awning before we go in.
"I saw what I wanted."
I feel the secret chill, ex post facto of men looking at Master's pussy. Daddy’ hairy pussied, smoke-like-a-chimney girl. “But I didn't get to see,” I pout.
"I can make the faces if you want,” he offers magnanimously.
I slap his chest. His blue cotton dress shirt is plastered to his skin. I crave those lean muscles; that body so carefully and proudly preserved. I should only hope to look so good in nineteen years.
"You're mean."
"Wait until you see what I do to you upstairs."
I laugh, tingling, anticipating, totally jazzed, knowing whatever new surprise he'd come up with-and there was always something-it would only lead me to new heights of delicious letting go … a plunging into wild ecstasy.
"Caroline, you in there?” she waves a hand in front of my face, bringing me out of my reverie and back to the hospital reality.
"I'm sorry, Er, I'm being spacey. And bitchy."
She shows mercy beyond her years. “It ain't no thang,” she uses age appropriate ghetto talk. “You're just upset about dad."
"I am, kiddo, yea."
She gives me a hug. I try to hold it together. “I need to go out … for a smoke."
"I'll come, too."
"No way. Your mom's still upset at your dad and me for the time we took you for super sundaes and you threw up at Fun Park USA. All I need to do is get you smoking."
"Like mom doesn't know already."
"Dad doesn't."
She rolls her eyes, pushes me to the door. “Go."
I make like a zombie down the hall, white washed corridor, uniformed people, in green and blue scrubs, doctors with stethoscopes, an EMT and two Orange County Sheriff's deputies.
Thomas would be much more at home in this than me. He's the one with ten years in the Air Force and all the political connections. Him and his spit polished shoes and creases in the pants.
Oh, he can fucking give orders, though.
And I take them. Never did that for another man, trust me.
He's said on more than one occasion that if we were in the “scene” doing the “lifestyle thing” he would put his collar on me.
It's something I try and argue but he will just smile at me.
"That isn't the kind of thing you debate, Caroline."
He means that he would just put a collar on me and then it would be there and from then on I could choose to obey or I could fight but I would do it all as his slave girl.
How does that fit with the whole safe, sane and consensual deal? How do I explain he never makes me do anything I don't want and that I can bet my life he never will?
How the fuck should I know, he's in a coma and I can't ask him.
I exile myself out the sliding glass doors. It's pitch black out, there are stars in the sky and cars in front of the hospitals. People, too, a security guard in white with a puffy belly and black pants, a couple of old Spanish speaking ladies and a woman in a floral print dress and denim jacket with a five o'clock shadow who isn't a woman at all.
"Smoke?” she asks with a deep voice.
I pull out one of mine, no judgment, because that's how Thomas is. Never treats anyone different, if they're homeless or a corporate CEO. And he knows plenty of both in his line of work.
Real estate development. On the grand scale. Housing complexes, entire communities in one fell swoop, deals to the tune of hundreds of millions of dollars.
To his mind it's all pushing dirt.
Seriously, if you ask, that's what he'll say. I'm in dirt. That's what he told me, the night we met at my first Alcoholic's meeting in the dingy basement of a United Methodist Church downtown.
"Hi, I'm Thomas. I'm in dirt."
"I'm Caroline,” I let him take my shaking hand. “And I'm in deep shit."
I suck smoke with my new companion, lost somewhere in time.
"Got anybody in there?"
"A buddy,” I say. “You?"
"Yea. Me, too. A buddy."
"Cold tonight."
"Yea.” I huddle in my jacket, dungaree like his. I have jeans on, too, and a sweatshirt. The height of fashion, me.
"Caroline?"
I see Thomas, holding two coffees.
Scratch that, a younger Thomas, a little taller, maybe a little smaller nose, but the lips and the chin, they're the same.
And the hands, holding the Styrofoam.
"Brian?"
"Caroline."
"Brian."
He nods. “Now that we have the name thing down, want a drink?"
For a split second I flash back. Wanna drink. Those two words were my trip wire, my magic seduction; I could hear them or say them equally well. Drink with me, you were my best friend, sleep with me, stab me in the back, regardless. Turn me down; go all dry and Carry Nation on me and you were off the list forever.
I'm different now-or at least I was for Thomas and with Thomas. For about the millionth time I wonder, what the fuck am I without him and wouldn't this cigarette go nice with a white wine?
"It's coffee,” he prods.
"Yea…” I take it. “Thank you."
It's heavy on the cream and sugar. Another thing they have in common. Thomas is such a bundle of contradictions that way, so careful in his diet, but totally given to childish impulses. Ice cream for dinner or popcorn. Sushi at midnight with root beer floats.
He has that metabolism, to stay so thin. I guess I do, too, although up until last year I drank my calories.
"I'm Brian,” he introduces himself to the man in the dress.
"Felicia.” They shake hands. “Thanks for the smoke,” he tells me, tossing it into the sand filled receptacle.
"No problem. I'll keep your buddy in my thoughts."
"Yours, too.” He heads back inside.
"Cigarette?” I hand Brian one, the universal language. Outside an Alcoholic's Meeting you'll find mountains of ashes, the air gritty and gray; all those sharp teethed people, bleary eyed, trying to find new ways to be alone together, sober.
I doubt if Brian is an alcoholic, but I find it's easier for me personally if I think of everyone as one.
"He looks bad.” Brian says it first.
"I know.” I can make the more immediate comparison, seeing him every day, in all states of dress, than can his son who has seen him just a handful of times in fifteen years. Thomas never took off on him, he's not that kind of man, but there was a time the bottle ruled Thomas’ life as it did mine. It was kinder to him at first, bought him into heavy hitting circles, made him a lot of money, but then the payments fell due and you never have enough
It's a long way down as they say and by the time he hit something close to bottom he'd lost Brian and Brian's mother Vicky. She didn't want anything to do with him for a long time-not all Thomas’ fault. Eventually Brian got old enough to want his own answers. That was six months ago.
Weird timing, right?
Thomas has done his best and they've e-mailed a lot and had some interesting meetings. Of all the things in Thomas’ life right now, I think I know the least about this. I know he'd have told me more, but it felt like intrusion.
It's freaking me out, seeing a version of Thomas younger than me.
Like a parallel universe, like me traveling back in time or something.
I think he's twenty-six, which gives me a full decade of experience over him. Ha.
He's watching me smoke.
"What?” I say it too sharply.
"Nothing."
"You've never seen a woman smoke?"
"Not like you."
"I better get back in there,” I tell him.
"Not yet. Come for coffee with me?"
"We have coffee."
"This is stand up coffee, I mean sit down coffee."
Stand up … sit down … my ears play tricks on me, hearing them as commands. Daddy wouldn't say it like that. He'd be softer; he'd get me to do it with his eyes. “I can't. I am sorry…"
"You didn't do anything."
"I'm apologizing for the coffee. Not for anything I did."
"But you are going for coffee."
"Why is that?"
"Because I'm asking nicely."
"Oh."
Back in present, I go with Brian.
"I'm from upstate New York,” I tell him in the hospital cafeteria. More people in scrubs and visitors looking lost as us. “A town you've never heard of."
"Try me."
I name it; loathe to give it more reality than it already has.
"Been through it,” he smiles.
"No shit. I guess you're dad wasn't kidding when he said you got around with your guitar."
"It leads, I follow.” The hands fret the fresh Styrofoam cup. Music making fingers.
"Did you play in Saratoga?” I name an artsy college town nearby. “I used to go to some places there."
"I've been to Lena's."
"The mother of them all. Is Lena still there?” The Cafe is named for her, it is her, everyone got there start there or passed through. Arlo Guthrie. Dylan. Don Mclean.
"She died when I was ten,” he delivers a chilling reminder I am no longer a Spring chicken.
"Jesus, you're young."
"I was born that way."
"Do you write your own songs?"
"Some."
"Your dad's a poet; did he ever tell you that?"
"No."
"Didn't think so. He hides it from…” I catch myself.
"From people he's not intimate with?"
"From his family,” I try and re-direct.
"It's all right, Caroline, I know."
"Know what?"
"It's obvious from looking at you. Anyone could see; you two are lovers."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"You don't need to panic-maybe everyone can't see. I had a leg up, I guess."
"This conversation is over.” I get four or five feet from the table and double back. “What do you mean, you had a leg up?"
"You said the conversation was over."
"Don't piss me off. Answer the question."
He sips coffee. “He never said anything, if that's what you're thinking."
"You don't know what I'm thinking. Of course I know he didn't say anything, Thomas isn't that kind of man. What kind of man are you, that's what I want to know."
"Apparently the kind that pisses off attractive women."
"Oh, fuck you, I'm not that attractive. I'm old enough to be your mother."
"Not quite."
"Don't sit there all smug,” I blast. “You shouldn't even be wearing that jacket. It's his isn't it? From the Air Force."
"Yes.” To my astonishment he takes it off. “Here."
Now what do I do? It's not like I can afford to be seen with the thing.
"Just stay away from me,” I walk away for real.
It's been a long time since I felt this kind of exposed. Brian hasn't the right, he's a puppy, but somehow he's inherited his father's ability to render me transparent. I might as well have stood there naked with all our sins written across my body, words and sentences curled over my breasts, my hips, my ass and twitching pussy.
It's obvious from looking at you that you two are lovers…
How much more does he know? Does he know the secret games we play, the roles we put on and off as easy as a Sunday morning robe and slippers? Does he know the code we speak, what it means, the thousand different looks we can give each other and know instantly the meaning? Could he in a million years grasp the nuances when I walk up to his desk and give him that look which only he understands, knowing exactly what I need. To be taken, to be entered, to be wildly savaged, to be enraptured in a fuck so profound, so down and dirty it curls my toes and my hair and leaves me stupid. “Me, too, baby girl,” he will say, reading me start to finish. “Go and lock the doors for daddy.” And could Brian guess how that normally free spirited and stubborn girl runs to do his bidding at that moment, how she lives to say “Yes, Daddy,” to him alone, how she treasures that naked time with him, warm-up time for business, he calls it. Just enough time for a cigarette afterwards, and okay, maybe a coffee next door with a shot of espresso before paying the bills and floating the deals?
And even then it's more play than work.
"Come on C, let's go for a ride,” he'll say when it's time to go and take a drive to look at property to be developed … my heart going pitty pat in anticipation as I stand, rising from my chair, my work forgotten, my eyes only for him, my body only for him … now that is how to make a woman, a baby girl stand. We're going to play in the dirt; he warms up on the way down to the car, we take the back stairs, the outside stairs that lead directly from the small suite we occupy in the building he owns. He watches my ass in the skirt. I always wear skirts. Daddy likes to see me that way, likes to see his property displayed. I sashay, I move sexy and nice and fluid and I feel redeemed in warm sunshine, going to play in the dirt. He opens the door on the passenger side of his Cadillac, not for pretense, just practicality, because they last twice as long. He always opens the door for me and closes it, too, he's a gentleman, not that he's above watching how I sit, how I smooth my skirt and settle into the creamy leather. He's looking at me with undisguised lust and I feel so deliciously feminine, not cheap, not exploited. He'll use and worship me at the same time.
He gets in behind the wheel, his body lean and sexy, like it's the cockpit of one of the jets he used to fly, his neatly trimmed beard outlining the face of the lion, determined but playful. The car starts and I am thundering in anticipation. I don't even wait for him to start. I am wet. Cool fingers between my lips, I part for him, I suckle his finger gently, between my legs I ache with emptiness, I open my thighs, they go wide and wider. Now I must wait on him, on his pleasure, on his gauging of my pleasure.
Once we start, there will be no stopping. I will pull up my skirt, my panties, if I'm still wearing them by the time we get to the car, have to come off, before we get to the expressway, where the big trucks are that sit high up.
"Thomas, what if they see?” I gasp the very first time.
"Then they will enjoy the view. Truckers work hard. Don't they deserve some grade A pussy like anyone else?"
Grade A pussy. My beloved pussy, on display as he plays with me. I can't interfere, I can't use my hands, I have to come, that's all that matters because he won't stop, won't slow down, won't get off the road until I do and it has to be a good one, explosive and hot and I have to call out his name, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy.
No sweeter sight in the world than Daddy, afterwards, licking baby girl's juices off his fingers. “I wish I could lick you and drive, baby girl."
"I know I wouldn't be driving if you did that,” I rasp and we both laugh because I don't even know what I just said.
We are all over each at the grove. He pulls onto a sandy access road, ostensibly to look at property, a future site for driveways, schools and playgrounds.
"Daddy, what are you going to do to me?” I giggled.
"Take a guess,” he bent me over, slipping out of character as he slips up my skirt and moves to slip in his cock. My shoe flipped off, somewhere out of sight, into some brambles, he was so excited he came on my ass and my skirt and even my hair, and god, aren't we a sight, just a couple of kids now, me trying to look for my shoe, how far could it have gone? I check the car, I'm bending over and this fifty five year old man is hard again already, it's a surprise, but a pleasant one as he penetrates.
"I can't help myself."
"Don't … I mean do."
We end up with burrs all over us, the shoe is in the bushes, don't even know how it got there, an hour later, trying to act serious in the bank lobby, I'm trying to pick burrs out of his hair, dark brown, the color of earth, the feel of man silk to run my fingers through.
I blink and I'm outside again.
In limbo.
It's colder, or is it just me?
I debate going back in, and then I see Brian walk through the lobby to the elevators. Fuck that. I call Monica from my car. Old Betsy. Thomas always threatens to buy me a new one so I'll be a kept woman but I'm pretty strict about that. He pays for meals, hotels and sex toys, beyond that all I take is twelve dollars an hour contract fee for keeping his books balanced and generally sorting out the vast piles of papers he is capable of accumulating.
After we met at the Alcoholic's Meeting and started our relationship it took him three months to convince me to work for him.
"I can't get anyone else, they all quit."
Two desks, drawers full of receipts, bills, invoices, contracts. That was after we excavated the blizzard of blueprints and schematics for all the projects he had dreamed up.
He is good at making money, mostly for other people. When it comes to collecting-rents from his own office tenants, stakes in consortiums-he sucks.
"I'll get Phil to look over the Lake West contracts,” I tell Monica. Phil is the lawyer. He's generally happy to hear from us, as opposed to the accountant.
"They want to write off what?"
"What do you mean all they have for 2003 is a single page of receipts?"
"Thank you, Caroline."
"Sure. Get some rest, Monica, okay?"
"I will."
She's barely left the hospital since this whole thing happened. Last night she stayed in the room, they wheeled in a cot for her. She went home long enough to change and came back. Talk about exposed, all her careful preparations to face the world reduced to the barest of prison essentials, cold water splashed on the face, just a little lipstick.
Before Thomas came along I wouldn't have been able to say something like that with a straight face, but Thomas has taught me to be more forbearing of my sisters.
Even the blonde ones whose worlds rise and set on hair curlers and eyebrow pencils.
"Monica can't rough it,” Thomas once told me. “She's much too fragile and insecure. She knows she can't compete with women like you, so they fight too hard, for men's attention."
I never fight for Thomas. “You're not the other woman,” he tells me. It's kind of a joke, but true. “You never feel second best where the man is concerned."
I'm not the only woman who notices this. He has this affect on all females. From our sixty five year old janitor to the granddaughter of the woman who works for the investment business down the hall, they're all smitten. He finds some piece of himself to give-a part ninety nine percent of men won't find for even one woman.
But there's a price for that.
Fuck … I was worried about him. He put on a show. But the last couple of weeks, he wasn't himself. Said it was a cold, said it was business, said it was Monica's calls, he said it was a lot of things.
I should have known.
My breakdown happens over the steering wheel. In the god damn parking garage. There's a knocking on the window. I roll it down, who knows how long he's been out there.
"You're not driving yourself home,” says Brian. “Open the door and slide over."
I pull the button and do as he says. I can't fight anymore, I haven't the strength.
"Where do you live?” he gets behind the wheel.
"Off University. Do you know where that is?"
"Yea, I lived in Orlando for a few years."
"What day is it?” I ask.
"Tuesday."
"The heart attack was Monday."
"Uh huh."
"Seems like a century."
"You must be beat."
"Not really.” He has the Air Force jacket on. It smells like Thomas. “Do you want to get a burger, Brian?"
You don't know how close I just came to saying beer. A beer as in five, six, seven or eight. Not serious drinking mind you, just fun, a little unwinding, who could blame me? It's under control, see? Otherwise I'd be thinking about my wine. Or my vodka. Now there's the serious shit.
Christ, I'm desperate. Brian scares the shit out of me, but the alternative is my own company and we all know how much that sucks.
We find a chain diner. Just two other couples besides us, both older. The waitress is about his age, blonde, she flirts with him. Is it that obvious we're not a couple or does the little wench not care at all?
I want to bite her head off, honest to god. Little twits. Why did Thomas up and marry one? I'd go back in time and give him a dumb slap if I could. We could have married each other otherwise, or at least lived together. Okay, maybe I am leery of living with men anymore, but they sure as hell don't need to be with blondes or checking them out.
"Here's the thing,” I tell him after the diet colas arrive. “I don't give a damn about my own reputation…"
He smiles. “Should I call you Joan Jett?"
"That's before your time,” I accuse. “You can't quote it."
"A lot of people say I was born in the wrong decade."
"People say your father was born in the wrong century."
"What should he have been? A pirate?"
"Something like that."
"About your reputation,” he finishes my thought. “It's safe with me. I respect my dad and you. No one will ever know."
"What exactly is it you think you know, anyway?"
"I didn't know anything for sure until you freaked out on me back in the cafeteria."
I shake my head. “I guess I made a jackass of myself, huh?"
"No. I was the jackass. It was a dickhead move bringing the whole thing up. I'm sorry, Caroline."
"It's okay.” I sip my soda. The apology means a lot. “We're both not at our best."
"I don't know what to feel,” he says. “The man is my father, I never got to know him like I should, people hear who I am they make all these assumptions, what it's supposed to be for me. I'm just empty. Does that make me a bad person?"
"It makes you human. You think I know what to feel? I'm so busy covering everything up I can't even begin to deal with my own grief."
"You shouldn't have to do that. I'm sorry."
I have a lump in my throat.
"What? Did I say the wrong thing?"
"No … it's just … it's just that Thomas says stuff like that. He's always trying to take on the responsibilities for the sum total of people's life experiences. At least it seems that way to me."
"Some people need to do that."
"Some people jump off cliffs and drink themselves to death."
"My dad almost did."
"So did I."
The burgers come juicy, medium well, stacked high with onions and ketchup and pickles. I cut mine in half. It's as much as I'll eat. Brian picks his up, takes a huge bite like it is the whole fucking world in his hands.
The waitress lingers a moment to watch him enjoy. She's entranced. It's like that with Thomas. Every woman is fascinated. He teases me frequently about being jealous.
"Need anything, Sir?” she flips her hair.
I know what she needs-a good spanking.
"We're fine.” I ward off the blonde with a stare.
"If you don't stop that…” I turn on Brian.
"What, Caroline?"
"Doing things the same way as him."
"You'll have to give me a list,” he says sardonically. “Gestures, expressions."
"It's no use. You look too much like him."
"Yea, it kind of freaked my mother out as I was growing up. She was pretty sure I was going to turn into him one day. She was waiting with a wooden stake to drive through the heart."
"Personally I think you could do worse."
"I know … big shoes to fill and all that."
I can feel a little pain back of his blase statement. I react out instinctively. “No,” I say firmly. “I don't want to hear that. You're not filling anyone's shoes. For one thing, Thomas isn't going anywhere; second of all, he wants you to be your own man. He'd never forgive himself if you felt you had to be him."
Brian studies me. “You're it, you know."
"I'm what?"
"You're his true love."
A part of me wants this to be true, believe me, more than life itself. “Monica is his true love,” I correct. “Every month, on their anniversary date, he sends roses."
"I know; he hasn't missed a month in eight years. But that is duty, Caroline, there's a difference."
"Brian,” I try and stop him before it's too late. “I don't want to get mad again; I know it's me, I'm brittle and all, but you have this way of pushing my buttons. With all due respect, I know the man, I know his marriage."
"I know he's a dominant, Caroline."
I set down my burger, ketchup and onion, my culinary diversion forgotten. “What did you say?"
"I know my father is only aroused by submissive women. For a long time it confused the hell out of me when he told me-I thought he was some kind of pervert, wanting to take control of a woman, push her hard into ecstasy, but we talked more and it made sense. I can see what it's about now."
I go from exposure to flat out paranoia. “You take a good look around, Brian.” The blood is pounding in my head. “There are witnesses. You lay a finger on me, I'll scream and you'll be in jail faster than you can whip that jacket on and off. That said, I will now get up, walk to the door and leave in my car. Alone. Follow me, try to contact me ever again and I will call the police."
"Caroline, you don't need to be scared of me. I'm just telling you what I know because I think we can help each other. We're the only two people in the world that can talk about this part of my father's life. Without each other we are both stuck, trying to figure it out alone."
"I'm not stuck. And you know what? I'm not running off this time. I want to eat my fucking hamburger and I'm going to do it in peace. All by myself."
"That's your choice.” He stands up, pulls a twenty from the pocket of his jeans. I see the outline of his cock.
I am overcome by something primal. Deeper than our names, deeper than today, tomorrow or yesterday.
My mind splits, the night stretches before me, two roads, two possible outcomes, instantly playing themselves out, start to finish:
In the first version he reads my mind and seizes control.
"Yes.” He extends his hand, giving me permission to go with him. I take it; everything makes sense as he becomes the perfect safe place in substitution for Thomas. We go to the car, I sit in the passenger seat, he opens the door, he closes it, and he tells me to get ready. I wait for him to go to the driver's seat, to push it all the way back.
"This means a lot to me, Caroline. You'll swallow, won't you?"
"Every drop, Brian,” I promise.
"Take it out, Caroline, and tell me what you see."
My fingers are so weak that I can barely work his zipper. He's so hard underneath his jeans. I feel like I'm going to faint. I pull it out; I free the erection through the opening in his boxer shorts. He's so large; he's circumcised in my imagination, not like his father.
"I see … a beautiful cock."
"What do you want to do with it, Caroline?"
"I want … to worship it."
"Do you think you're worthy?"
"No,” I readily admit. “But I'd like to try."
"Are you going to pretend I'm my father?"
"No. But I do want to give him this gift,” I admit. “Honoring his son."
"You will swallow?” he checks again.
"It will be my honor,” I salivate in anticipation.
"Very well,” he guides my head into place.
I take his cock between my lips; I feel it harden even further. I center on his pleasure, nicotine to my veins, his hand stroking my head, letting me bob up and down, wet and slavishly attentive.
His breathing gets shallower, his body gets tenser, and his hand tightens its grasp, fist in my hair. “Yes, yes, Caroline."
I feel the spasms in my crotch; I come, clenching on empty air, a helpless, needy cunt.
He comes quickly, letting me swallow.
I put my head on his chest afterwards, bawling my eyes out. He understands; it's nothing personal. He's a good man, a smart man; he just strokes me, holding me.
I lean on his shoulder as he drives me home. Thomas’ jacket, Thomas’ smell…
The second possible outcome is more cut and dried.
It is a hell of a lot less exciting but I'm not sure I can handle excitement.
I choose it over the first.
"Wait,” I tell him before he can leave. “Don't go. I'm sorry. I don't know what's wrong with me."
"It's okay."
We finish our hamburgers and he drives me home.
I smell Thomas on the jacket across the seat but I don't lean on his shoulder, I don't cry and I most certainly do not unzip his pants.
Although it's evident he has a hard on.
Better not be from the twit waitress.
We've already pulled up to my front door when I am hit with an awkward realization. “Oh, Brian, I didn't think. How will you get home?"
"I can walk from here. It's just a couple of miles to my motel."
"No, you can sleep on my couch,” I insist.
"You sure?"
"I'd rather you did. I don't want to be alone … not completely."
I put out a pillow for him and a sheet.
"What time are you going to get up?” he asks me. “I'll make sure I'm gone by then."
"Thanks,” I smile. He's taken his shirt off. I feel weak. I wish I were stronger … I would go to him, let him fuck me with that hard on. Get it over with, this little thing between us. Then we can both move on.
I tell him seven … but I set the alarm for six. I'll want to check on Thomas, but maybe, secretly, I want to see Brian again, too.
I say good night and head off to bed. I'm just coming out of the bathroom in my pajamas around the corner from the living room when I hear him. I freeze, holding my breath. The lights are off, but I hear him breathing.
More rapidly. Sighing, too.
He can't be, can he?
I walk on tiptoes, as close as I can get. He's sitting on the couch, his body in shadow. It's too hard to tell, but I think I see his hand, stroking.
"Want to watch, Caroline?"
My pussy clenches. My heart stopped.
I've been caught.
"I know you're there. It's okay, come out."
I present myself. He turns on the light, leaning across the couch. He keeps his hand on his cock. He has a big hand, but an even bigger cock. Bigger and thicker than I imagined.
"You don't mind if I play a little, do you?"
"No…” My voice is a little high pitched. Thomas says I do that when I am secretly displeased or disconcerted about something but don't want to admit it.
For fuck's sake. It's my living room, though. How could I not mind?
"I just needed to unwind. I need to come about twice a day. What about you?"
"Some … something like that,” I mumble.
"Have a seat,” he says.
I do not feel in a position to argue.
I take up the recliner, which is kitty corner to the sofa. I have a perfect view.
"Are you bi, Caroline?"
"No.” How can he just carry on a conversation like this, while pulling his cock?
"Because I saw you looking at the waitress."
I stiffen. “I'm not bisexual,” I try to put an end to it.
"So why all that interest?"
"If you must know, I didn't like the way she looked at you. And don't you dare read into that. I just know the type, manipulative, a born user."
"Like Monica?"
"I didn't say that."
"Didn't have to. What was her name, anyway?"
"I don't remember."
"Yes you do."
"Mandee,” I say, unpleasantly.
"She was attractive, don't you think?"
"I told you, I am not bisexual."
"I bet you wouldn't mind her licking your pussy, though, if we had her here right now, as our little slave girl."
I feel the twitching. My nipples harden.
"She could crawl to you across the floor, after she sucks me off. Imagine that, Mandee, her little sleek body buck naked, a nice little collar on her throat, scampering over to you, trying to be a good little slut so we don't beat her ass."
I want it to be me attached to that cock but I don't say it.
"Touch yourself, go on. You know this turns you on.” He touched his nipples, one after the other. “You could have your lips here, and here, while Mandee does her thing, here.” His cock looks so god damn good, protruding through the opening in his jeans, right through the split in the zipper as he squeezes it, hard. “Go on,” he prods. “Do it."
I tuck my fingers under the waistband of my pajamas. I have panties on because of the male company. They are wet. I gasp as I feel it, my fingers being grabbed at by my hungry little cunt.
I come in record time. I try and keep it quiet, but he wants to hear, he encourages me. I moan, only half aware as he tears at my clothing. I end up bare assed on the soft chair, my legs hoisted up over the arm rests, pussy gaping, giving, over and over, letting him see and possess my deepest intimacies.
"That's it, Caroline, that's it,” he encourages. “Show me."
I feel shamed and aroused and just plain open, bleeding my fragile, edgy self. At a certain point I can't take any more and I come down from the ceiling of self-pleasuring.
He's just looking at me still, grinning, the over confident bastard. His eyes get that intense look that a man gets just before. It's all I can do not to run to him and swallow him whole, or at least give him my face and/or breasts to come all over.
It's a tissue instead.
Such a pity.
He closes his eyes as he releases himself, flooding the blue tissue with thick gobs of white sperm. I tear myself away. I yank up my pajamas. I manage to be long gone, locked in my room before he can open them again.
I take off the pajamas and stuff them deep in my hamper, deep as I can get them.