Melissa had come across the napkin when she’d been half way through the third of five plastic boxes of accumulated bric-a-brac which she was determined to pare down to one box.
She carefully smoothed the napkin flat and tenderly placed it inside the book of poems Chris had bought her last Christmas and pressed her two most romantic possessions to her forehead.
She let her thoughts drift back in time.
It was 1994, the dead dreary days between Christmas and New Year’s. Alone in a hotel bar. I was twenty-five years old, walking down the same path of quiet desperation my parents had traveled. Working at the same bank my father had worked at to pay off my student loans. Engaged to Leonard, who’d just been promoted to assistant manager at the neighbouring branch. Wishing I was in grad school. Watching drops of water making rivulets down the glass of beer I was nursing until they were absorbed into the napkin upon which the glass was sitting.
Chris had sat down on the stool next to mine. Lush brown hair, sparkling brown eyes, blue T-shirt, tight jeans hugging muscular legs and a cute bum. Brash, exciting, impractical. I’d given him the brush off and he’d politely moved away. But as I turned back to the bar, I’d caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I’d suddenly looked thirty years older, trapped in dull, desperate dreariness, just like my mother.
“Chris!”, I’d called out, maybe a bit too frantically, certainly too recklessly. But, in a flash of understanding, I’d known that Christopher Carter was my life preserver, my last chance.
He’d come back. We chatted for a few minutes. I finished my beer. We went up to my room. It was small, barely enough room for a bed. But when Chris removed my clothes and began to methodically explore every inch of my body, the room had suddenly become spacious. My body wasn’t much—still isn’t—skinny, bony, no hips, no boobs. But Chris’s fingers made every inch tingle with delight and anticipation.
We kissed like teenagers, long, exploratory touching of lips, nibbling, tongues flicking at the entrance to each other’s mouths to see if they’d be welcome inside. When we were teenagers, that’s all we could do, kiss. No pressure. Just the ethereal joy of the moment. The institutional smell of the room, of laundry soap on his T-shirt, was the best perfume in the world.
He laid me back on the bed, my legs together, chaste except for a few wisps of blonde pubic hair. I watched him pull his T-shirt over his head. Strong arms, flat chest. He unbuttoned his jeans but his hand lingered over his zipper until I nodded. His underwear was white briefs, but they were soon removed. His cock jumped out. I looked at it: long, hard, throbbing. The point of no return. Up to this moment, I’d not broken my vows to Leonard. My fiancé. Safe, predictable, practical, stultifying. A tear had formed in my eye as I spread my legs.
Chris kissed my thighs where I’d spread them. Then up my torso he kissed. Every inch he kissed upwards I was leaving Leonard. A shiver of fear shot up my spine. But Chris had reached my lips. His tongue, no longer shy, invaded my mouth and danced wild abandon with my tongue. His cock pressed against my pussy and I felt lust. Not desire, not horniness, not yearning, not hunger, just lust.
It was the first time in my life I’d felt outright lust. I wanted him. I wanted to be fucked. I wanted to give myself to him. I wanted the moment to last forever. He was inching inside and I did my best to suck him in all the way. I pushed my bony hips up against his and his hard flat stomach pressed into mine. He was all the way in and he kissed me again. I was alive!
We were as close as two human beings can be. But that’s not what I was thinking. I was thinking fire and cunt and cock and clit. I couldn’t breathe. My heartbeats were thundering in my ears. I gasped air into my lungs. My cunt was already throbbing orgasm and I hadn’t even been aware that I was on the cusp.
As my orgasm subsided, I came back to him in the cramped hotel room. I concentrated on syncing my hips with his thrusts. I grabbed his waist. I caressed his nipples. I kissed his lips. His thrusts were long and regular. He was building to his climax and I felt another orgasm stirring in my loins. The orgasm had built gradually, gaining in power with each of Chris’s thrusts until it was irresistible, bursting out of my cunt, up my spine and down to my toes. I’d felt myself spasming against Chris as he spasmed against me.
I open the book of poems and kiss the napkin. I’d never had sex on a first date, let alone on a first meeting. It was stupid, outrageous. It was the best thing I’d ever done. I set the book on the temporary pile on top of the fourth box.
I reach deep into the box and pull out a photo of Chris and I. I turn it over, but there’s no date. Yet it’s old, taken while Chris was still in law school. I hold it up to the framed photo of us we’d taken last month. My hair’s still blonde and I’m still thin—I wish I could say the same for Chris. We still hug together like that, my head against his shoulder. We’ve aged and talk in monosyllables, like all old married couples. But the spark is still in our eyes and the smiles on our lips. I slide the photo next to the napkin and shut the book.
Then there’s a ticket stub for the movie Tarzan—the first time I’d ever worn garters. Boy, had Chris appreciated that! A pinecone skewered on a simple chain—the first jewelry Chris had given me. We’d been in Hyde Park and he’d slowly worked the hole into the cone as we’d watched Shakespeare’s Midsummer’s Night Dream. I still remember Chris putting the pinecone necklace around my neck; it had been the moment I’d started falling in love with him.
The last item in the third box is a long thin plastic tube with a fluorescent lime green gel inside. The gel is faded now, but when Chris had given it to me on our second date, it had been luminescent, glowing.
The second Friday after we’d met, Chris had called, “Hi, gorgeous, what’re you doing?”
“Just a quiet night at home, reading.”
That was presumptuous of him. Hardy’s Tess of the d’Urbervilles is hardly in the category of boring and I was about to tell him so when he interjected, “Let’s go dancing.”
I looked down at my book and remembered how exciting being with Chris had been. A Thomas Hardy novel might not be boring, but staying home to read a book—even Tess of the d’Urbervilles—could not hold a candle to an evening’s excitement with Christopher Carter.
The dance was in an industrial park inside a very large one-room building with cinderblock walls and a corrugated metal roof. Apart from several large brightly coloured murals, the walls were the original grey. The room was dimly lit, except for lights blinking all colours of the rainbow. Most of the large crowd was standing still.
Chris had given me the plastic tube explaining, “Scuba divers uses these for light.” He cracked the tube and it began to emit a neon green glow. He joined the ends around my wrist and I immediately had a funky bracelet.
There was a group of disk jockeys on a platform at one end of the room and they chose that moment to start blasting electronic music into the room. A laser light show started, creating swirls and shapes on the opposite wall. The music was so loud I could feel its beat inside my chest. The crowd was now energized and whirling about as if the music was controlling its every movement. Chris took two pills from his pocket. They were orange with a large “E” on them. He put one in his mouth and took a bottle of water from his chest to wash it down. I suddenly noticed that he had several bottles of water strapped to his chest.
Chris motioned for me to take the other pill. Two dancers jostled against us. I didn’t want to take the pill. I didn’t know what it was, whether it was safe, what effect it would have on me.
“It’s okay,” he yelled. “Made in New Zealand. Legal. Safer than alcohol.”
We were in the middle of a maelstrom of flailing bodies and the only thing keeping me safe was Chris’s smile. Chris held out the pill and the bottle of water. I thought about going back to my apartment. I took the pill and a large swallow of water.
Chris reached out to replace the water bottle in his belt, but I held it back and took another drink. I was suddenly thirsty. Besides, the water belt made him look ridiculous, like a tourist in the desert. Jeans, T-shirt, water belt. Only his handsome face and friendly smile saved him from my laughter. Two other couples momentarily separated us. The girls were wearing bikinis, the guys jeans and tight fitting tank tops. Sex infused their movements and energy.
I got back to Chris and we began to dance to the music’s throbbing rhythm. Chris rotated the water bottles to his back and I molded myself into his muscular chest. Safe, secure, sensuous, sexual. The only thing in front of my eyes was the outline of his pectoral muscles but somehow I was looking at his luxuriant brown hair, dazzling brown eyes, powerful legs and round buttocks squeezing together with every beat.
I suddenly saw myself as he saw me, beauty to be appreciated not defects to be criticized. A long lithe body with subtle curves. Pert little nipples, responsive to his touch, points of joyous communication. Eyes bright, not pale. Hair not washed out, but flaxen, top and bottom. Imaginative and intelligent, not threatening or demanding. I saw him watching my buttocks, my ass, grinding in sync with him, with the music, with the universe. Somehow he was able to look inside my jeans.
Our souls are entwined, fused together by the music’s harsh electronic pulses. We spin upwards, above the crowd. The tempo of the music slows and it becomes softer, melodic. We are heaven and flowers and light and bliss. Chris is a lion, strong and fearless, roaring for justice, my protector. I melt into his chest and we are one heart beating.
Then we spun back down, separating, feeling the raw energy pulse through us. His leg was between my legs, rubbing up and down against my sex. I squeezed his breasts, sending juices below. His leg moved back and I rubbed up and down his cock, his pure phallic perfection. His hand was inside my jeans, rubbing my hard clit against his fingers. His palm was pressing on my pubic mound and I’d gasped so loud it had to have been heard above the music. Electricity tingled up and down my spine. I was in love, now and forever.
We danced on and on. Hours, minutes, an eternity, it was impossible to tell. We were sweating, our bodies drenched with each other’s sweat. Chris made me drink water, lots of water.
We had had sex but the next morning I couldn’t remember what it had been like, only the love and connection on the dance floor. Chris had explained the effects of the Ecstasy we had taken but that the effects would have worn off by that point. Drug or no, I still felt very connected to him as we whirled around the kitchen making breakfast for each other.
I’d also felt connected with Leonard and my parents and everyone I’d ever met. But as the morning progressed the feeling of connectedness faded and I’d realized I’d shortly have to decide between Leonard and Chris. And if not Chris, the type of life and living he represented.
I put the lime green bracelet aside and move onto the next box. It’s everything I’d saved from my undergrad days. The “C” I’d gotten on my first Psych 101 test before I’d realized that I couldn’t write multiple-choice exams to save my life. The first English Lit paper I’d ever written: Post-Edwardian Fiction—the Death Knell for the Monarchy?—pretentious but oh, so much fun.
I lift out a small soap in the shape of a flower Chris had given me. It was too beautiful to be washed away. Next to the soap is a small red heart that I’d put into Chris’s bag on our second dating anniversary.
Then there’s the short story I’d written for creative writing: Journey’s End. I flip through it, noting grammar and spelling errors. The Prof hadn’t made a mark on it, except to put an ‘A’ in the upper left-hand corner of the first page. Had he even read it? It was about a young woman who’d just completed her B.A. and was standing at the edge of the university campus, worried, excited about what the future might hold. I flip through it. The prose, pacing, plot are all sophomoric, sophomoric at best.
More papers, transcripts, invitation to graduate and associated miscellanea. There’s a smooth and shiny stone we’d picked up while strolling hand-in-hand by the lake.
Then I pick up one of the letter-sized photocopied posters that were always littering the university walls. It’s for a lecture on post-Soviet capitalism. That’s where Leonard took us on our first date. I’d even written a poem to him about it, weaving economics in with romantic suggestions. The lecture itself had been a dreary mix of graphs, bombast and Marxism. I stared down at the poster for an eternity. Dear sweet Leonard.
The last item in the box is a photo from a field trip three other girls and I had taken to Ontario’s Stratford Theatre to see Shakespeare’s King Lear. We’d wanted to see the evening show, then get up bright and early the next morning to hit the small antique shops in the area. We’d booked ourselves into the cheapest hotel rooms we could find. They were so small you could barely walk between the two twin beds. My blonde hair is cut so short it could almost be a boy’s. Darlene had been my bunkmate for the night. In the photo, she’s my height but heavier—large breasts, wide hips large but not protruding tummy. Her ready smile, which she’s flashing in the photograph, made her very attractive.
The four of us polished off several bottles of wine after dinner, all the while solving the problems of the world, almost all of which were the fault of men. Then we retired to our rooms. I had brought my copy of King Lear to read but Darlene had suggested that we play cards, “You just saw the play,” she’d cajoled.
I’d shrugged and she dealt out five cards each. “What’re we playing?”, I’d asked.
“Simple Whist. No trump, but you have to follow suit. Ace high. Dealer plays last.”
I’d won the first hand, three tricks to two. “Let’s have some stakes,” she’d suggested.
I’d looked around the room for something we could use for chips. When my eyes came back to Darlene, she shrugged, “Truth or dare?”
I nodded, why not?
I won the next hand and told her to describe her most exciting moment.
“When you agreed to play truth or dare.”
I remembered thinking ‘what the hell?!?’ but she’d already played her first card and I had to follow suit with a low card. She won all five tricks. “I dare you to remove your shirt.”
I’d hesitated for a moment. It was a heavy flannel shirt and all I had underneath was a bra. But I wanted to be a good sport, so I quickly unbuttoned it and pulled it out of my jeans.
“Nice,” she smiled.
What could be nice about my—but I suddenly remembered that I’d worn my white lace bra. I glanced down and saw that my nipple buds were clearly visible. My face must have turned beet red because Darlene broke out in a fit of uncontrolled laughter.
I quickly dealt the cards. This time I won. “Off with your jeans.” It was time for a little payback.
Darlene stood and slowly unbuttoned and unzipped her jeans. She swayed her hips, humming a stripper’s tune. Slowly and sensuously she pushed her jeans down until I could see her bright red panties. She pulled her jeans down to her thighs, then quickly back up. Then she turned around and pulled her jeans down below her full round rump. When she’d turned back towards me, she’d accidently let go of the jeans and they’d dropped to the floor, cutting her performance short. I clapped and handed her the cards.
Darlene won the next hand. “Tell me your most exciting sexual experience.”
“Johnny Valentine. It was high school. A field trip to a dairy farm. We didn’t go all the way, but he took me behind the barn. He smelled of Old Spice even though he wasn’t shaving yet. We kissed and he put his hand down the front of my jeans. It felt so good I still think about it.”
“Did he touch your breasts?”
I nodded, trying not to think about how he’d rubbed and squeezed and gently, ever so gently, twisted my nipples. I glanced below. My efforts at mind control had been in vain; my nipples were trying to poke through my thin lace bra.
“Nice.” Darlene’s smile was ear to ear. She handed me the cards, our fingers touching.
I didn’t do a good job of dealing and Darlene won all five tricks. She pulled her shirt over her head. “I dare you to touch my breasts, the way Johnny touched yours.”
We locked eyes and she lifted her bra up and over her breasts. Whether it had been the wine kicking in or the moment in the game or my needing to know what it felt like to touch a woman with proper-sized breasts, I hadn’t hesitated. Her breasts were soft and squishy to the touch when I squeezed them, but they held their shape. They were warm on the palms of my hands. Her nipples were hard little buttons but became harder and larger. She shut her eyes and I shut mine remembering what Johnny had done to my nipples and did the same to Darlene’s.
I felt fingers on my bra and opened my eyes. Darlene’s smile was dreamy, her eyes sparkling. I pulled back and handed Darlene the cards. “Your deal.”
Darlene pulled her bra back down and dealt slowly. I couldn’t tell which was more dangerous, her eyes or her cleavage, so my eyes jumped back and forth between the two until, relieved, I could pick up my cards. I had four aces and a king and won every hand.
Darlene put a hand on the bed, leaned back and waited. I wanted to touch her again, to have her touch me but I didn’t know where that would lead. I played for time. “Have you ever been with a woman, sexually, I mean?”
“You mean before tonight?”
“Obviously. I already know about tonight.” That calmed me down. If tonight was a sexual experience it wasn’t so frightening.
“It was last year, when I shared a room with Samantha. We were in our pajamas. We were fooling around, having a pillow fight. I had her pinned, but I slipped and my hand brushed her nipple. It was rock hard, so I pulled my hand back. She hit me across the chest with her pillow and I realized that my nipples were hard too. She managed to pin me, her right leg between my legs. “Give!” she demanded. But I wouldn’t and tried to squirm out of the pin. We were rubbing together down there and one thing led to another.”
“Did you enjoy it?”
She shook her head. “You’ll have to win another hand to find out.” But her smile said yes, she’d enjoyed it, enjoyed it very much.
I dealt Darlene a winning hand and she motioned to my jeans. “Off with your pants and show me what Johnny did behind the barn.”
I suddenly remembered that I’d worn the matching panties to the bra. In case we’d picked up some cute guys. I gingerly removed my jeans. My panties, if you could call them that, were really a very thin thong. Moving them to one side would give Darlene a full view of my womanhood. I put my fingers on the outside of my little lace thong and began to stroke slowly up and down. I was wet!
“Did he put his fingers inside?”
I nodded and put my hand underneath. Good, this would hide me from Darlene’s curious eyes. But my pussy was so wet one finger slid halfway up my vagina.
“Move your hand like Johnny did and tell me what it feels like.”
“Johnny.” I swallowed. “Johnny made me feel completely within his control, so powerless, so how, so wonderful.” I was stroking harder, faster, further inside. I wanted to shut my eyes but I didn’t dare.
Darlene shook her head. “Not how Johnny made you feel. How you’re feeling now.”
I pulled my fingers out. “Like you said, that’s another question.” I made a show of crossing my legs.
Darlene took the cards and put them to one side. She moved next to me and we kissed. I shut my eyes. Her hands quickly removed my bra and her fingers were dancing across my breasts, teasing my nipples. Then she rubbed all four fingers back and forth across my nipples until I had no choice but to uncross my legs.
The fingers of her right hand tiptoed down my body, slid under my thong and into my pussy. I couldn’t breathe. I felt like I was about to come, but it was too soon! Mercifully, Darlene removed her fingers and pulled my panties down to my knees. I moved against her to buy myself some time, but she quickly had them off.
Another mercy, Darlene stopped touching me. I opened my eyes. In two swift movements, she removed her bra and panties. We were two nude women in a small room. And were we ever aroused!
I stood and pressed Darlene against the wall, the same way Johnny had pressed me against the barn. I stroked her clit, the same way Johnny had stroked mine. She was so hot, her clit so hard! And her whole genitals were so big—her vulva larger than my hand, her lips wispy and well defined, her clit twice the size of mine. Her hands were heavenly on my breasts and butt and spine and I stroked and stroked. Then she wasn’t breathing. I opened my eyes. Her eyes were scrunched shut, her face was contorting. Her hands had stopped moving but her fingers were digging into my hips.
“Melissa!”, she screamed. “Mel iss a!”
She stood there until I had milked the last spasm out of her orgasm. Then she backed away, opened her eyes and took a deep breath. I hadn’t come so I wasn’t a lesbian.
“Time for bed?”, I asked.
Darlene shook her head, an evil sparkle to her eyes, a wicked leer on her lips. She pushed me to the edge of the bed, then down to the top of the mattress, spreading my legs and kneeling in front of me, all in one fluid motion. Her tongue was slippery against my sex, then hot. When it dipped inside, it spread fire deep into my pussy. When it twirled around my clit, it sent sparks up and down my spine. When her mouth sucked me, little jolts went all the way down to the soles of my feet.
It was wonderfully and heavenly and I’d wanted it to go on forever. But her finger sliding all the way up my pussy and stroking upwards brought me swiftly back to the edge from which I’d escaped when I’d still had my panties on. I teetered on the brink and the brink was being pushed higher and higher. Three swift finger strokes pushed me off the edge and I felt my cunt throb against Darlene’s tongue and fingers. I had become a lesbian!
I feel a familiar warmth between my legs. Chris is going to have fun tonight! The top item on the next box is the letter from York University accepting me into their English Lit grad program. I toy with the idea of putting everything in chronological order but decide it’s too much work. When I’d shown the acceptance letter to Chris, we’d argued. He was in his second year of law school. We were planning to get married. How could we afford it?!? But his ultimate argument had been, “It’s impractical. Even if you find a job with an English Literature—he’d drawn the last word out to demonstrate his derision—you’ll never earn the time back.”
He’d been right about the economics, but still.
I hadn’t seen Chris for several weeks after the rave. He had law school assignments and I had deadlines at the bank. One of my deadlines at the bank had involved a project working with Leonard’s branch. I saw him every day. We had lunch every day. The more I saw Leonard, the more I realized what a fine man he was: kind, considerate, stable. Strong in his own way, he would rise steadily through the bank’s hierarchy. He would never fail to be a good provider. But being with Chris had forced me to confront what I guess I had known deep down. Leonard was not for me.
At the end of the project I had broken up with Leonard. That had been the first step towards my emancipation. Going to grad school had been the second. I put the acceptance letter into the ‘save’ pile.
The next items are two large round chips. The first is a gambling chip from Casino Windsor. Chris had driven me down for something special on our third date. That was the night I’d found out about Chris’s addictions.
I’d been alone in my apartment when Chris had called to invite me on our third date. “Dress comfortably,” he’d told me, “but bring formal attire to change into later.”
“Where’re we going?”
“It’s a surprise.”
We’d driven for two hours south of Toronto towards Canada’s most southerly point where Windsor meets Detroit. The same latitude as northern California. Some small towns, but mostly open countryside, trees and cows.
“Why do you want to be a lawyer?”, I’d asked.
“Why do you want to be a banker?”
“To pay the bills.”
“That’s it. Why do you want to be a lawyer?”
“To stop the bullies.”
“All the people in power who make the rest of us do what they want, whether it’s fair or not. The guys who take more than they’re entitled to. The guys who sit back, in their fat, cushy, lazy chairs and let it all happen.”
In Windsor we’d driven past the casino, a rather non-descript building at the time. “That’s where we’re going,” Chris had announced.
The hotel was another block down and we’d changed there, Chris into a handsome blue suit and tie. I’d smiled, thinking he already looked like a lawyer. I’d changed into a long red gown, tight enough that it pressed sensuously against my skin when I moved, but not so tight that it hugged my body when I stood still.
Chris smiled while he looked me up and down as we walked to the elevator. “The perfect blend of lady and the tramp.”
I’d restrained myself from telling him that Lady and the Tramp was about two dogs and that he’d be Tramp, the male dog. Walking to the casino, we were oogled by all and sundry. I held Chris close, for my own protection and to stake my territory.
It was early days for the Windsor Casino back then. The building was small and cramped with unused equipment being stuffed around various corners around the main gambling floor. But it was the only legal casino for miles and miles around, so there were plenty of patrons.
Chris had headed straight for the high-stakes Blackjack table and sat down. Not very gentlemanly. When I’d put my hands on the chair next to him to pull it back to sit, his hand had stroked slowly down my buttocks.
He’d looked over and smiled. “For luck.”
I didn’t want to be his good luck charm—not if that’s what it entailed—so I stood at the end of the table and watched him play. He played conservatively, almost always just the minimum bet. Once in a while he’d increase his bet, presumably because he had a good hand or the dealer a poor one. Still, his pile of chips was steadily diminishing.
Then suddenly, he started to bet the maximum. And he started winning. His pile of chips doubled, then tripled in size. The dealer paused to put fresh cards into the shoe and Chris stood, threw a chip to the dealer, gave one to the waitress and pocketed the remainder.
He looked around, saw me, took my hand and pulled me around a corner, out of sight. He found a flat surface, made sure it was clean and dumped a small baggie of white powder onto it. He used a straw to quickly divide the cocaine into four lines and sucked a line into each of his nostrils. He held out the straw to me.
At that point, I knew that cocaine was a lot more powerful than the party drug I’d taken at the rave, but it was widely assumed to be non-addictive at the time, so I snorted the two lines Chris had set up into my nostrils.
It hit me like a sledgehammer! Sudden, instantaneous. Right into my eyes. But after I’d recovered from the initial shock, it was worth it. I felt on top of the world, like I could accomplish anything. Anything! I had so much energy I could run around the world. I wanted to dance, to sing—and I was horny. Was I ever horny! Chris smirked at me and I was ripping at his crotch.
He spun me sideways, against the wall, lifted my dress, pushed my panty aside and fucked me. No foreplay, just cock in cunt. He was rough, brutal and quick.
He whirled me around and kissed me violently on the mouth. I kissed him back, just as violently. He took another baggie from his pocket. It was full of the same white powder, and he flopped it back and forth for me to see. Then he was gone.
I leaned against wall, breathing heavily, relishing cocaine and sex. Then I needed to move. I readjusted my panties and looked down at my gown. There was a spot of Chris’s semen.
I ran around. God, it felt good to move! Then finally I found a washroom. The semen was easy enough to clean off, but my dress was taking forever to dry, so I went outside, found a small park and walked and walked and walked.
By the time I’d made it back to the casino, Chris had returned to the Blackjack table. His tie was loose and he looked disheveled, even a little dissolute. His pattern of betting had changed. As best I could tell, he was being reckless, reaching for something that just wasn’t there. He was betting the maximum and sometimes winning huge amounts. But he was also losing.
When he reached for his last chips, I put my hand on his wrist. He tried to wrench his hand away, but the cocaine had made me strong and my fingers remained clutched on his wrist. We cashed out and left.
Back in the hotel room, Chris deposited the contents of the second baggie onto the dresser in front of the TV. I snatched the straw from his hand so that I’d have time to remove my gown before he could attack me again.
This time the cocaine’s punch was less overwhelming, perhaps because I’d known what to expect. But I was still euphoric and jumpy and omnipotent. I ripped my dress over my head and flung it into the corner. I reached over to grab at Chris’s body but he pushed me roughly aside and I plopped onto the bed.
He snorted two lines of cocaine and looked up at me, an evil fierceness in his eyes. He unzipped his pants, climbed on top of me and smashed his cock against my panties until somehow it went inside. He was hard and wild and vicious. Exactly how I wanted him. I bucked against him, rubbing as hard as I could against the harsh wool of his pants.
Then he pulled out and stood up. I felt warm goo trickle out of me. He ripped his clothes off, just slowly enough not to damage them. He was hard again.
He climbed onto the bed, turned me onto my stomach and pulled my hips up. Fingers pushed my panties aside and he slammed into me. His thrusts were slower this time, but no less violent. I came over and over again, uncontrollable spasms up my spine, in my tummy down my legs. I wanted to move to escape them, but he held me tight against his pelvis as he plunged into me. Orgasms pumped up and down my cunt, squeezing at his cock.
Afterwards we collapsed onto the bed, not wanting to move, but the cocaine not letting us fall asleep. This time the euphoria left me quickly and I had time to think. To think about how the drugs in him, the drugs in me, had turned us into animals.
“I never want to do that again,” I told him.
Chris looked at me, but showed no sense of comprehension.
“I never, ever, want to do that again,” I told him, adding as much emphasis as I could muster.
Chris smiled and nodded, but seemed oblivious.
Driving back to Toronto, I’d repeated, “I never want to do that again.”
“You told me that last night.”
“Not the drugs, not the animal sex. I wasn’t even there, you were just plunging yourself into whatever was at hand.”
“You seemed to be enjoying it.”
“It was the cocaine that was enjoying it.”
We drove in silence for a while. I had said goodbye to Leonard, but was Chris too much in the other direction?
“How much did you lose?”
“A couple hundred.”
“Can you afford that much?”
That’s when he had flipped me the chip. “If you’re not putting more than you can afford onto to the table, it’s just playing, not gambling, not living.”
“Chris, you need help.”
“For your addictions.”
He’d laughed and we’d driven the rest of the way in silence.
I’d spent the next day in the library, researching cocaine and addiction in general. Cocaine was addictive, and dangerously so. We’d met later in the week for coffee.
“Cocaine is seriously addictive,” I’d told him.
“Not if you’re not an addict.”
“You are an addict. Look at your gambling.”
We’d argued back and forth until he’d finished his coffee. He had stuck to his argument, nothing was penetrating.
He’d stood for us to leave, but I’d remained seating. “I’m not seeing you again unless you get help.”
He’d looked at me hard, it seemed for a long time, then he left without saying a word.
I didn’t hear from Chris for several months. I started thinking of another man. He worked at the bank, but he had a life outside, not like Leonard. And then Chris had called, out of the blue, announcing that exams were over, and would I see him?
At the restaurant, he’d teed up a token on the table and flicked one end to send it spinning towards me. I picked it up. It was a one-month sobriety token. He refused the wine list. It was the first time I’d seen him totally sober.
We saw each other on and off over the next several months. Every time we’d meet, I’d ask to see his token. All he’d ever had was one month. Every time I saw him, the rush of excitement reminded me how great it felt to be alive. But we were going around in circles. Finally, I’d had enough. “You either get real help, or I’m not seeing you again.”
“I am getting help.” He put his one-month token on the table. “In a couple of weeks, I’ll have two months.
I shook my head. “There’s a psychiatrist, a customer at the bank, Dr. Jody Murray. I spoke to her. She’s willing to see you.” I slid Dr. Murray’s business card under the perennially one month sobriety token.
He looked down at the card. “I don’t need a shrink.”
“Do you need me?”
He raised his eyes to mine. Novelists would call his look doleful. He nodded.
“Do you need me more than the drugs?”
He looked back and forth between me and the business card on the table. He took the card and slid the token towards me.
Dr. Jody Murray was a vivacious red head. The three of us had met a week later. The deal was that I’d give Chris my unconditional love as long as he worked with Jody. None of us would discuss his therapy outside her office. But she’d tell me if Chris stopped coming to see her.
I flip the Windsor Casino chip into the box of souvenirs to be saved. The second chip is Carter’s one-year sobriety token, a ‘1’ inside a triangle on one side, an abbreviated version of the 12 steps on the other. He’d earned it shortly after our wedding.
Jody had warned me that adults don’t change their basic personality structures. It took me some time to realize she had been warning me away from Chris. But he had changed. He’d been worth the one-in-a-million chance. How foolish I’d been. How lucky I’d been. How shaky the foundation of our success. I’d do it all over in a heartbeat.
The next item is one of the small albums we’d given our wedding guests. I flipped through. Chris is still as handsome as he was then, but a bit heavier. And a fleck or two of grey at his temples. I wish I were as pretty. The last photo is of us dancing. We’d partied all night and been too tired for sex. Besides, we’d had to get up at the crack of dawn to catch our flight to Jamaica.
Under the wedding album is a seashell, a sand dollar really, from our honeymoon. We’d stayed at Sandals Negril, on the west coast of Jamaica. The drive to the resort had been a pleasant excursion along the coast through the Jamaican countryside. We’d stayed at the Honeymoon Beachfront Suite, snorkeled every day—I saw a leopard ray—to take off the pounds we were putting on at the all-inclusive resort, a different restaurant every evening. We danced in the disco and made out like rabbits every night.
Try as I might, I cannot recall any of the sex on our honeymoon. What I do remember, is a quiet interlude in both of our lives. I remember being quietly in love with Chris, his strengths and his weaknesses. If he was going to ball his socks up—separately mind—and throw them in the corner, I would love that equally as much as when he rubbed my feet before we fell asleep.
One night, as we sipped cognac on the balcony, Chris told me that he loved me. He did that every so often, no rhyme or reason as to place or time.
And I usually said, “I love you,” back. But that night I had asked, “What do you mean, when you say ‘I love you’?”
“It means that I don’t have to think about it.” He paused and I could tell that he was thinking. Stars danced in the waves as they lapped the shore. “It means that when I do think about it, I want to be with you, and no one else. And it means that when I think of you, I’m happy.”
The sky behind us had started to change colour before we’d stumbled into bed.
The last day of our honeymoon, we bought a day-pass to the notorious sex resort, Hedonism II, which was just north of Sandals. There were nude people on the beach, some kissing and fondling. Everyone, everything seemed so free and easy. That night in Hedo’s disco was a rollicking sea of humanity, hugging, kissing, dancing, rubbing against each other, hands in, under, squeezing, caressing. Chris and I got into the spirit and I’d almost come on the dance floor. That I do remember!
The next item is a cloth hair tie. Pink, delicate. I’d worn it ever since I was a girl. So it had been in my hair when we’d been walking back to Sandals after our rollicking night at Hedonism. It had started to rain. We’d scampered under a palm tree, but it didn’t offer much protection from the rain and besides, the wind increased the danger of a coconut crashing down onto our skulls. So, soaking wet, Chris’s blue shirt and my patterned mini-blouse pasted to our chests, our drenched jeans weighing a ton, we’d run down the beach as fast as we could.
Halfway back, out of breath, we’d huddled under another tree. The wind had died down, but the deluge had been as strong as ever. He’d pulled me against him and buried his nose in my hair. We slowly turned to each other and kissed softly, ever so softly, as rivulets of rain trickled down my back.
When it had started to rain, my little pink hair tie had loosened and fallen off. I thought I’d lost it. But next morning it had been hanging in the shower to dry off. Chris had always been badgering me to throw the frayed piece of cloth away, to buy something better. But he’d known how much it meant to me and he’d obviously rescued it. As a man, he was capable of great selfishness. But he was also capable of great generosity and consideration.
I picked up a small ironwood carving of a couple making love. It was from our next vacation when we’d spent two full weeks at Hedo. We had sex just between ourselves the first week, but then we’d met a pair of swingers. The wife had been very aggressive, which isn’t good for the male ego which is so fragile, needing lots of reassurance. Chris had been focused on what would be happening between me and her husband in the next room. Chris had ended up being flaccid and she’d stormed out.
But we’d decided that we’d try swinging once more before giving up. I’d picked an attractive woman. Her husband had been overweight with a permanent scowl; no threat to Chris. They were dressed in leather, she in a sexy harness. What I hadn’t told Chris was that the only thing the husband had wanted was to be spanked and to be humiliated by my sitting on his face. That image would’ve really freaked him out! The next night Chris was his old self again and we picked up an Indian couple who introduced us to the joys of tantric sex.
At the bottom of the box is a mangled and ripped piece of satin and lace. We had decided to dispose of some of our old clothes by ripping them off each other’s bodies. What fun!
Under the ripped panties, is the manual for a remote controlled, double-ended vibrator. I shut my eyes and remember the night Chris had given it to me. He’d entered the condo, carrying a small gift-wrapped package. I’d greeted him at the door and reached for the package.
Chris had pulled the package away. “Not so fast. I have some good news and some bad news.”
“News after gift.” Patience was not my strong point. I grabbed for the package, touching it this time before Chris managed to hold it over his head.
He teased me while I tried to jump up to grab it. “The good news is that all the charges against Frankie have been dropped.”
“Chris! That’s great!”. Frankie had been his best drugs courier at the time. I gave him a kiss and felt the arm holding my package relax. I lunged for the package.
But he’d been too fast for me and I barely touched his elbow. He grabbed me with his other arm. I struggled for a moment, but his hold was too tight. I satisfied myself with a pout. “What’s the bad news?”
“Ryan and Jody are going out with us to celebrate.”
“What’s so bad about that?”
“We won’t be about to go to the club, like we planned.”
The “club” was a local swingers bar and the night’s theme had been leather and lace, our favourite. I had this slinky little slave outfit which would give me permission to be slutty all night long. He would wear a Roman gladiator’s get-up which barely covered any of his flesh.
“We could take Ryan and Jody along, Ryan’s been to Hedonism—“
“But Jody hasn’t. I don’t think that the club would go over well with her. Don’t forget, we couldn’t’ve done it without them.”
I flopped myself onto the couch and sulked. He softly placed the package next to me. I pretended to ignore it. He studied his watch. I got all the way to thirty seconds before I pounced on the package and tore the wrapping off. It was a vibrator. All this, just for a vibrator?!?
I tossed it aside. “Christopher! I don’t want a vibrator! I want you. I want to play with your—“
“It’s a special vibrator.” I was still sulking, but I took another look at the box containing the vibrator. “It goes inside you. Under your clothes. I control it remotely.”
I hadn’t forgiven him yet, but I opened the box. One part was a small rectangular cube with several multi-coloured buttons and two dials. I set this aside and Chris picked it up. The other part is U-shaped, with one end fatter and longer. It was silicone soft in my fingers. Some parts were hard, some soft. Chris pressed a button on the remote. The vibrator started to hum and vibrate inside my hand.
I looked at him and smiled, “This has possibilities…..”
The club Ryan had selected that night was called Marley’s, after Bob Marley. There was a dance floor with a bar running down one side, tables in front and booths on the other side. There was a stage, but tonight only the DJ booth was operating. The lighting was low, but manageable.
I’d driven us to the club. Every time we stopped at a light, Chris had played with the remote. By the time we’d arrived at the club, he’d figured out what I liked and had a working knowledge of the operation of the intensity dials.
We’d arrived first and decided to wait at the bar. Every time I even looked sideways at a man, I felt a small jolt or a small movement inside my sex. Chris started to nibble at my ear, slowly revving up the intensity on the vibrator. I’d had to hold both hands tight on the bar, biting my upper lip to stop from crying out. Only Ryan and Jody’s arrival had rescued me from a full-blown orgasm.
When I’d given Jody a full body hug, the wiggle inside my vagina was so intense that I’d worried for sure Jody had had to have felt it. But Jody had shown no untoward reaction. After the hug, I gave Carter a hard pinch, but he’d only smiled.
Our waiter was a particularly handsome young Jamaican man. The soft lilt of his accent was the perfect counterpoint to the muscles bulging under his skin-tight shirt. Every time he came to our table, the vibrator would massage my g-spot relentlessly. Chris lengthened the torture by intentionally asking the waiter inane questions to make him tarry at our table. I concentrated on taking short little breaths to stop from crying out.
Just as we finished dinner, the DJ started playing the music louder. Looks were exchanged and we all took to the dance floor. I tried to hold Chris close but he was intent on matching the fast pace of the music and on dancing separately. And on enjoying the little demon between my legs! Then he started manipulating the intensity on the remote in time to the music. I closed my eyes. I was back in Jamaica, floating on the warm ocean water, caressed by gentle, undulating waves. The sensations of orgasm started softly at the centre of my sex, then built in power and spread out spasming pleasure from the back of my head down to my toes. I was still floating when I’d felt Carter’s strong arms lift me out of the warm blue water.
It’s actually Chris lifting me up in the here and now. I open my eyes and see him surveying the five boxes, and some of their contents spread around the floor.
“I’m tidying up,” I tell him.
“It sure looks tidy.” He reaches down towards the vibrator but I block his hand. “What is all of this stuff, anyways?” he asks.
Chris reaches towards another box, then quickly snatches the vibrator into his hand. “Memories,” he teases.
I open the book of poems and flash our first-night napkin. “Memories.”
“And which of these memories is your most favourite?” He’s still dangling the vibrator.
“All memories are important. They’re who we are.”
“Okay, but which is your favourite?”
“Which is your most favourite?”
That should keep him thinking for a while, so I turn to the next box. It’s a photo of us moving in—but his fingers lightly on my ribs tell me that I’ve miscalculated.
“Tell me your favourite,” he demands. He’s behind me, his lips against my left ear.
I shake my head. His fingers tickle my ribs. It’s not the most sensitive spot he knows but still sends shivers up and down my body. I manage to shake my head.
Then his fingers move to my armpits. I wriggle to get away, but he follows and I laugh uncontrollably, my upper body trembling out of control. I cross my legs and suddenly remember all the cups of coffee I’d been drinking.
His hands are back around my ribs. “Tell me,” he demands.
I shake my head, clenching my legs as tightly as possible. But his tickling is eroding my control.
“Are you going to tell me before you pee?” Damn, he’s seen me clench my legs. I think about spreading my legs, just to defy him, but that’d be too risky. His fingers leave my ribs. He’s chickened out from the prospect of pee on the floor. I smile in triumph.
But then his left arm is around by tummy, holding me tight, and his fingers move my hair to one side, exposing my neck. “Tell me,” he whispers.
He knows and I know he knows that the back of my neck is my most ticklish area. If he kisses the back of my neck, my legs will kick up and down now matter how much I try to restrain myself. And I’ll pee. All over the floor!
“Tell me.” The hairs on the back of my neck stand up and touch his lips. A millimeter closer and—
“Our honeymoon,” I shout. “The night at Hedo!”
“Then you’d better get dressed for dancing.”
He lets me go and I immediately rush to the bathroom. Peeing had never felt so good.
By the time I’d returned to the living room, Chris has somehow found the jeans and shirt that he’d worn that night. The jean bite tightly into his flesh. A driving reggae beat is playing on the stereo. I’d changed into a skimpy loose-fitting miniskirt, but I’d kept my same T-shirt on. I reach underneath and remove my bra from under my T-shirt. Chris has never figured out how women manage that feat, but he has never tired of watching me perform it.
Chris gently, but firmly, ever so firmly, takes me into his arms. We softly rub our bodies together to Bob Marley’s No Woman, No Cry and I shut my eyes. I’m back on the dance floor, freshly married, safe and secure, in love, having the best sex of my life, but still horny. Ever so horny! All around us, couples are making out on the dance floor—men and women, women and women, sometimes larger groups all together. Some women are topless. Breasts and nipples are jiggling, swaying, being caressed. Hands are sliding up and down between legs, some on top, some under clothes. Chris’s leg is between mine, tickling my pussy, his cock hard against my thigh.
Chris twirls me and I open my eyes. We’re reflected in the balcony window—scrawny blonde and desk-bound lawyer. Adam and Eve, Samson and Delilah, Cleopatra and Antony. His jeans have dropped to the floor. His hands caress my chest rousing my nipples to full excitement and sending sparks skipping across my upper body. His crotch rubs against my buttocks. One hand slides below and under my panties, pinioning my passion between his fingers and his cock.
Bob Marley moves on to I Shot the Sheriff and Chris’s fingers slow to match. I’m floating now, not ready to come, but in bliss where time stops and happiness lasts forever. My bottom plays with Chris’s cock, sometimes rubbing it, sometimes trapping it between my buttocks, sometimes letting it slide between my thighs. We are joined, back together in that endless moment in Jamaica.
Chris’s lips kiss below my right ear then lift off my neck. “Ready for what’s next?”
My eyes flash open and lock on his in the window. My mind races to what came next but my body wants to stay in the present, being held and stroked and loved. Then I remember. And yes, I was ready! We’d raced back to Sandals, intent on doing something new and exciting. It might not have been much, but it was all ours. In the mirror, Chris’s smile goes wide as he feels the memory become mutual.
I quickly glance around for the necessary props, but Chris has already positioned them on the dining room table. Two tubes of pressurized whipping cream. Two beach towels. I grab the towels. He grabs the whipping cream and follows me into the bedroom. I drop my skirt to the floor and move to remove my panties, but he shakes his head.
I lie on the bed, Chris motions for me to spread my legs and I comply. I am back in Jamaica, powerless, totally in his control, luxuriating in the sensation of surrender. Chris’s cock points outward, hard, ready to impale me. His eyes possess me, like I’m a steak he’s about to devour. I shut my eyes, ready to be taken.
The whipping cream is cold! My eyes shock open. And he’s sprayed it right on my nipples, just like he had at Sandals. His hands are mashing the whipping cream into my T-shirt and squishing it into my breasts. Then he sucks my nipples, slurping the whipping over them and out of my shirt, a mixture of warmth and cold. I’m sure it tastes as good as it feels.
Chris lifts himself up and positions the tip of the whipping cream under my panties, just over my clit.
“You’ll freeze it off!”, I protest.
He squirts just a dab. It’s cold, but I quickly melt this small amount.
“No!”, I plead.
He shrugs and holds the canister of whipping cream far above my panties. He aims it straight down and lets it go. A steady stream of whipping cream makes a mound on top of my panties, on my upper thighs, between my thighs and all the way up to my belly button. It is so cold! I scoop a handful up and throw it at him, like a snowball. But it doesn’t hold together and I succeed only in making a messy layer on his chest.
He scoops the whipping cream on my belly and squashes the frigid mass into my pussy. It’s freezing! He reaches for my chest with the cream still in his hands, but I grab the other canister and spray a full stream right on his cock.
“Aiee!”, he screams.
We look at each other for a moment. This is different than the night at Sandals. Then we had dabbed smaller amounts on each other’s erogenous zones and manipulated the gooey lubricant with our hands until we’d come in and around each other’s fingers. I decide that tonight is going to be different and spray an ‘S’ across his chest. He shivers, but suppresses his scream.
Chris sprays back, but the cream is warmer now and besides I’m used to it. I spray again and he drops his canister. Now I have both canisters, one in each hand, pointed as if they were ray guns. I motion for him to lie on the towels flat on his back.
“Close your eyes,” I command.
Chris scrunches his eyes, bracing for the cold. But I slide my panty off, mount him and start fucking both of us to kingdom come. He’s so hard and wonderful! I hit just the right spot and feel it all the way up my spine. He feels it too and his eyes open, connecting us at a different level. We each shut our eyes as one and I see three empty boxes waiting to be filled with our next set of memories.