Cecilia Scott - Him

I had fifteen minutes between Creative Writing and Russian Lit classes. I closed my eyes. I swayed back and forth, just a little, recalling the rhythm of our two bodies. I shivered with sexual anticipation, fantasising to the point of orgasm, my body was so aroused.

THE BOY walked in shortly after I climaxed. He looked at me and chuckled.

‘What?’ I asked.

‘What’ve you been up to?’

‘Nothing.’

‘You look like you’ve just had a really, really good time, but no one is here. Did you hide some guy in the closet?’

‘Ha.’

Luckily the students arrived en masse for the class. I switched gears toTolstoy and Dostoyevsky. After class THE BOY smirked as he was leaving.

* * *

I fantasised and waited for HIM to call. A week had passed since our second liaison.

I had gone about it all wrong and sold myself short. Why had I allowed this stranger into my bed? This was the man who had laid claim to my body. This was the man who knew exactly what I needed. But that was no guarantee of another visit. I’d been foolish to think I’d see HIM again.

On the following Friday evening, I took to my bed and drank a bottle of wine.

The phone did ring but it was Sam. He wanted to know if I was OK. I told him I had a cold and even faked a cough. Then I dialled my lover’s number.

His phone went directly to voice messaging.

‘Please, please,’ I said, nearly incoherent. ‘I need you. Come back to me. I can’t stand another moment without you. I will do whatever you want to do with me. I want you so much.’ I began fingering myself while still on the phone, moaning into it. I wanted HIM to hear my desire. I came in a burst of absolute surrender, then clicked off the phone.

Later I fell asleep in a drunken stupor.

He didn’t call me back.

* * *

I was invited to Rebecca’s baby shower on Sunday afternoon. I was sitting in the middle of a dozen or so women and was the only one who was still single. The women were showing each other photos of their babies taken on their cellphones. I was bored out of my mind. ‘Oh, yes. The babies are so pretty,’ I said, feebly pretending to be interested. The women were happy they had landed their husbands and had babies. I suspect they also enjoyed the slight thrill of feeling one up over me. They were living the American dream. I was hardly even trying.

‘Whatever happened to the last guy you were dating?’ one of the young married women asked me. Or was she just being cruel? It was hard to tell.

‘We decided it wasn’t going to work out,’ I said. But I had no idea what guy she was referring to. It didn’t matter. It was a generic ‘It didn’t work out’. Obviously if a relationship had prospered I’d be showing my photos of Junior myself.

I saw the pitying look on several of the other women’s faces, but there was a glint of smugness too. There was a chorus of women wanting to tell me it was my fault. I made bad choices. I was not like them. They went home to a MAN: the ultimate female prize. They’d won. I was the odd duck.

‘Have you considered the Internet?’ someone else asked.

‘It seems so exhausting,’ I replied. ‘Sure, I tried it, but it just wasn’t for me.’

‘My cousin met her husband on match.com,’ another woman interjected.

‘Well,’ I murmured.

‘What do you have to lose?’

I looked at her and thought she had a lot to lose if she continued in this vein – a couple of her front teeth for starters, and I wasn’t the violent type at all. I really didn’t want to have to justify to anyone anything about my ‘single’ life. Who did these women think they were, anyway? When married women made condescending comments to me about being single, it made me feel as if the women’s movement had never happened in our country. My mother taught me long ago that it wasn’t necessary to have a man in my life to be complete. She’d raised me on her own. She did a damn good job, too.

Then Rebecca came to my rescue. She brought out the cake.

I sat there politely eating the Red Velvet cake. It was too sweet, but what did I care? It was better than engaging in conversation. Then I heard my Blackberry vibrate. I put the piece of cake down on the coffee table. I stood up and fumbled in my purse until I found the phone. It was from HIM. I thought my heart had stopped.

HIM: Thanks for the phone call. I’m in Seattle on business.

ME: Seattle?

HIM: On biz. Just here @ hotel.

ME: Biz? But it’s the wk end.

HIM: Don’t worry.

ME: I’m not. Just curious.

HIM: I want to fuck you again.

ME: Yes.

HIM: OMG. Just thinking abt fucking u got me hard.

ME: I’m taking a nap right now. Naked. Wish u were here.

(As if he needed to know I was at a baby shower, bored shitless.)

HIM: Gotta go. Will fuck u later.

And then he was gone. I looked at my phone. Our exchange was over so quickly. I thought it was odd that he was on business on a weekend, but what did I know?

* * *

I was beginning to feel sick. The cake had been too sweet. I closed my eyes for a moment and just sat there. I shivered again, thinking about what we’d written to each other.

I needed to leave. The baby shower was unbearable.

Picking up my purse and throwing it over my shoulder, I left without meeting Rebecca’s eyes.

I rushed home, got back into bed and just lay there.

* * *

Later in the evening I heard a familiar knock at my door. It was Sam.

‘Just a minute,’ I yelled. I went into the bathroom and washed my face with cold water. I looked a little feverish but I knew it was just the jitters. I readjusted my clothing before opening the door. Sam held two bottles of Coors. He walked into the living room. We sat on the sofa. My bottle opener lay on the coffee table as it always did. He often came over for a beer – it was part of our ritual. We popped the bottles, clinked them together and simultaneously took a swig. Then silence.

‘So where did you meet your new guy?’ Sam asked. ‘I saw him arriving in his Mercedes last Friday night during the rainstorm.’

‘I was at a club with some friends of mine,’ I lied. ‘He’s a friend of a friend.’

I didn’t tell Sam I’d slept with HIM right away. Why should I?

‘You should be careful,’ Sam said. ‘Do you know anything about him? Where did he grow up? What does he like to do for fun?’

Screw it, I thought. For fun he fucks me silly.

But I changed the subject.

I didn’t know anything about HIM.

I have drunken deep of joy, And I will taste no other wine tonight.

Percy Bysshe Shelley, The Cenci

This is what I understood: I loved the surrender of my body – I loved my time with HIM and my time thinking about HIM. HIM. I loved the loss of my self. I knew there was danger in this. I knew it. I’d imagine myself lying on a bed, naked, waiting for HIM. HIM. And then he was on top of me, inside me. It was as it should be. It was as it was supposed to be.

I took the sacrificial road.

I’d only been with HIM twice but it seemed like we’d been together for ages. I so wanted to hear from HIM again. I waited for his text. If only he would text me. Where was he?

It was hard to get on with my life. I sat in my bungalow at the college, grading papers. I despised my small life. I hated it. I wanted to live in a house with HIM. I could picture it, all flowers and picket fences. When I heard a text coming through I prayed it was HIM: the man who knew how to fuck me, the man who was beginning to define my life, the man I knew nothing about who held the promise of a future. My phone vibrated. I picked it up, hoping, hoping …