The Opposite of Love (13 page)

Derek slowly withdrew his finger. Melanie let out a heavy sigh as he moved her onto her side so they were facing each other.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. Although she wasn’t.

He rolled her onto her back again and sat up with his hands on her bent knees. He moved in and out of her slowly and studied her face.

“Tell me why you want to do this with me first.”

Melanie made eye contact. She knew he needed an answer, and she felt safe enough to provide him one. “Because I trust you.”

“To do what?”

“To do it gently.”

He stopped stroking and bent down to kiss her, a deep and tender kiss that took her a little by surprise with its passion, but she responded in kind. She supposed that the novelty of the act they were about to commit was making them both feel a little intense.

Derek moved her onto her side and curled up behind her, spooning her and slipping himself back inside. He held her shoulders and thrust, his intensity building until her breathing became shallow. He reached to the nightstand and produced a bottle of lube, which he smeared generously over and into her asshole, then he withdrew himself and applied lube to the condom too.

“Do we need a safe word or something?” Melanie was only half joking.

“Let’s go with ‘stop.’”

“Ok.”

“I’m just going to position myself, when you’re ready, you push back. You’re going to control how far in I go, ok?”

“Ok.”

She lifted up onto one elbow to give herself leverage, but when Derek put the head of his penis against her asshole, she tensed. He caressed her back and neck and she eventually softened. She began to push back against the head in a way that she thought was firm, but he wasn’t going in. Still, the sensation was intense and she had to stop and wait for her body to relax.

When she pushed again, the head plunged into her and a white flash of pain shot through her body. She cried out and Derek pulled out of her and pulled her body to him.

“Are you ok?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. That was just a little unexpected.”

“Sounded like it hurt like hell.”

“I guess. How far in were you?”

“Just the head.”

“Jesus, really?”

“Yep.”

“Well I didn’t say stop, did I?”

Derek pulled back and looked at her. “Are you kidding?”

“I want to keep trying. I’ll get used to it. Please?”

Derek sighed. Melanie moved back onto her side and Derek positioned himself. Again she pushed back and the head went in. She threw her head back and moaned, but the pain was less severe than before.

“Take your time,” he said. “Try to relax if you can.”

She pushed, took another inch of him, and goose bumps covered her arms, her back, her hips. She pushed again and took two inches. And this time she screamed.

“Take it easy,” said Derek. She didn’t back off.

She felt the sweat break out across her back, despite the goose bumps. Derek kept rubbing her back and neck and telling her to take it slow, to ease into it.

“I’m ok,” she lied.

She held still waiting for the pain to pass, but it didn’t seem likely to her that it would. This was no longer like being rubbed the wrong way, this was like being impaled on a flaming torch. And there wasn’t that deliciousness of being filled up that had been present when he’d put his finger in her. The sensation was a burning that radiated in waves and made her feel just a little bit nauseous. And then she started shaking—rather violently, in fact. She thought it must be adrenaline attempting to mask the pain.

“Melanie…” Derek trailed off.

“I’m good,” she said.

Without warning, Derek pulled out and the sensation was something she was completely unprepared for. She screamed. This time Derek didn’t comfort her.

Melanie turned to look at him and could see that he wasn’t happy. “What’s wrong?”

“I can’t do this with you,” he said. And he got up and went into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

Melanie stared at the ceiling feeling embarrassed and more than a little confused. Had it turned him off when she started shaking? She really couldn’t identify what had gone wrong. And now she didn’t know whether to wait for him to come out of the bathroom and talk to her or just get dressed and leave. Plus, she really needed to pee.

Melanie heard the bathroom sink turn on and off several times, and after about five minutes, Derek finally came out.

She sat up and winced at the soreness of their attempt.

“Look,” he said, “I’m not telling you what to do. Like you said, you’re a grown woman. But the way I see it, you shouldn’t be signing up for that if it’s not something you want. You were clearly in a lot of pain, Mel.”

“I understand what you’re saying,” Melanie said, treading lightly. “But if I get used to it, it won’t hurt as much.”

“But you admitted yourself that you don’t even trust him to be gentle with you.”

“That’s not what I said.”

Derek shook his head. “I’m sorry I reacted the way I did. I just didn’t like that you were in pain. And yet you were so determined to put yourself through it. And for what?”

Melanie had no answer for this. He was calling her on the mat and she didn’t like his timing. She wanted to be on the same side again.

“Come lay back down with me for a minute?” she asked.

“I have to get ready to go,” he said. “I have to be somewhere in forty minutes.”

“Ok.” She got up to use the bathroom. When she came back out, he pulled her to him and gave her a quick hug, a peck on the lips.

Melanie had never had an argument of any kind with Derek. Debates, sure. Plenty of them. But this was different, and as she dressed she had a vague fear that something had changed.

When James pushed
into her, she cried out in pain and a corresponding bolt of pleasure sliced through his body so that he had to concentrate to keep from coming. Her back broke out in goose bumps and cold sweat, and she alternately beat one of her fists into the pillow and threw her head from side to side. Each whimper, each grunt and moan as she accepted the pain was an orgasm for his soul, and although he didn't say it out loud, the words "I love you" swam through his mind and beat in his ears like a mantra.

James imagined that watching her transform this way—letting herself be taken—was akin to raising children. Molding them and teaching them, bending them into what you want them to be, what you think they should be, acknowledging their blossoming wills and then instructing them completely against their instincts. Melanie was becoming something that pleased him; his pleasure was her priority, often over her own, and he was deeply gratified.

It wasn't the first time he'd accomplished this, but she was definitely the strongest, the most independent, the proudest woman who had ever made these kinds of sacrifices for him. It was easy—almost unsporting—to bend the will of an easy woman. But to do so with someone like Melanie, that was an achievement.

A few weeks before, she’d cooked him a four-course dinner and then sucked him off to fruition. She ran him a bath and put on jazz, poured him a fat glass of cab and left him alone. She showered in the downstairs bathroom and met him on her bed in a corset and stockings with no panties, blew him until he was rock hard and then rode him like a rented mule while he lay with his hands clasped behind his head, enjoying the show like a spectator. He slept that night wrapped around her and engulfed in feelings of acceptance he'd never known in his waking moments. Not even with his grandmother. But in the morning, reality set in. She couldn't accept him, not really. She didn't know where he'd come from; she didn't know who he was. As much as he’d accomplished with her, as willing and able to please him as she’d become, it was all a fairytale.

Sooner or later, we play all the parts.

—Unknown

Chapter Eight

James arrived at Melanie's door promptly at seven-thirty wearing a suit and carrying a bouquet of flowers. Melanie opened the door in a burgundy chiffon gown that draped modestly in front and dramatically in back, with a slit up to her mid-thigh on one side. She spun in a circle, modeling for him, and he let out a low growl in sincere approval. Without a single strap holding it in place, it seemed like the dress could just slide right off of her shoulders. The thought made his dick pulse.

"That is some dress, babe."

"Glad you like it," she said. Then, nodding at the flowers, "For me?"

"Who else?" He handed them over with a kiss on the cheek.

He’d had his truck washed and waxed and when he opened the door she climbed in gracefully, her leg sliding out of the open slit in her dress, then sliding back in before he closed the door. That visual image reminded him of what he’d be doing to her later.

James didn’t always bring a date to the policemen’s ball. The last time he had was three years before and his date had worn a short, silver sequined dress with porn-star cleavage and platform heels that looked like they’d just fallen off a pole dancer. She’d had too much to drink and giggled at everything anyone said. Did she make his dick hard? Sure. But she looked like she was paid for, and that didn’t help his image with the higher-ups. Melanie was the kind of woman who could be sexy without being trashy and manage interesting conversation and drinking without being silly or embarrassing him. She was the kind of date who could help him get promoted.

It was August and monsoon season was at its worst. Almost daily, black storm clouds materialized over the valley, looming like dark ghosts, dropping an inch of rain and hundreds of lightning strikes in the matter of an hour, downing trees and power lines and causing flash floods before moving on and leaving the residents feeling vaguely assaulted. But worse, the air had become the one thing locals couldn’t tolerate: sticky. Even humidity of thirty percent was likely to have a Las Vegan mopping his forehead and complaining of swampy weather.

They valet parked, and once inside the casino, they were safe. No matter the weather outside, the air-conditioned wombs of the casinos were always mild and dry. As they crossed the casino floor heading toward the banquet hall, men playing blackjack and craps twisted their heads around and leaned back from their tables to get a look at Melanie. With her high heels she was still about two inches shorter than James, but the way she held herself made her appear statuesque. She didn't have bombshell curves, but her femininity was palpable and what curves she had were classy. She held her head high and kept her arm threaded through his as they walked. James tried to remember ever feeling so proud to have a woman on his arm, and couldn't. The thought made him a little nervous, but more than anything, he felt like
the man
. His colleagues would be insane with jealousy and insatiable with questions.

They stopped at a table and checked in, and as they approached the entrance to the hall, a woman stepped forward and took Melanie by the elbow. At first, Melanie didn’t seem alarmed, just a little confused.

“You have to make him talk to me,” she said. The woman’s tone was desperate, pleading, and Melanie yanked her arm away.

James was confused at first; this behavior was just so out of place. But her face was there—in there, somewhere, under the lines and scars. She had the deep, leathery tan that people get not from sitting out by the pool, but from being unable to escape the sun. Field workers in California. Homeless people in Las Vegas.

She was wearing a dress, perhaps for the occasion; a faded sundress that came to her knees and bore a print of white daisies against a blue background. He found himself staring at the pattern. Then at her feet, her dirty toes in flip-flops. He’d been in such a good mood that he found it difficult to switch gears quickly enough to deal with the situation, and the pause gave her time to speak again.

“He’s my son,” she said to Melanie. “A son can’t just ignore his own mother.”

She was getting a bit louder now and Melanie looked to James, who finally composed himself enough to mutter, “Crazy bitch.”

He put his hand on Melanie’s back and guided her into the hall.

“Who was that?” Melanie asked.

“Just some nut job. Let’s get a drink,” James said.

They went straight to the bar and James ordered for them both, downing his vodka tonic in two swallows, then ordering another. Melanie sipped her wine, but she was watching him. He could tell she wouldn’t let this go.

James scanned the nearby tables for coworkers he felt like talking to. Guiding Melanie over, he introduced her to several men and their wives. While they chatted, he glanced toward the door to the hall several times. He thought he might go tell someone to make sure she didn’t get in.

A man came up to James and slapped him merrily on the back. “Perolo, my man. You get that promotion yet?” Bobby was taller than James by about an inch which always had the effect of making James stand up straighter. He’d started at Metro the year after James, both were detectives now, and both were still unmarried, although Bobby tended to be a serial monogamist. He still knew how to party, and poker games at Bobby’s house were as legendary for the six a.m. finish times as for the topless dealers. James was looking forward to showing off his date.

“Not yet. Hopefully soon.” James turned to Melanie and said, “Bobby, I’d like you to meet my date, Melinda.”

“Melanie, actually,” she said, holding out her hand.

Bobby raised his eyebrows and shook her hand, clearly amused. “And how long have you two been dating?”

“About five months,” she said, smiling sweetly at James.

“Oh good, he’ll probably get your name right any day now.”

James could feel himself sweating. “God, I’m sorry.” He tried to force a laugh but it came out a bit maniacal. “I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me.”

He went back to the bar for another vodka tonic and napkins to mop his brow. When he came back to the table, Melanie took him by the hand and led him toward the door.

Halfway there, he stopped abruptly. “Where are we going?”

“Out in the hallway where we can talk.”

“I’d prefer not to.”

Melanie stepped close to him and spoke in a conversational whisper, her face a mask of calm, a small, forced smile on her lips. “I’m not going to stand by and watch you get sloppy drunk." She nodded at the glass in his hand. “That’s your third drink in fifteen minutes. Either you tell me what’s going on or I’m going to take a cab home. Now.”

James looked around the room, then toward the door. There was nowhere else to go but out into the hallway. He took her hand and led her this time, stepping slowly out the door and looking around in a way that he thought was nonchalant, but again, Melanie was watching him.

“I guess she’s gone,” Melanie said.

“Who?”

“The nut job.”

Melanie walked to a bench on the far side of the hallway and sat down. James took a seat next to her. She turned toward him, her legs together and crossed at the ankles, one knee and calf showing through the slit in her dress. “Tell me,” she said.

He rested his drink on a planter next to the bench and leaned forward, putting his head in his hands. He slid his hands down over his mouth and opened his eyes to find himself looking at her shoes. He hadn’t noticed them before. They were dark blood-burgundy stilettos with tiny crystals on them—the kind of shoes that made women swoon at shop windows. They reminded him of an updated, fashionable version of the ruby slippers in The Wizard of Oz. It had been his grandmother’s favorite movie, and every time it came on TV they’d watch. He’d hated it then, but now, when he’d flip through the channels and it was on, he’d stop on it for a few minutes, just to remember her. She was a good woman; she was good to him. It was hard to consolidate his opinion of her with the fact that she’d given birth to and raised a woman like his mother. Maybe some people were just inherently bad people, or bad mothers. And maybe badness skipped a generation—a good reason for him not to have kids.

He stared down at Melanie’s glittering shoes. He didn’t want her to leave but had no idea what to say to her. “There’s no place like home,” he mumbled.

“What?”

“I don’t know. Sorry.”

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

Was he? He’d been trying to think of a spin for this, trying to avoid yes or no questions that ended with the truth or a lie, but now he was asking himself: Am I going to tell her? And the fact that he was even considering it made his stomach jump.
Could
he tell her? What would happen if she knew where he’d come from, what his parents were really like, and that he’d been lying about them all this time? Would she be as disgusted by them as he was and walk away?

As if to answer him, she said, “You can tell me anything, you know. Just be honest with me and it’ll be ok.”

He looked her in the eyes then. He was looking for the trap, the lie, the trick, any indication that she was going to pull the rug out from under him. She touched his cheek gently, “Was that your mother?”

He nodded.

He feared it would take hours to recount the story, but in reality it had taken only twenty minutes. He’d embellished the fight with The Beast in his own favor—old habits and all. Melanie listened and nodded, scowled and shook her head, but she didn’t appear shocked, or worse, repulsed by him.

“I’m sorry that your mom wasn’t there for you,” she said. “I know that had to be awful. But look how you turned out. It’s possible that she did the right thing by sending you to your grandmother.”

“But not for the right reasons,” he said.

Melanie nodded. “Still, the way I see it, you got lucky.”

He looked at her then, awed at her perspective. He kissed her tenderly and squeezed her hand in his, pressing it against his chest. He pulled away slightly. “I love you,” he said. He was looking her right in the eyes when he said it, as he usually did; it had a more profound effect that way. But this time he struggled to maintain the eye contact.

Melanie looked a little shocked at first, then she smiled widely at him, kissed him passionately, hugged his neck.

“Shall we go back in?” he asked. He wasn’t worried that she hadn’t said it back. Melanie was guarded, he knew that. It didn’t mean she wasn’t already in love with him, she just needed him to say it first. It wouldn’t be long now.

“You up for it still?” she asked.

“I’m good.”

They stood and he put his hand on her lower back as they walked—right below where her bra would have been if she’d been wearing one—and his dick pulsed.

They left the party at midnight at James’ suggestion; he was emotionally drained, and dancing with Melanie in that dress—her almost-bare breasts pressing against his chest—was giving him a constant erection that was difficult to hide. He’d held her close when the band played “Lady in Red” and felt the hardness of her nipples through his dress shirt. It was all he could do not to take her breasts in his hands there on the dance floor.

Once in Melanie’s bedroom, he turned her away from him and pressed her against the wall, holding her by the nape of her neck. He ran his fingertips lightly over her back, tickling her shoulder blades, her spine, and she moaned. He put a hand on each shoulder, kissed her neck, and attempted to slide the dress off, but it didn’t budge.

“Double-stick tape,” she said.

“What?”

She reached to one shoulder and gently peeled the fabric away, then the other, revealing two pieces of white tape on her shoulders. She let the dress fall to the floor around her shoes.

“Damn,” he said. “I thought it was magic.”

He gripped each piece of tape and indelicately ripped them off.

Melanie squealed and turned to swat him away, but he grabbed her and tackled her to the bed, both of them laughing like teenagers.

“Wait, my shoes,” she said.

He looked down at the sparkling burgundy stilettos and smiled. “Those stay on.”

So this would be the litmus test then. He’d told the truth and she would either leave or she wouldn’t. And if she did, he would know his fears had been founded. That his upbringing was shameful. That his parents were losers and he was full of their blood, their very DNA, and that this was a secret to be guarded.

He didn’t particularly like all the lying, but once he’d told a woman the big lie, all the smaller ones seemed trivial by comparison; who he was with and when and where were small issues compared with a couple of full-fledged skeletons in the closet. But when a woman was having a kitten and screaming at him about whatever rule he’d broken this time, it meant his big secret was safe. Women stopped digging once they found something.

Now that he’d taken the risk, he wished he’d done it sooner. Not because he felt any relief—quite the opposite, he found himself waiting for the other shoe to fall, the blade to drop, the phone to not ring—but because Melanie was a lot to risk losing. Maybe that was the point. If he’d tried telling some insignificant trollop the truth it wouldn’t have mattered if she’d walked away. But being judged poorly by a woman like Melanie would matter. It would be devastating.