Requisite Vices (14 page)

Chapter 16

The act of sex itsel
f
has always been a very carnal act to me. It’s this need that has been driven by the desire to feel another’s touch. The clothes that are stripped away reveal a true beauty within every curve and every small imperfection. Every skin discoloration and birth mark; every stretch mark and scar is a natural, raw masterpiece that has been bound in human form and forced to cower behind a cover of clothes and polite conversation. But when you’re behind closed doors, and that cover has been stripped, you fall into this all-consuming dance. You cease to be a lawyer, a doctor, a secretary or grocery store clerk and become a passionate, primal being. Your bodies find a certain common rhythm within one another; moving and beating as one. Every individualized thought is extinguished in the presence of passion, and when the dust has settled, those memories have always been so easy filed away for me. There is no tie to them. No expectations. This person has bared their soul and released their inhibitions for a night of release; a single night in which they are not judged for the passions of their heart, then it’s over.

I often think of it as a favor. I’m allowing them to express themselves in a way that is best done in the company of another. Remembering the desires of one night is not conducive to my everyday life, however. It doesn’t fit into the ‘norm’. How seriously would I be taken if I blatantly expressed myself to those I interact with every day? I highly doubt Riley would want to hear my thoughts on being so openly sexual.

Society has bred a race of humans with a sense of embarrassment. We’re embarrassed to love, to feel, to become excited and flustered. We are pressed into boxes and force fed ideas of chastity and life-long love, then bound together with one person ‘till death do we part’. What about those who don’t fit into societies perfect boxes? Are they doomed to feel some sense of loss and shame for not seeing themselves flawlessly pieced into the ideal relationship? The picture perfect relationship where the woman is a virgin, and any thoughts of sex other than to reproduce strictly in a missionary position, are abhorrent? Those who are labeled freaks? Those misunderstood monsters that are slaves to their passions?

And yet, there are times when I want to be in that box. A part of me wants to be dressed in white, with family and loved ones around me as someone takes my hand and pledges their undying loyalty and devotion to me. Are they my own desires, or is this growing beast within me, a reminder of my body’s own rebellion against forced ideal standards of life?

Another day has passed with yet more restless sleep, and I find myself sitting at my desk again, gazing out the window as I watch the sun sashay across the sky. Minutes. Hours. I don’t know anymore. I feel like Riley hasn’t been home all day. Maybe she hasn’t. The house is deathly quiet, and each creak and groan from the house picks away at my sanity.

Shaking my head, I rest it in my hands, then glance at the phone. The light in the corner is flashing blue, and my heart skips several beats. I unlock it, my fingers shaking in anticipation as my heart pounds against my ribs, shattering pieces like crumbling cement.

Sadly, my hammering heart is disappointed, as the text is from Ethan and not from Delacroix. He was confirming the time he’d come by tomorrow, and reminding me of the time his flight leaves. Thankfully it’s a desolate morning hour, and so, the traffic should be near non-existent.

I reply to confirm, then check the time. It’s five in the evening already. Where did the first half of the day go? When did I wake up? At least it’s not too early to pour a glass of well-deserved wine. After all, I managed to grade my papers
and
proof my article within the last couple of days. I’ll write that off as the beginning of a fairly productive week; and productive weeks call for a treat.

I steal away to the kitchen to pour a glass of wine, and grab some leftover spinach tartlets from yesterday. The wine isn’t the good stuff I’d brought home as my apology to her, but it’ll get the job done just the same.

My new bottled friend accompanies me to the living room, and I light the fire in the hearth. A cold front has come through, and left the evenings and nights well into the 40’s. Riley loves opening the windows when the weather cools down; it’s a nice respite for us northerners to not be smothered by humidity and heat once in a while, and there’s nothing quite like a bottle of wine by the fire.

The house is quiet except for the crackling of charring wood, and I can’t remember where Riley told me she was going. My mind struggles to sort through an ever-thickening haze. Was it to Tom’s again? Or Melissa’s? Or was it Tonya? Did she even tell me she was going somewhere? I don’t keep up with all of her friends.

I set the glass on the coffee table and curl up, flicking the remote to stream some music from the speakers in the corner. Slow, sensual notes spill from them and pour out over the floor, filling my head and giving me a much deserved break from my ridiculous fixation.

Stretching across the couch, my eyes close as I let the music fill me. I can feel everything; the heat from the fire, the breeze whispering through the windows. I can hear the silence broken by the crackling fire and the sweet song of the wind as it twists with the music. Breathing deep, I relish in the rhythm of my heart as it beats slow and steady, swaying along to the notes pouring from the speakers.

It’s not long before my sweet relaxation is cut with the buzzing of my phone vibrating on the coffee table. I peek over at the lighted screen and see my mom’s name. I can’t ignore it, or she’ll keep chain calling me and leaving frantic voice mails, thinking that the reason for me not picking up is because I got shot or mauled in some way.

Reaching over, loathing the thought of having to get off the couch, I clumsily grasp the edge of the phone with my fingertips, and work it into my hand.

“Mom?”

“Hey, sweetie! How are you? How are things? How’s Riley?”

“Fine. Everything is fine, mom. Do you need something?”

I love my mom, I do, but every time I hear her voice, it grips my heart in a vice. She was great, really. She did the best she could, but she was a single parent, and became very ill when I was young. The stress of her job drove her to a breaking point, and I was left alone to pick up the shattered pieces at the tender age of 10. I took care of her, but I don’t think she ever recovered. I don’t think I ever recovered either. Whenever she visits, or calls, it’s hard to listen to her because she’s still so broken, and it brings up so many of those bad memories. Seeing her fracture like that tore something from me…something I never gained back, and though I may try to hide my frustration and fill my voice with love every time I speak with her, it hurts. This painful ache in my chest makes it hard to speak. The sound of her voice retells the story of when she fell apart every time I hear it, and try as I might, I can’t smother down those thoughts with anything other than avoidance. I’m not proud of it; I just don’t know how else to handle it. Sometimes I’m afraid she’ll hear a hint of it in my voice...

“Yes! Sweetie, do you remember Emmanuel, your second cousin? He and your great-aunt are coming for a visit! It’s been so long since we’ve all been together, and I was hoping to get everyone to come over for their visit! I’d love if you came. It’s been so long since you’ve been home.”

Our family is pretty extensive, with great aunts and second and third cousins scattered all over the globe. They tend to keep in contact with each other and will sometimes get it in their heads to have these huge family reunions. Usually the reunions are just holiday meet-ups for Thanksgiving or Christmas, and solely consist of my direct aunts, uncles, cousins and grandparents. No seconds or third or fourths, just the people I primarily grew up around. I like it that way, as I don’t know the distant family nearly as well as my mother does.

My last encounter with Emmanuel was something I’ve tried to purge from my memory. We were thirteen, or rather, I was thirteen. He was seventeen or eighteen at the time, and much taller. He was like a giant to me; well over six feet at his age, and I was just barely reaching five feet. He was big, intimidating, broad shouldered and built like a linebacker. He took advantage of my innocence, and my shy, withdrawn disposition. I’ll never forgive him. Hell, I wouldn’t douse him with piss if he were on fire.

“Uh, actually, I really have a lot of work to do. When is this whole get-together supposed to be happening?”

“I was hoping for next weekend. That’s when they’ll be up. Can’t you bring your work with you? I know Emmanuel would love to see you. He’s mentioned you a few times! He must have fond memories from when you hung out as kids.”

“Yeah, mom. I’m sure he does,” I reply flatly, trying to hide the anger in my voice. “I’m really sorry. I don’t think I can bring it with me. I have some really important things coming up and I really can’t make it up there. Please pass along my best wishes to Aunt Meg?”

“Oh, of course, sweetie. Try not to work too hard. Maybe you can come up for Christmas? Or I can come down there, too!”

“Yeah, sure. Sounds like a great idea. I really need to get back to work. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

“Alright, honey. Don’t work too hard or you’ll work yourself into an early grave! I love you, Cassie.”

“Love you too, mom.”

I hang up and resist the urge to toss the phone into the fire. The sound of his name makes my skin crawl, and the memories I managed to smother for the last half of my life are threatening to overtake me. Sure, I tried therapy when I was 18 and old enough to go without parental consent, but it never worked. They wanted to talk about everything else, or suggest I speak with a doctor, or shove pills down my throat, or go into special victim counseling. Me? A victim? I can’t even stomach the thought of it, now. I just don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to remember him, or any of them. I felt abandoned when I needed my family the most, and I’ve found that I don’t need them as much as I thought. I can do it alone. I’ve always done it alone. I’ve always managed to survive, and I’ll survive now. I can’t let this unravel me. I’m stronger than that.

Draining the rest of the wine from my glass, I place the half empty bottle in the fridge. I don’t want to be home tonight. I don’t want to sit around in silence and let my thoughts bombard me with fragmented pieces of the past which, just for fun, mixes with pieces from the present into a bleeding mirror ball that tells the story of my life. I want to be numb. I don’t want to feel.

I walk up to my room, throw on something partially acceptable, and make the decision to head to the bar. If I’m going to go numb, at least I’ll do it around people so I’ll feel a little less pathetic. Maybe this will be good for me. Some fresh air may be a nice distraction. I may actually find someone who could use their brain for more than “Hey baby, what’s your number?” 

Grabbing my keys, I shove my phone in my coat pocket and start my walk to a local bar.

Chapter 17

The bar isn’t much to look at
.
It’s a squat, brown building the owners tried to spruce up with fake palm trees and Christmas tree lights year round, but since it’s in a decent part of town there aren’t many bar fights or rowdy crowds.

I walk up to the worn wooden bar and find a stool on the corner between a man in a black fedora and matching overcoat, and a blonde woman who looks as if she has had too much fun with Botox injections. In an attempt to turn her late 40 year old face into that of a 20 year old, she succeeded instead, on looking like a melting wax model held together with scotch tape.

The man in the fedora looks as if he’s stepped out of an old black and white 1950’s gangster movie. The overcoat hides a small beer gut brought on by an over indulgence in the frothy amber barrel, no doubt.

The woman is flirting and flipping her hair as she talks to a young 20-something with a Mercedes key ring and a thick wallet. I assume he’s the one buying her drinks. What he sees in her is anyone’s guess. She’s laughing playfully as she inconspicuously works a diamond band off of her ring finger and tucks it into the purse sitting on the bar stool behind her. Slip it in a hiding place where no one ever goes, Mrs. Robinson. I won’t tell a soul.

As I settle in, I’m greeted by the bartender. He’s a man around his late 30’s with an impressive beard and fitted black t-shirt. He’s not bad looking at all, and the hint of toned abs presses beneath the cotton cloth of his shirt. He leans over the bar and flashes me a grin.

“What’ll ya have, darlin’?”

His bulging biceps and broad chest ripple as he leans against the bar. He’s hot in a very lumberjack sort of way, but his southern accent sets my teeth on edge. After living here for the last few years, I still haven’t gotten used to it. It’s more defined in some than others, but those who hold that strong accent make my skin prick with their words. I’ve found the majority of those down here are incredibly sweet and nice; it’s not something you’d find up north…but that accent. I can’t stand it. Maybe I’ll get used to it someday, but that day isn’t today.

I share my sweetest smile with him in an attempt to hide my pained facial expression brought on by his southern drawl.

“I’d love a whiskey sour, please.”

“Sure thing.”

It’s only been a couple of days since my evening with Delacroix, and I’m already aching to the point of frustration. I hate it. I don’t want to feel that desire, especially not after that call.

Scolding myself, I dig my nails into the palm of my hand and grit my teeth. I might need a few drinks tonight…

The bartender brings my drink and I busy myself stirring with the cherry as I mentally go over my article again. Does it have the right feel to it? Will Angela like it? I really could use the money right now…

The gentleman to my left shifts and orders a drink, though his words are mumbled through a deep, harsh Irish accent. As I catch the drink being placed before him through the corner of my eye, he pushes it with the back of his hand till it rests glass to glass against my own drink. I cock an eyebrow and look over at him. He smiles, tips his hat and mutters…

“You look like you need it.”

Who am I to argue with an Irishman about a drink? I shoot back the first drink, then tease the second with its’ cherry as I pull out my phone and try to look occupied. As grateful as I may be for a free drink, I’m in no mood to really try and attempt conversation. Sadly, feigned occupation isn’t exactly the biggest hint to some people.

“Come here a lot, do you?”

“Not usually.” I mutter; my eyes still focused on the illuminated screen in my hand. Fuck, I’d make the trip to New Orleans at this hour just for another touch…

“Aye. Me neither. Actually my first time here, but they don’t hold a candle to the pubs I’m used to. What brings you here tonight, if you don’t mind?”

“I think I just needed a bit of fresh air. Time to clear out my head, you know?”

“Yeah? I know the feeling. We all need a bit of time to air out once in a while.”

He seems to lose himself in the thoughts swirling about in his glass and I’m grateful for the silence. I have absolutely no desire to make conversation this evening. The thoughts crashing through my head are all consuming, and I struggle to bring myself to the present. At the moment, I’m being rude.

I clear my throat as I struggle to grasp at some semblance of conversation but fail. He looks forlorn, and it tugs at my humanity and the deeply hidden instinctual feelings to try and make him feel better. I get the odd image of me grabbing him and hugging him tight just to squeeze the sadness from him, but know I wouldn’t act on it. It would be quite odd to walk up to some stranger and give them a giant hug, and he could have me arrested for battery! Isn’t that a sad thing, not wanting to hug someone for fear that they’ll have you thrown in cuffs and booked? Kindness doesn’t get you anywhere anymore.

Taking a breath, I clear the thought from my head.

“I’m sorry. I’m not very good with idle conversation. I never really have been. Thanks for the drink, though. It was nice to meet you.”

They’re empty pleasantries, but he accepts them graciously as he hides his eyes beneath the shadows cast by the brim of his hat.

I choose to walk the few blocks to the house instead of calling for a cab. It’s a nice night, and I’m hoping the air will help untangle my thoughts. 

The streets are ever-darkening as the lights span further and further between one another. The humidity adds an eerie shimmer to their yellowed glow. As I step through the door, I strain my ear for some sign or sound of Riley, but receive none. Hopefully, she’s still out.

My body is on fire from the alcohol, and the internal battle between anger and shame is slowly drowned out. The lust always wins when the sun goes down.

Pulling out my phone, I browse the diminishing list of lovers. Maybe Riley won’t come home tonight, but bringing someone to the house is far too risky. As I swipe through the contacts, settle on a particularly passionate lover. He’s a sexy, beast of a man named Adrian. I send out the text and give him my home address to pick me up. We’ve known each other, and fed one another’s lustful yearnings on more than one occasion since I moved here. I guess you can say we have developed an almost trusting relationship. Well, as trusting of a relationship as you can have with someone you fool yourself into believing doesn’t exist unless you’re tugging against your own leash, and slavering like a starved dog staring down at a fresh piece of meat.

Twenty minutes later, he pulls up outside the door. I slip into the passenger’s side of his car and we make the drive back to his place. My body is writhing in anticipation as the alcohol courses through my blood. I reach over and rest my hand on his thigh, feeling the toned muscles tense beneath my fingertips. He casts a sidelong glance in my direction, the edge of his lip curling into a devilish grin as he returns the gesture, inching his fingers slowly up the inside of my thigh. Leaning over, I press my lips to the side of his neck as he drives, my fingers sliding further along the inside of his thigh. His breathing accelerates in time with the car as his blood throbs beneath my lips.

As we turn into his driveway, I can barely contain myself. He pulls his neck from my lips and hands as he turns off the car and walks around to open my door. I stand and close the door, gripping his shirt and slamming him against the car in a primal rage. My body running purely on instinct. On desire. Every nerve is tingling and burning, begging for the sweet release of his body against mine.

He gives in to my will, wrapping his arms around my hips as he presses his lips passionately against my neck. The thoughts of the day drain from my mind as our bodies meld with the shadows of the night. There’s no Emmanuel, no mom, no Delacroix, no Ethan, no Riley. I’m nothing more than a starved animal. I need this like an addict needs their drug, and nothing will stop me from getting my fix.

My hands tremble as I tug at his clothes, threatening to tear the fabric, and his skin, to shreds if I have my way. Right now, I want him. Just…him, don’t I?

His hands slip up my abdomen and lightly brush my breasts through my thin bra, causing my nipples to perk and harden instantly at his touch. I moan, my eyes fluttering as my teeth clamp down on my bottom lip. Groaning, he grabs my hips, turning my back to the car and lifting me onto the hood as I rip his shirt open and trace my lips down his neck and chest. His hands move from my breasts to my sides, tickling his fingertips along my hips as they slip to the small of my back. His dark, tanned skin shimmers with sweat in the faint light cast by the street lights.

I’ve lost track of time, but thankfully there aren’t many houses on this street, and even less traffic at this hour. Not that I’d care at this point. I need it. I need
something
. It’s been days now since I’ve had it, and before that, a month. I’m starving, and I haven’t been properly satiated.

I need this
.

My mind is reeling from the mixed scent of sex and the musk of his sweat, and my body drinks it in like a drug. Tugging my pants from my hips, his hands run up my back as he presses against me. I can feel his desire for me growing as he moves his lips to my neck. His kiss electrifies my already starved body, and causes me to shudder against him, gasping…moaning. His hands move further up my back, his nails lightly scratching against my skin. I rest my chin against his shoulder as he grinds his hardening erection against me. Whimpering in his ear, he continues to assault my neck with impassioned kisses and hungry licks. Higher and higher his hands travel, and my eyes flutter to a close. I want him. Hell, I want anyone right now.

His lips part and I feel his teeth grate against my neck, biting down hard as his hand reaches the back of my neck. His fingers tangle themselves in my hair as he rips his mouth from my neck and tugging my hair firmly.

My body tenses and, behind closed eyes, I can smell the smoke of Delacroix’s cigarettes mingling with the scent drifting from Adrian’s skin. My hands move to his back, digging my nails into his flesh and scratching deep, which only spurs him on. With one hand still in my hair, he moves his other down the front of my pants and between my thighs. His fingers easily worm their way beneath my panties and tease my sensitive clit, running his fingers back and forth before sliding one inside.

I gasp and moan as he slides his finger in and out… and Delacroix is there, sliding his fingers between my thighs, tugging my hair as he presses me against the wall and kisses me passionately with fire and desire on his lips. He’s there, with his heated poison seeping between my lips to run rampant through my blood.

I drop one hand to my side, digging my own nails into my palm.

Stop it. Stop thinking about him.

Adrian picks up his pace, sliding them in and out faster and faster, and my head is swimming with a mix of desires. My mind teases out hallucinations of Alex’s body against mine as he overtakes my senses, blocking out the feel of Adrian’s rippling muscles beneath my fingers. My mind struggles to remain grounded; to remain in the moment, but my body refuses and begins to shut down. The tension and desires drip from my flesh, sailing away on the heat emanating from my body until I’m left as a hollow shell.

What the hell am I doing here?

I can still feel his hands groping my body, but the ache is gone. The daunting desires which drowned my damned soul have dissipated, devolving into the delicate disease of rationality.  My body grows numb. The image of Adrian, the feel of the wind against my flesh, the heat rolling off his body. All of it slips away as my desire falters, seizes then shuts down.

He picks me up and carries me into the house, laying me on the bed as he hovers over me, and I’m disconnected; stuck watching the scene play out before my eyes. Watching him slide into me, watching my body writhe on the bed beneath him, hearing the convincing and very well-rehearsed moans slip from my lips. I can see and hear it all, but I’m not a part of it. It’s akin to watching porn on my home computer. It’s not happening to me, it’s happening to someone else and I’m doomed to linger here…watching.

Once he’s spent and panting, he cleans us both up, and offers to drive me home. I smile, agree and climb in the car, but I’m hollow. I’m lost. Completely void of all emotion and feeling from the moment I began to smell Alex’s cigarettes, and feel his eyes, unwavering, on my trembling body.

Easing the door shut, I place my keys beside Riley’s in the dish we keep near the door. Removing my shoes, I walk slowly up the stairs in an effort to keep them from creaking beneath my feet. In my room, I close the door, strip down, take a quick shower and crawl into bed. As I close my eyes, he’s waiting for me again; his jaw set and stars in his eyes as he runs his fingers playfully over coiled rope. His words drip into my ears,

“Why didn’t you tell me you were so excited?”

My exhausted mind slips into an uneasy sleep; dreams permeate with flashing images of his eyes, the feel of his hot breath against my skin, the cold snap of cuffs around my wrists. He stands before me, and with a snarl, presses his hands against my chest, pushing me backward. My body balances on the edge of a precipice, and as I reach out to him with bound hands, he grins and stands stalwart with his arms at his sides. My heart bounds from my body and clings to the edge as my body slips away, disappearing over the lip of a large depression and falling…falling…plunging into darkness so complete that I cannot see my own hands in front of my face. And I become a memory. Nothing more than a disembodied voice on a ghost wind.