The Juliette Society

11

It’s early when I crawl to bed. Three, at least, maybe close to four. I didn’t expect to be out this long. The room is dark and still. I think Jack’s asleep.

I’ve barely laid my head on the pillow when he says, ‘Where were you?’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say.

He says it again. ‘Where were you?’

I can’t tell him.

‘With Anna,’ I say.

Only half a lie.

I wait for the conversation to continue. It doesn’t. He’s not happy. I know he’s not happy.

‘Jack,’ I say.

No reply.

‘Jack?’

I reach over and touch his arm. He recoils and turns away from me sharply, rolling onto his side and out of reach.

‘Jack, I’m sorry,’ I say.

What else can I say?

Still no response. The silence is deafening. I want to scream just so I can drown it out, just so he’ll have to react.

The room is dark and still. For the longest time.

Then he says, coldly, ‘We’ll talk about it in the morning, Catherine.’

We don’t talk about it in the morning. I oversleep and Jack’s already gone. I hate waking up and he’s not there. Some people are afraid to go to sleep alone. I’m afraid of waking up, never knowing whether the new day is going to greet me with an empty bed, and no one there to hold me.

‘Jack?’ I call.

No answer.

I know he’s not happy. I feel rotten, laden with the dread of a whole day of not knowing if his anger will have eased off by the time he comes home. And what will happen if it hasn’t.

Jack’s anger is like the raging ocean; it whips itself up, with no concern for the destruction it wreaks, no remorse for whatever gets caught in its path, and there’s no way to avoid it, no way to placate it. It’s not a violent anger, but a quiet rage; a misalignment of the passion that drives everything he does. And so the only thing to do is to wait it out, until the wind dies down, until it abates and subsides. Until calm prevails. But that doesn’t make it any easier to bear.

I do what I usually do to quell the anxiety, to quiet the voice in my head that won’t stop talking. I masturbate.

I close my eyes, slide my fingers between my thighs and think of Jack, still sleeping, as if none of this had happened. As if he had never woken when I came to bed. As if he was completely oblivious to the time. Whether it was four or three or two or one.

I wake him with a kiss on the forehead, my sweet prince, and watch him slowly rouse from slumber. He looks up at me, still woozy, and says, ‘I waited up, but I was so exhausted.’

He doesn’t say, ‘Where were you?’ Cold and accusatory.

But, ‘When did you get back?’

And I lie. A full lie this time, but a white lie, so he’s none the wiser.

And he smiles, ‘I missed you.’

He starts to kiss me, softly, sweetly, tugging at my lips with his.

He cups my breast, brushes the nipple with his thumb.

I reach down and stroke myself where all the sweat gathers, where the smell of my sex is strongest. I stroke it and then lick my fingers and stroke it some more.

He gently bites my top lip, sucks it. Tugs at my nipple, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger.

I feel it harden.

I feel him harden.

I feel myself getting wet.

I wet my finger, run it up the lips of my pussy and imagine it’s his tongue, wetting the wings of my labia, feeling them flutter and spread, circling my clit and flicking it. Blood rushes to my head, to my clit. I feel dizzy.

I feel the head of his cock bouncing against my thigh as he crawls over me, positioning himself above me, poised to enter. And I turn on my side to accommodate him, bending the top leg at the knee, like a dancer doing the Can-Can, to give him a clear view of the runway as his craft comes into land.

He takes his cock in his hands, guides it towards my pussy, towards the hole, where the wetness gathers. He pushes into it, just enough to wet the tip. Pulls out and slides the head up the pussy, making me slick with my own juices.

He pushes into me again, just enough to bury the tip. And holds it there. Not in, not out. Just waiting. Teasing.

And my finger probes around the hole, scooping up my juice and spreading it up towards my clit, wetting it, brushing it, feeling it throb.

He pushes into me.

I push a finger into me. And moan.

His cock stretches my hole. And I feel my pussy close around the head.

Two fingers now.

And he slides his length in slowly. Teasing. He slides in all the way until he’s pressing against my pelvis. I can feel him hard, pressing against my wall. And he holds it there. Teasing.

I’m up to the joint now, and moving towards the knuckle, sinking my fingers as deep as they will go. My fingers are slick with juice, thick and sticky, and white as snow.

He shifts his weight, rotates his hips slightly, like he’s piloting a ship, inching the wheel around so the rudder shifts. And I can feel his cock move inside me, brushing ever so slightly against the soft fleshy wall.

And suddenly I can feel that I’m about to come. I can feel a surge building up inside me and I can’t stop it. I don’t want to. I want to be overwhelmed. I can feel him inside me and I want to come.

I’m going to come.

And as I come, I call out his name. Because I want him to hear, even though he’s not there.

Jack. I’m going to come.

Jack, I’m coming.

I’m coming, Jack.

Jack…

And I judder and buck as the orgasm shocks through me. My pussy tightens its grip on my fingers and I can feel the sheets, wet underneath me. But I’m not finished yet. I’m not satisfied.

My pussy is like a cat that’s hungry all the time. A cat that doesn’t know when to stop eating. My pussy is hungry all the time. And I can’t stop myself from feeding it. So another scenario.

This time, Jack comes home, still roiling with anger. And I just want this to end, I want this to be over.

Now.

So I wade in, I give him an excuse and let the waves crash over me. And when it’s over we both feel cleansed, we both feel raw and emotional and connected again. We both want to fuck.

Because there’s nothing like make-up sex to fill the void and heal the wounds. Rough, angry and frantic, like it’s the first time you ever fucked. And might be the last.

Not in the bed, anywhere but the bed. Maybe up against the wall. Me facing the wall, hands above my head like I’m holding it up, trying to stop it from falling on top of us, my skirt bunched up over my ass, my panties around my knees, standing on my tiptoes. Jack slamming into me from behind. And all I can think is, Fuck me harder.

And he must have heard me, because he does. I raise myself up higher on my toes so he can hit me deeper, and it feels so good that my legs almost buckle underneath me.

I’m bent over the coffee table and Jack’s fucking me from behind again. Not doggy style, but froggy style, resting on his haunches, with his hands pressing against my lower back to support himself, fucking me deep and hard. And it feels as if his cock is going to bore through my pussy, right into the table, like a human drilldo. And we’ll be stuck there. Screwing and screwed to the table.

We’re fucking on the kitchen counter. My knees are hooked over Jack’s shoulders. And he’s standing on tiptoes now so he can get just the right angle. I’m sliding back and forth on the counter as he thrusts into me and I’m afraid I’m going to fall off. I sweep my hands behind me for something to grab onto. My hands find the wall, they find the spice rack attached to it, and I think, that’ll do. But it cracks off almost immediately and comes away in my hands and the spices spill all over the counter. Jack’s fucking me and my ass is being rubbed in cumin, ginger, garlic, salt and pepper. I’m marinating in my own juices and my ass is ready to be cooked, but I come multiple times before he’s ready to leave his yeast in my oven. And as I come, my asshole puckers and snorts a pinch of chili. The pain is excruciating. My asshole is burning and my pussy’s on fire. And the flames consume my body and lick at my brain. We’re both burning up in the heat of our love.

I’m lying on the hard floor, on my back, and my arms and legs are wrapped around his, like a baby monkey clinging to the underneath of its parent. And Jack’s pounding into me so hard that I want to scream, but instead I dig my nails deep into his back and draw them all the way up until I reach his shoulders. I feel like I might have drawn blood and he must be into it because he slams into me with thrusts that are even more powerful. And by the time we both come, we’ve moved the length of the entire hallway, from the front door all the way to the bathroom, and I have friction burns all along my back.

I fast forward through all these scenarios in my head, as if I’m flicking through hotel porn channels, trying to get off on the previews alone. And I switch back and forth between them while I frig myself into a stupor. I stuff myself until my fingers ache and my pussy’s sore. Until I can’t take any more pleasure. Until I feel broken.

I’m lying there, sprawled on the bed, all tangled up in soaking wet sheets, my body exhausted, my mind floating somewhere between half-sleep and unconsciousness. And I remember that, last night, I had the strangest dream. At least, I think it was a dream. But I can’t be sure and have no way of knowing. All I have is the memory, the sensation of knowing.

I remember that just before I fell asleep, I heard a drum. The beat of a big bass drum; slow, insistent, reverberating like the sound of the ocean. I hear it far away, then closer, and closer, until it’s on top of me, moving across my body, from my feet up to my head.

Vibrations pass through me in waves, leaving in their wake a warm, tingling feeling. In my fingers and my toes, along my arms and legs, whirling around my belly.

And then the drum is inside me, a steady throb at my crotch, a pounding in my head that gets louder and louder and louder, until a galaxy of stars explodes in front of my eyes. And I’m flying through them, spinning like a gyroscope, jerking in one direction then another. Or they’re flying through me, because I’m fixed to the spot. I can’t move. I’m inside my body and out of it at the same time. I am a galaxy of stars.

Then everything goes black. Pitch black. Like someone turned the lights out on the universe. I am in a space with no beginning and no end. No light. No sound. I am numb. I am immobile.

And I can feel someone tugging at my pajamas. I don’t struggle, I don’t feel afraid. I let them fall away from my body.

I am being carried, naked, in the arms of a man. Being carried like a baby in arms so large they seem to wrap themselves around me completely. Arms so hairy it feels like I’m swaddled in a coat of feathers. In these arms, I am pitching and rolling like a boat on the ocean, but I feel safe – safer than I’ve ever felt before – and warm.

And the warmth, I realize is not the warmth of the hair on his arms, not the warmth of feeling safe and secure, but the warmth of the sun. A brilliant, late afternoon sun, still burning bright, and bearing down on me. A white light, blinding me. A white heat, enveloping me.

And I can feel the steady throb at my crotch again, but my head is clear. Absolutely clear and alert and aware. I can hear voices all around me. Voices taunting and mocking me. And I suddenly feel utterly exposed and ashamed of my nakedness. I desperately want to cover myself and disappear. But there’s nothing at hand, nothing except the sun. So I grab it and wrap it around me like a towel. Everything goes black again and I shiver.

I woke up with a start from the dream and Jack wasn’t there and I felt terribly sad and alone and anxious. And I touched myself.

Jack doesn’t come home until near midnight. I’m sure it’s just to spite me. I run to greet him when I hear the door open. I try to throw my arms around him but he brushes me off.

‘Catherine, we need to talk,’ he says, impassively.

A wave of dread washes over me. He’s still angry and I don’t know what’s coming next.

He walks into the living room and sits over on one end of the couch, leaning forward with his hands clasped in front of him. I sit at the other end, like a child waiting to be scolded.

‘I think we should take some time off,’ he says.

He won’t even look me in the eye.

I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut. Like my world’s collapsed around me.

I don’t understand, I say, and I can hear my voice crumbling. ‘Why?’

‘You’ve been acting weirdly,’ he says.

‘What do you mean?’ I say.

‘You know what I mean,’ he says.

I really don’t know what he’s talking about. I’m starting to panic because he’s cut me off cold and I know there’s no way to get through to him.

‘What did I do?’

‘If you don’t know, there’s nothing more I can say,’ he says.

‘Please, Jack. Don’t be like this,’ I say.

Tears are welling up in my eyes but I’m trying to keep it together.

‘Can’t we just talk about it? What have I done wrong?’

‘I’m going to be away a lot for the next few weeks,’ he says. ‘It’s a good time to put a little distance between us.’

And he says it because he’s already made up his mind and doesn’t want to give me an opportunity to reason with him.

‘Jack, please…’

I’m crying now and pleading with him through my tears.

He doesn’t move.

‘I’m going away tomorrow,’ he says.

It’s the first I’ve heard of it.

For how long, I sob.

‘A few days,’ he says.

That’s all he’s going to tell me.

‘We’re not splitting up,’ he says. ‘I just need some space.’

‘OK… ’ I mumble. I don’t like it but I don’t have a choice. And I don’t want to push him and make things worse than they already are.

‘I’m going to sleep on the couch tonight,’ he says.

I don’t want to sleep alone but I know there’s no way to persuade him not to.

I cry myself to sleep and, when I wake up, Jack’s gone.

And the apartment feels so empty without him.