Tell Me. M. Colette Jane
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I cooed that other men buy their wives flowers and chocolate and my beloved got me a ripped boy toy – he comes across as very, very…safe. He gropes and prods and readjusts me – and his dozens-upon-dozens of other female clients – fairly thoroughly. It never feels inappropriate, or edgy. I sweat with him two or three times a week, and I’ve committed no thought crime with him, no matter how ardent my mood is otherwise. He’s that safe. So safe, I’ve pondered setting him up with my neighbour’s seventeen-year-old daughter…except for that he-might-be-gay thing. We’ve all got to go through our gay lovers – I’ve had two – but it really sucks if the gay boy’s your first one. A little disheartening.
‘I’m just so shocked,’ Jesse says. I nod and grunt. Lift up. Hold. Drop down. ‘Have you met her husband?’
‘Y…e…s,’ I exhale. ‘Total dork. Even before he became a cheating rat-fuck bastard.’
‘Well, I wasn’t going to be so…’ Jesse pauses.
‘Offensive?’ I offer as I gasp.
‘Blunt,’ Jesse says. ‘But yes. Not exactly a Don Juan. I wouldn’t have thought…have you seen the pictures of the girlfriend?’
‘The naked pictures?’ I get out between lifts. ‘No. I managed to avoid that. I guess you didn’t.’
‘Nicola showed me,’ Jesse says.
‘Skanky?’ I ask. Jesse is shocked. His Puritanism and youth come out at the most unexpected times. He’s shocked – that I said skank. He’s shocked that Nicola and her dorky husband are divorcing because of his torrid affair with a skanky but sufficiently attractive, to Nicola’s ex at least (‘If you like that type’ – that’s Nicola’s voice providing commentary in the background), intern. He’s shocked the dorky husband was fucking the attractive skank. He might be shocked people in their 30s and 40s, and those really old 50-year-olds sweating on the ellipticals over there, have sex. Dirty thoughts.
I’m not quite 40 yet. But it’s less than two years away. And Matt…is Matt 40 now? He’s got to be. Maybe even 41.
‘Hey, Jesse,’ I ask. ‘How old do you think I am?’
He pauses. Yes, it’s a test. I asked him how old he was a few months ago. I thought 28 – he was 26. My two-year misjudgement didn’t matter. But he really can’t win with me, I realise. If he says 40, I’ll throw the barbell at him. If he says 36, who gives a crap? What’s two years less? I catch the thought and stare it in the face. It’s never ever bothered me that I’m now 38. Four kids. Soft, loose breasts, stretched skin on the belly. That’s all part of me, of what I am. Am I anxious about my age? Am I having a mid-life crisis? A stupid fucking mid-life crisis that’s making me easy fodder for a manipulative fuck like Matt who clearly is having a mid-life crisis of his own, much like Nicola’s husband was having when he started fucking the skank? Except, instead of looking for something new, he comes looking for me, because he knows…
Fuck.
Selfish, evil bastard.
I am so not going to see him on December 14.
‘I’ve never thought about it,’ he says. And I think, clever boy, that’s the right answer. But he plods on. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘I know your oldest girl is ten. So…you must be…you must be thirty-something, like at least thirty-two? Maybe even thirty-four?’
I stop listening. I don’t really hear. I’m away again. Teeth marks on my neck. My thighs. Oh, fuck. Where was I? What were we talking about?
‘But she seems to be coping OK.’ Jesse returns to Nicola. ‘I mean, she’s angry and all that. But I think she’ll be OK.’
She’d probably be a hell of a lot better if you sort of accidentally-on-purpose patted her ass after her workout session, I think. Don’t say out loud. Slap myself mentally. Feel Matt’s breath on the back of my neck…
‘She’s tough,’ I say. ‘And really…well. The only really shocking thing here is that he left her. Well, OK, not exactly left her. What he wanted to do was to fuck the skank and to stay married. And she didn’t. So she’s the one who asked for a divorce. But what I mean is – we all kind of expected her to lose her patience with him somewhere along the line without the illicit sex, you know? Cause he was – you know, a dork.’
Jesse gives me an odd look. My Puritan boy. He does not like it when I swear. I hope he chalks it up to my indignation on my friend’s behalf.
‘Anyway,’ he says, ‘exercise helps.’
Oh, Jesse. So cute. So sweet. So dumb.
I like it better when he doesn’t talk.
I stay silent for the remainder of the session, and try hard not to think about Matt’s cock.
Fail.
My mom seems frazzled when I come to pick up Annie, so I don’t stay. Pack up Annie. We run errands – bank, big grocery shop – then pick up her siblings at school. ‘Gran was weird,’ Annie says at one point. ‘Sad.’ ‘Really?’ I murmur, indifferent. My mother’s always a bit weird. Groceries, kids in car…but I’m reluctant to go home. Restless. I take the kids to the Glenbow Museum’s Discovery Room instead. Middle of the week, so it’s quiet, empty. The two volunteers fight with each other for the privilege of assisting Annie with her craft.
So of course I sit on the couch. And pull out the phone.
Evil bastard.
Why am I doing this?
Because…ah. Yes. There is a message.
Enjoy your evening?
Well. This I can answer.
—So much. My husband thanks you.
Delighted.
I have a perhaps undeserved feeling of accomplishment and pride.
(Inspiring you and lucky Alex.)
—That’s you. Spreading sweetness and light wherever you go.
The Johnny Appleseed of Eros.
I can stop now. I should stop now. What the fuck am I doing? This:
—My mind was busy with you last night. And this morning en route to my personal trainer.
I am a fucking idiot who should know better.
I love to be kept busy. Tell me your thoughts. Paint me a picture.
—Electrifying.
—I was rehearsing our meeting.
I am charged.
—You’ve got a lot to live up to.
as do you
but I’m confident you will work hard to please me.
I’m seducing you subliminally (lick) is it working?
—not so very subliminally
Tell me what you want most.
—you
I like that answer.
—i’m wondering if your lips feel the way i remember them
I want you in all your darkest ways.
The things you would only ever tell me about.
I want you to scare me.
—how?
I’d like you to try.
—overwhelmed
—shivering
—11 days?