Authors: Tessa Saks
And Sam had thought
Ellen was bad! After meeting these society ladies, it’s no wonder Ellen had
life so screwed up. Not only were these women determined not to have fun; they
made damn sure that no one else in their world ever did as well. All the rules
seemed designed to keep everyone in line, acting their age, afraid to take a
chance, to be different from the pack—forgetting that life is supposed to be
filled with adventure and excitement. For all their crowing, they were just old
ladies with money and nothing to do except gossip and shop and complain.
Thank God for Patty.
She was the only sane one. She didn’t seem to give a crap what these ladies
thought of her. She didn’t try to lick their old lady bow-tipped shoes, or
follow every rule like some brainwashed robot. Patty was fun to be around, for
an older woman. She had more style and better taste than Sam realized. When she
saw her apartment, Sam was actually shocked. It was full of really cool pieces,
vintage moviestar things like Marilyn Monroe’s chair, weird tribal masks and
shields from all their travels, interesting sculptures and art, zebra skin
rugs. She even used a coffin carrier for a coffee table. Yes, Patty was
completely unlike the clones. Sam enjoyed hanging out with her more than anyone
else, and it was a shame she traveled so much.
As Sam looked over
the guest list for her party, she wished Patty and her husband would be coming
instead, it was all these so-called friends. Friends! But Jonathan insisted,
saying it would be good for her to spend more time with society, help her get
back to feeling like herself. Even though he sounded like a shrink sometimes,
she knew he was just afraid, still on edge about everything, and he really
meant well.
She sighed and
looked over the list again. There were a few decent people. And with this new
look of hers and the redone, hip-looking house, perhaps, with a bit of coaxing,
she might even loosen some of them up to have a bit of fun—for once in their
dreary lives.
***
Sam stood in the
hallway, looking into her newly decorated dining room. She could hear the hum
of chatter and polite laughter.
Blah, blah, blah.
The guests were
certainly enjoying themselves. This was, after all, her first party. Her brain
was feeling fuzzy.
Too much wine.
This was all much harder than she ever
imagined. Everyone was smart, or as they say,
intellectual
; the
conversation was always over her head. She missed their points and they knew
it. She missed their jokes so many times, she was now afraid to laugh at
anything. And everyone had such high expectations of Ellen.
How was she supposed
to know all the rules? Why would she care about the impact of custom engraved
invitations instead of store bought? Or that Ascot is in England and it
involves horses, not a fashion show. Or that caviar is actually fish eggs, not
a fancy type of fish, as she was certain she had read in a magazine once, and
that serving it with a metal spoon is such a mortal sin! These people were
nasty.
Sam wanted to go
upstairs and hide, but this was her party. Her party! Her thoughts raced,
blurring the evening’s events. Sam wished the food had turned out better. How
was she supposed to know that lobster wasn’t good with pork tenderloin or red
wine and, that even worse, you never serve pork at a society dinner party. They
acted as if she’s served them Spam sandwiches on Wonder Bread.
Damn them all
,
Sam thought as she headed into the dining room.
I don’t need to impress
them. I have money. They’ll still like me or I’ll find new friends. Rich people
have no trouble finding new friends.
The conversation
hushed as she entered the room. No one spoke as Sam slipped into her chair. She
smiled as the guests stared at her—waiting.
What the hell do I say?
She
sipped her wine, allowing the silky coolness to smooth her jagged nerves. She
motioned for a refill.
“Anyone want more
wine? I’m getting totally drunk tonight.”
Faces froze as their
smiles evaporated, then they quickly turned away. “I’ll have another glass,” a
lone voice called out.
“Cheers!” Sam raised
her glass. A low laugh filled the air.
She pressed her hand
to head. “What’s your name again?” she asked the thin man across the table—her
savior
.
“Vic. Vic
Rosenthal.”
“Yes
…
yes, well cheers Vic! Let’s get
hammered!” Sam downed the wine, setting her glass down abruptly. She motioned
for another, avoiding the hostile glare from Greta Rosenthal.
Jonathan stood and
announced, “Shall we retire to the living room?” He abruptly pulled Sam’s chair
out from the table and grabbed her arm, yanking her to her feet.
There was another
burst of chatter as the guests filed into the living room. Jonathan pressed
against Sam. “Take it easy Ellen, you’re embarrassing yourself. I’ll take it
from here.” Sam leaned on the table for support as she tried to free the hem of
her dress from the chair leg.
She went to rest her
arm on his shoulder, but he walked away too fast. She stumbled, recovering with
a wobble, but not before spilling a giant lake of wine on her dress.
“Fuck me! Oh that’s
just fucking great!” she yelled, as she staggered into the living room,
blotting her dress with her hand. Everyone stared at her.
One of the ladies
came over to help. “Ellen, come, let’s get that wine out before it sets.”
Sam pulled back and
stared at Mrs. Z. “No. I don’t like you
…
you’re a fake and a snob.”
Mrs. Z opened her
mouth to say something, then closed it. She turned and walked over to her
husband, who rose and put his arm around his wife’s shoulder. They turned and
walked away, without a word. Jonathan followed them out the door as Sam stood
swaying from side to side before leaning against the fireplace.
“Why the long faces?
Doesn’t anyone want to have fun? God, I need to have fun. Let’s party.” Sam
held up her empty wine glass. “Music! That’s what we need. I wanna dance.”
Sam stumbled toward
the stereo. She flipped through all the old albums and finally, she found the
new ones that she bought.
The good ones.
She struggled to get the music
started when Vic came and took over.
“Thanks darling!”
Sam giggled, swatting his butt. He shook his head and quickly backed away
before Sam’s arms could reach him again.
The music started
and Sam felt it move into her body. She waved her arms around and swayed her
hips. “Come on, let’s dance,” she called out and was gyrating and pulsating,
scanning the long faces for a partner. She grabbed one of the other men by the
tie and pulled him to join her in the middle of the room. He stood, as if
unsure what to do.
Jonathan entered and
Sam called out to him, “Come on baby, let’s get nasty.” She danced over to him
and started to grind up against him. She was using her best dirty dancing
moves, the ones Jonathan always loved on their getaway rendezvous.
“Okay, dear. That’s
quite a show.” He held her at arm’s length. “I think you’ve had enough. Let’s
rest.” Jonathan escorted Sam to the sofa.
“Screw you, I want
to party. Let go of me!” Sam yelled as she struggled under his grip. Her right
breast flopped out of her dress as Jonathan released her arm. Sam giggled as
she looked at the round blob of silicone and flesh hanging out of her dress,
still not the perky, upright breasts she had in mind.
Definitely needed more
surgery.
All the guests
stood, some saying their goodnights and a few standing in place, unsure whether
to leave. Jonathan assisted them in their confusion. “Thank you for coming.
I’ll see you out.”
He pushed Sam into a
chair and motioned for her to stay put. As he pushed her wayward breast back
into her dress, Sam saluted him and laid her head against the back of the
chair. Her feet started tapping. She felt good. The music was moving through
her body in delicious waves.
Throbbing. Pulsating.
She felt young again,
so young
…
and happy. Yes, she
was finally happy.
As the lights in the
room moved and swirled, she closed her eyes and imagined she was dancing at
Krush with her friends. These weren’t her friends. These people would never be
her friends. She needed to get some real friends.
Younger friends. Fun
friends.
None of this
mattered. She smiled, knowing that feeling good was the only thing that
mattered. Everything raced around her mind in a blur of faces and colors and
conversations and noise.
Besides, by
tomorrow, this will all be forgotten.
***
The loud rings of
the phone cut through the morning silence, followed by relentless beeps and
squawky voices.
“Mother, it’s Brea.
I’m sorry
…
I just read
Tattle
,
it’s awful
…
they are so unfair
…
I feel bad
…
Beth feels bad too
…
Call me if you need to talk.” Beeeep.
Sam listened again,
trying to process the words. Tattle? What was she talking about? And who the
hell was Beth?
As she leaned over
to rummage through the newspapers and magazines beside the trash, her head
screamed out in a cry of revolt. The stabbing pain in her skull, reminding her
of her reckless behavior the previous night. But what had happened last night?
Her dinner party was last night. In a foggy mist of faces and voices, she
recalled nothing. She tried to grasp them
…
still nothing
…
but the
pain. As she slowly turned, she saw a paper folded on the counter. She reached
for it
…
jolted again to
submission and slow movements.
“What Was She
Thinking?” The bold headline screamed.
Underneath, pictures
of women badly dressed
…
and her
…
of
Ellen
actually, but there
she was in the red satin dress at the Help the Children Fundraiser. That was
three weeks ago. It wasn’t that the dress was too short; it was all the
wrinkles, and veins.
Holy crap, I look hideous
. Sam had no idea how
horrible she looked from the backside. Her back was oozing over the back of the
strapless dress like marshmallow cream. It was not flattering. The camera
lighting did not help. “Well,” Sam huffed. “That was
before
my surgery!”
Nevertheless, she leaned against the counter and tried to read, holding the
paper with an extended arm in order to focus:
One woman, who
wished to remain anonymous said, “When society’s grand dame no longer cares
about grace and style, what choice do we have? When she considers behaving as a
teenager, in desperate need of attention, socially acceptable behavior
…
how on earth can anyone preserve
respectability while present in her company? Doors will close.”
And on
…
and on
. “The event’s hosts were
unavailable for comment. Just as well, as one can only imagine what gossip will
be ablaze on the phone lines this month. Like watching a train wreck, we wait
in anticipation of what she will do next, and where in this fine city she will
no longer be invited.”
Sam slowly reached
for the chair and sat, tossing the paper onto the floor. What did it matter?
Did any of it really matter? She touched her forehead, hoping for a reprieve
from the pain. Somehow, squinting in the bright sunlight, Sam suddenly realized
it did matter.
All of it mattered.
She just couldn’t understand why.
Three weeks had
passed since Ellen’s disastrous weekend with Jonathan. It wasn’t what she
expected, and, to be fair, she had overreacted and was so angry and hurt that
they wound up fighting and not doing anything she planned.
Why did she get so
upset with him, when all she wanted was his love?
He hadn’t called
once since they got back and she was beginning to worry. She had been busy at
work, yet she needed to take some time to figure out what to do to win him
back. Why was it so easy for the other women to seduce him? Why did she always
freeze during sex? She wanted to be like the other women, but she had no idea
how. Perhaps she was incapable of enjoying sex. Perhaps this beautiful young
body didn’t make any difference.
Ellen took another
sip of her wine and looked out at the fashionable crowd gyrating on the upper
dance floor. The Palace was the newest club in town, the hot spot created
inside an old dance hall, the kind of place where men used to pay women for a
dance and believe in the magic a quarter could create. The décor was thirties
glam, a vintage Hollywood feel, complete with deep velvet curtains and metallic
silver walls. Lights strobed across the room, highlighting the ornate art deco
carvings on the columns and ceiling. Everyone dressed for the night in tight
metallic dresses, with big hair, big earrings and big attitude. She agreed to come
to the club with Sienna simply because she needed to feel young again. She had
to admit it—she was old, no longer old on the outside, but still old on the
inside. Nothing, it seemed, was going to change that.
As she stared out
toward the crowd, a hand touched her side, causing her to jump.
“Hey, you,” Rory
said as he kissed her cheek. “Good to see you.”
“You too.” Ellen
smiled. “Sorry about—”
“Come on,” Rory
grabbed her hand. “Let’s have some fun.”
She followed him,
hanging on to his hand as he pushed through the crowd toward the dance floor,
her eyes locked on his loose linen shirt and tight pants. He cleared a space
and started dancing, moving rhythmically to the music, but her body was stiff
and unable to blend with the beat. She watched the couples beside them,
grinding together in unison, making her self-conscious and fully aware of her
own awkwardness. She trying to capture the beat when Rory’s hands grabbed her
hips and moved them slowly to the rhythm. She turned to face him, following his
motion. As the songs blended together, Ellen relaxed into the music and
imagined her body bound to the beat. She closed her eyes, allowing herself to
release all her inhibitions. If only she could be like this during sex, she
thought, as pleasure emanated from her body.
After an hour on the
dance floor, Ellen put her hand on Rory’s shoulder and motioned for them to
quit. They were walking back through the crowd when Rory stopped Ellen and
pulled her toward the bar. He ordered drinks for both of them, then turned and
stared at Ellen with his dark eyes. “So, how are you?” he asked, wiping sweat
from his brow with a cocktail napkin.
“Great, this is
fun.” Ellen studied his face as she spoke. She forgot how beautiful his smile
was. It made her happy every time he laughed. “I needed this more than I
realized.”
“I saw your booth at
the market. How’s it going?”
“Don’t ask,” Ellen
said, with a roll of her eyes. “I thought it would be easy, but so far I’ve
spent as much as I’ve made.”
“So sell your
photos.”
“Why does everyone
say that? They’re horrible.”
“I like them. So
does everyone else. And Hubby. How is he?” Rory asked, handing a glass of wine
to Ellen and taking a sip from his beer.
“Jonathan, he’s
…”
Ellen’s voice trailed. “He’s
…”
Ellen looked away, sipping her
wine. “We’re
…”
She picked up a
napkin and crumpled it, tossing it aside. “It’s complicated.”
Rory picked up
Ellen’s hand and closed his around it. “You okay?”
She turned to him,
the sincerity on his face breaking her resolve. “It’s
…
we’re having problems—I’m having problems.”
“Come on,” he said,
taking her by the hand and leading her to a quiet alcove, far from the dance
floor. Once they settled into the booth, he said, “Talk to me. I want to help.”
“You can’t,” Ellen
said as tears formed. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.”
Ellen held her
breath to stop the tears. “I’ve wanted this for so long—dreamt of it—never
imagined it could happen. A second chance and
…”
She paused and looked down.
“And
…”
Rory said, touching her chin and
gently lifting her head.
“And I’m ruining it
again—I’m
…
I’m losing him. I
had him, but everything I do pushes him away. It closes doors. I don’t mean to,
but I
…
I do—I shut down.”
“You shut down? What
do you mean?”
Her face blushed and
she was thankful for the dim lighting. “During sex,” she whispered.
“What?” Rory yelled,
cupping his hand to his ear.
“During sex!” Ellen
spoke louder.
Rory laughed. “You?
Come on, you’re joking.”
“I’ve changed.”
“Impossible.”
“I have. I’m
different now. I can’t
…
can’t
get comfortable.”
“I don’t believe
that.” He smiled and looked at her. “You’re serious?”
Ellen nodded and
shrugged. “I read in my diary how I was
…
how I used to be, before the fever
…
but I can’t anymore.”
Rory put his hand on
her shoulder. “Let me guess: this isn’t making Johnny very happy.”
“No, he’s
…”
Ellen’s voice cracked as she
turned away. “He’s getting closer to her.”
“His wife?”
“Yes, to her.”
“Wow, you better
step it up, and pronto.” Rory nodded.
“That’s the problem,
I don’t know how. I’m not comfortable and I freeze and get angry. All these old
feelings, old hurts rise to the surface and I want to punish him.”
“Why don’t you?”
“What?”
“Punish him. Give
him a bit of punishment. If memory serves, he likes it nasty, right?”
“I just
…
I can’t. It goes against my
values.”
Rory laughed.
“Values? What values?”
Ellen looked away.
“I do have values, you know.” She stood to leave.
Rory stood and put
his hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry, that was rude of me,” he said. “I’ve
never thought about you feeling this way.” He rested his hand on hers. “I want
to help.”
“I don’t think you
can.” Ellen leaned in and whispered in his ear. “I need to enjoy sex again, I
want to, but I don’t know how. I want to be loose and relaxed, but I just get
upset. I can’t go with it, you know—get into it.”
“I can help,” he
said taking a sip of his beer.
“How?”
“Let me come over,”
he smiled, his beautiful face filled with mischief.
“Right.” Ellen shook
her head. “I know exactly what you want.”
“No. I just want to
talk to you.” He raised his hands in defense. “I won’t try anything. I want to
help you relax and discover yourself. I know you better than anyone. I know
what you like, what you need.” He grabbed her hand and pulled it to his heart,
covering it with his hand. Ellen felt his firm chest under his shirt, his heart
beating strong against her skin. “I promise, I won’t try or do anything that
you don’t want.”
Ellen looked into
his eyes. They were sincere and in a pleading way, they encouraged her. After
all, she needed to do something. “Okay,” she said. “But no monkey business. I
still plan to marry Jonathan.”
“Scout’s honor.”
Rory smiled, raising his fingers to the Scout salute.
Ellen surprised herself,
hoping he wasn’t such a loyal scout, and with such mixed emotions, she found
herself eager to get home.
***
During the ride to
her apartment, Ellen wrapped her arms around Rory and held tight. She hadn’t
ridden a motorcycle before and somehow, she found the danger invigorating;
perhaps the alcohol subdued her anxiety. Every time Rory leaned into the
curves, she pressed her body closer to his. At the first red light, she dropped
her hand and touched his thigh. The strength of his muscles beneath her fingers
was powerful, erotic even. Certainly nothing like Jonathan’s soft body. She
found herself dropping her hand onto his thigh on purpose, several times, until
she finally left it there.
When they arrived at
the apartment, Ellen talked about work in an effort to distract her mind from
her nervousness. As the door closed behind them, he put his hand on the wall
above her head and leaned over her, pulling her hair away from her shoulders.
“You need to be
kissed, don’t you?” Rory said as he took her in his arms.
“Yes,” Ellen
whispered. “Yes.”
Rory kissed her.
Slow kisses, gentle at first, then deeper. She reached up to touch his face,
the strong jaw and prominent cheekbones of a rogue. As they kissed, she ran her
fingers through his hair, his thick curls that reminded her of Jonathan’s—when
he was young. She pulled his head closer to hers, his neck and chest, she
wanted to kiss them
…
desperately.
His lips trailed away from hers, kissing her cheeks and neck. Suddenly he
stopped and pulled himself away.
“Okay!” Rory smiled.
“I definitely don’t think kissing needs any work.”
Ellen rested against
the wall and tried to withhold her smile.
“You want more,
don’t you?” he asked.
“Maybe
…”
She grinned. “Just a little bit.”
“Only a little?”
Rory moved away from her and flopped onto the sofa, putting his feet on the
coffee table. “Too bad,” he said and picked up the remote.
Ellen came over and
sat beside him. “Okay, yes, I want more.”
“You do?” Rory
turned and put his arms around her, pulling her close. “How much?”
“A lot—a lot more.”
“Good.” Rory kissed
her again, her body liquefying with each kiss
…
deep
…
passionate kisses.
His lips were trailing her neck, her shoulders, each touch of his lips fiery
against her skin. His hands pressed firmly against her back, pulling her
closer. She slid her hands down his neck, to his chest, wanting to touch every
inch of his skin. She needed flesh. She unbuttoned his shirt, exposing his firm
ridges of muscle. Her body longed to press against his, for him to touch her.
She waited. She kissed him harder. Waiting. Wanting.
As she explored his
chest, he kissed her neck with wet bites. She thought she might burst from
pleasure and desire if he didn’t touch her body soon. She ripped his shirt down
over his shoulders and pulled it off his arms, his big, strong, muscular arms,
iron and steel. She unbuttoned her shirt, exposing her lacy bra, and he
whispered, “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” she cried.
“Touch me. I want you to.”
He touched her
breasts, lightly, and kissed the firm mounds of flesh spilling out of her bra.
Her mind was lost in desire, unable to think, only aware of wanting more,
needing more. He kissed her stomach, then her breasts again. Slow gentle
kisses. She found herself begging—more—more. He obliged and unclasped her bra.
He touched her, rubbing tenderly in all directions and bringing another wave of
desire. Her hands roamed, all over his back, all over his arms, all over his
chest. She couldn’t stop. A huge need had taken over—years of longing, years of
neglect rising, to be erased in this moment. She kissed him harder. He
responded by returning the pleasure. She wanted more. She desired more. She
needed more. Her hunger crowded out any thoughts of caution, any thoughts of
remorse. Her only thought was pleasure. It consumed her. She begged to have
more of him, to feel connected to him.
“Are you sure?” Rory
whispered.
“Yes, yes,” was all
that she could say. She wanted to be a part of him. She wanted to lose herself
in him—to let go and release her pleasure. She thought if he didn’t take her
she would explode into a thousand pieces. He carefully pulled her skirt off and
tossed it aside, then bent over and methodically kissed her legs, down one leg
and back up again, then down the other. She moaned with a pleasure that had
been buried far too long. And now, finally unearthed, this pleasure raged. He
pressed his body against hers. A powerful pulse shot through her hips, then
another. He pulled at her panties, toying with them, creating more electric
shock waves. She wanted him. She kissed him again, pleading for more.
“I want you
…
I need you,” she whispered.
He took his hand and
put it where her pleasure raged out of control. He pressed and rubbed as the
pleasure continued building, his fingers, his hand, granting her a joy beyond
her wildest imagining. A pulsating joy enveloped her body as it overtook her.
She rose and fell in its power. Then when she could take no more, when she
could no longer control herself—it released, washing her with pulsating ebbs of
satisfaction and pleasure.
Her heart was racing
as her hands fell to her chest, unable to speak, unable to think or to move.
Rory leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. Ellen covered her face. “I can’t
believe
…”
she gasped, trying to
catch her breath. “What just happened?”
Rory put his hand
gently on her thigh. “I hope you feel good.”
“Good? I feel
amazing. I can’t describe it—I never
…”
Ellen couldn’t speak. She lay back taking quick breaths, basking in the
afterglow. Rory sat silent, his hand still on her thigh.
After a few minutes,
Ellen looked up at him and said, “Thank you.”
Rory smiled at her
and kissed her hand. “Now, I want you to do something for me.”