Friday, November 14, 2008
I HAVE TO ADMIT, honeybee is terrible at sending dirty messages. The other day I asked her for a dirty picture and she send me a picture of her upper thigh. Her thigh.
It's a great thigh, but come on. What did she expect?
I replied with my elbow. I may have overreacted.
She knew her proclivity for being verbal wasn't the best. Especially in a fabricated situation like being on the phone. It was so weird, because in person, she was a siren. She said the right things, her body moved like a diamond stylus needle on vintage vinyl, flawlessly teasing me. Her needy voice was seductive and her scent could drive me mad. Her taste? God, I could go on forever.
But her dirty phone talk was funny. Maybe it was the frustration I could hear in it, whereas when we were in person, I didn't allow her to get that worked up. I couldn't. I wanted her just as bad, probably more, than she wanted me.
“Are you touching yourself?” I asked the night before the night before Christmas. The holidays were shaping up to be shitty. There wasn’t very many shows planned then. When most people just wanted to spend time with their families, I wanted her to be with me.
That's what I told myself, I that I wanted her away from her family and to be somewhere with me. Deep down, I knew that wasn't true at all. What I wanted was to be sharing those holidays together with our families.
Maybe we would have spent Thanksgiving here and she could have met my mom, Dad and Carmen, and the girls. We'd have Thanksgiving dinner with my mom and Cory, and Micah now, too, since they were expecting.
My mom would want her to cook, fearing that her dinner wouldn't be worthy in front of a trained chef. Blake would gush over the food. My mom was a great cook and Blake loves food. She was probably one of the least picky eaters I'd ever met.
Then we'd go to my Dad’s and play games with the girls and eat crappy pie that they'd made themselves. Special for the holiday. The girls would love Blake and ask all sorts of questions. Carmen would pretend to be cool like her for my father’s sake.
My dad would probably be more in love with Blake than I was.
She'd play cards with us. Probably drink too much, but still win every hand. She had those kinds of powers. Her ability to will things her way potent. I was no stronger than a deck of cards.
In my fantasy, that really wasn't a fantasy at all, we'd spend Christmas with her family up north. I'd try my damnedest to make her Dad and older brother like me. I'd bring them all cases of beer, which was the key to making friends—if Bay’s profit margin had anything to say about it.
I'd court her mother every chance I'd got. I'd compliment her telling her that she should be proud of such an independent daughter. I'd tell her that she'd get along with my mother, and pray that they would.
Reggie and I would talk about travel and cars. I'd ask to take his car for a ride the next time I was in Chicago. He'd surprise me and say yeah.
We'd watch movies and fall asleep early.
In this alternate universe, I'd sleep on the couch to solidify my respect for her dad and their home. Of course, as soon as I was certain they were asleep, I'd sneak up to her room and find her in the hall sneaking down to me.
We'd kiss in the light of a snowman nightlight and the twinkle of their Christmas tree. She'd walk me back down to the basement and we'd try our damnedest at being quiet. And we'd fail.
She'd go back upstairs after telling me that that Christmas had been her favorite.
These were the kinds of perverted thoughts I had. Not just ones of her spread eagle and touching herself for me, like I asked her to do on the phone that night before the Christmas Eve that wasn't our first.
She'd do everything I’d asked.
She'd push a finger into herself under my direction and I'd watch her beautiful hip raise to meet it. The look in her eyes begging me to do it myself.
Okay. Maybe I thought about that shit, too.
I guess that's how those dirty phone calls started.
That's right. It was usually me starting the explicit dialog. Just like that night.
After she'd told me she was, in fact, touching herself, I gave her things to do that I was positive she liked. I told her exactly how to do them and listened to her breathing. We both knew she wasn't the best at the dialog part. She said, “Keep talking to me. I'm so close.”
Listening to her labored inhales and exhales, I stroked myself and told her all of the ways I wished my hands were taking care of her.
When she'd said, “Ahhh, yes,” I knew she was finding her release and mine was on the way. My eyes shut tight and I pulled a long breath, through my teeth, as my hand squeezed my cock. The sensation of cool air over my teeth sent a shiver down my spine and propelled my orgasm into present tense.
“Did you just come?” She lightly laughed on the other end, having listened to my release as hers subsided.
“Yeah,” I laughed, too. “Is there a problem with that?”
“No. I'm surprised, is all. I didn't really say much.” Her tone was half shy, half sorry.
“It doesn't take much, honeybee.” I laughed. “You did plenty. Trust me.”
We talked a little longer than normal. Neither of us had to work the next day, but we'd be spending time with our families for the next few days and wouldn't have many opportunities to connect.
“Okay, I'm falling asleep,” she growled through another yawn. Even over the phone, hearing her yawn made me do the same.
“Good night. I'll talk to you soon. Okay?” My eyes were heavy, too.
“I wish things were different,” she said. I heard the sleepiness in her voice and wondered if she was completely lucid, or if she was half-way awake and half-way asleep.
Did she want me to offer her an alternative? Was that what she wanted? Did she still see me as the f*ck-and-run guy, only worthy a good time in bed? I wanted more with her, but did she want more from me? Maybe she didn’t think I was capable of that?
What the f*ck was she thinking when she said she wishes things were different?
I should have asked her which things, but I didn’t.
“I do, too. Let's work on that.”
“I'm going to marry him and—” she whispered and then her voice trailed off.
“Don't,” I said, and then I pressed the end button. I wanted to talk to her more, since it was one of the few times we actually talked about what was happening. But then I didn't want to hear what else she was going to say. I wasn't ready for her to say no. I wasn't ready for her to tell me that this wasn't going to pan out. That I was going to be the one left hanging.
But reality told me I was.
She was going to marry him. I had to figure out how to change that.
Christmas went by fast, and then it was 2009.
Troy didn't have much of a family, so he spent the holidays with us. Since Micah's family lived so far away, she was there, too.
New Year's Day found all four of us lounging around my apartment, watching movies and eating ourselves sick. Micah made every appetizer known to man, even though she could barely eat any of them, having a rather nasty case of morning sickness that seemed to last and last. Her doctor said it should phase itself out, and even though she didn't complain, we could all tell she hadn't felt that great.
“I f*cking love these mushroom things, Micah. I think I've ate twenty of them.”
“That's funny. They're Bla—” Then she cut herself off. “Everyone loves them.” It was no mystery that she and Blake talked often. I'd witnessed it on both ends. Blake and I were together when Micah had called her excited about the first time she felt the baby kick.
When my brother called me on the other line about five minutes later, I left the room to hear the same news. Although baby Moore was a surprise, they both seemed very pleased and thrilled about it. It was interesting that neither of them felt rushed to get married because of it, though. Agreeing that the baby and the marriage, if there were to be one, would be totally separate—not a cause and effect type of thing.
“It's okay. You don't have to pretend like she doesn't exist. Not for my benefit anyway,” I stated. It wasn't as if I called Cory or Troy about what was going on with Blake and me, but when she came up, I talked about it. I never went into a lot of detail, probably because I didn't think Blake would feel comfortable with it, but I didn't have anything to hide.
Micah sat up a little straighter on the couch and leaned into the crook of Cory's arm, pausing the movie. That wasn't a good sign. Yeah, I didn't mind talking about it, but that was totally different than being interrogated about it and that's exactly what it looked like was happening.
“All right, then tell me. What's going on with you two?” she asked. There wasn’t any accusation in her voice, evidence of her neutrality.
I wasn't sure what Blake had said, if anything, but I didn't want to pretend like it was nothing either. Unsure of what to say, I replied to her question with one of my own.
“You talk to Blake, if you want to know what's going on you can ask her.”
Then my curiosity piqued. I tried to play off my interest by popping another heavenly stuffed mushroom into my mouth and talking despite it being full. I asked, “What does she say?”
Micah and Cory shared a knowing look between them and then Cory looked to Troy. It seemed that maybe they'd all had this conversation. Only it was the first time they'd had it with me.
“What?” I asked looking at all of them in sequence. None of them looked like they wanted to go first. “Jesus, what? If you have something to say, then say it. Or ask. Shit. Someone say something.”
“What are you really doing, Casey?” My brother spoke up. Trying not to rattle my cage, his voice was moderately toned. He was using caution. He straightened and leaned forward and steepled his hands in front of himself. “What do you guys have going on?”
I took a few calming breaths, suddenly feeling defensive, and finished the last mushroom on my small plate. I remember thinking that I wished I'd had a few more to buy myself more time.
“Listen, Blake and I are friends,” I said, hating that I used the one word that made me cringe when it came from her mouth. “I don't know why you guys are making such a big deal out of it.”
“Bullshit,” Troy said under his breath, but intentionally loud enough for all of us to hear it.
“Bullshit? What the hell? You don't know what you're talking about.”
I hated that I was denying anything more than friendship and I felt my pulse beginning to quicken. I was frustrated with them, but I was downright livid with myself more for making light of what I really felt.
Troy interjected, “Then why are you getting all shitty about it, dude? I was in Atlanta. I'm not stupid. If that was you two being friends, then I'm doing it all wrong.” He was being a dick. Someone needed to show him how a real friend would act in that very situation. Show him that friends didn't like it when their private business was being judged.
My brother butted in, “Casey, I've seen you on the phone with her, or when you get a text, we're not blind. Tell us what's going on so that we get it.” Micah leaned in toward me, too. It felt like a confess-your-sins kind of conversation.
“What? We talk, we message each other…”
“You hook up in different cities on business trips,” Troy spouted.
My head snapped and I stood, feeling like I needed to get at least a leg up on the scene playing out, but when I stood up I still didn't have it in me to totally lie about it.
“So?” I looked to the couch at my brother and Micah, and they waited patiently for me to go on. I saw concern on both of their faces, which mollified my growing anxiety. “So we meet up,” I said to them. “We see each other out on the road sometimes. It gets lonely out there and we get along.”
Troy, the prick, coughed. “So you’re just f*cking?” he asked.
I turned my speech to him. He looked evil with the red filter through which I was seeing him.
“No were not just f*cking! If it's any of your business, we talk almost every day. Does that sound like just f*cking? We talk about how our days went. We eat. We drink. We talk about you guys. We make fun of each other. We fight. And, yes, sometimes we f*ck. And it's awesome. But it's not just f*cking, you a*shole.”
“Okay, great,” Cory added. “Then you like her. Great. But there’s one little problem with that. She's engaged.” He looked to Micah for support. The nod of her head was permission enough for him to continue. “Where's that going to leave you in May when she gets married? I mean seriously, have you two talked about that? What then? You call it off?” He leaned back again and I sat back down in the recliner.
“I don't know.”
“I know she cares about you,” Micah said. “She does. But then when I ask her about the wedding she acts like everything is normal. Like she's just planning a wedding. I think she's really going to marry him, Casey.” She sounded apprehensive and like she was as worried for Blake’s sake as mine.
Hearing Micah say that Blake was going to marry him made me glad I'd stopped at twenty mushrooms. My stomach churned. She was going to marry him. Something I'd known was a fact, yet somehow never actually thought would happen. I supposed in a way, I'd told myself it was impossible.
Micah might as well have said that they'd found Hoffa's body. That he’d been beaten and murdered and brought up from the bottom of some river somewhere. Something everyone knew, but never actually expected would come to pass.
She said quietly, “We're worried about you.”
Worried about me? Feeling the room shift, I looked to Troy. His head was down, focused on the Mountain Bike magazine in front of him on the coffee table, but he nodded that he'd agreed with what Micah had said. So did my brother's expression.
“Thanks, but no thanks,” I said. “I love you guys, but I can take care of this. I'm fine. Maybe you were right and we are just f*cking. If she gets married, then she gets married. I'm cool. Okay?” I said in triplicate making eye contact with them each individually.
“Okay,” they repeated back punctuating our conversation as finished.
I lied to them, but the truth hurt worse.
The reality of it hit like brass knuckles against my skull. Except it wasn't brass knuckles, it was the truth. And it wasn’t my skull it pulverized. It was my stupid heart.
January’s known for being cold, and although I didn't feel cold toward Blake outwardly, the mercury inside me dropped in general. I was irritable. We hadn't seen each other since before Christmas and it made me antsy.
Every time I tried to arrange something for us, she was busy.
What Micah said started to peck away at me. So did what Troy had.
She is going to marry him.
You're just f*cking.
Even though I didn't believe either of them, I couldn’t hide from the reality that it was anyone's game.
I went on a trip at the end of January to Lake Tahoe and it sucked.
I f*cking missed her.
The meeting went well with the resort, they had actually been the ones to request it, and I sealed the deal on Friday night. With two days left in the cabin, I did a lot of thinking. A lot of coffee. A lot of Baileys and a lot of trying to figure out what the actual f*ck was I going to do if she got married.
Honeybee: How's Tahoe. Touristville?
Me: I won't know. I haven’t left this hot tub in two days.
Honeybee: Sounds awful. You probably look like a California Raisin.
I was peacefully intoxicated and feeling bold upon receiving her upbeat text. She was right as rain and I was wallowing like a fool.
The clock read ten thirty. We were still in the same time zone.
Me: So Grant went home then?
The Baileys in me was a curious bastard.
Honeybee: No. And what's that supposed to mean?
Me: It doesn't mean anything. You text so I guess he left. You probably wore him out. You're good at that.
I should have deleted it, but I should have done a lot of things that I didn't. And way too f*cking many things that I did.
Honeybee: Someone's drunk.
That's my Blake, fiery and fierce.
Me: Yeah I'm drunk. We're both doing things were good at.
Honeybee: I think I'll just talk to you tomorrow.
Me: No you won’t. We'll speak tomorrow probably. But we never say anything.
Honeybee: What do you want me to say? I feel like saying goodnight.
Me: Fine. Goodnight.
But she wouldn't let it end there. She hated giving me the last word.
Honeybee: Why don’t you drop the attitude? You're being mean.
Me: Sorry. What persona would you like, Betty?
Me: Angry likes to f*ck hard? Or maybe it's easy-going, don't-give-a-f*ck about anything? Take your pick.
Me: Well.
Me: Tell me. I'll be that one. Just. Tell. Me.
She didn't answer for a long time. I put my phone down feeling like I'd really pissed her off this time. She probably wouldn’t call the next day, probably not for a few days now. The exact opposite of what I'd wanted.
I dipped down below the water and screamed into the humming of the jets.
When I came back up I heard the sound of it ringing, but I slipped reaching for the towel and it went to voicemail. Almost immediately I heard the chime of a new recording.
It was Blake.
“Hey, it's me.” I heard a dog park in the background and knew she was outside her apartment, I'd heard the same dog bark his ass off many times. “Listen, I didn't want to fight with you tonight.” She paused and I looked at my phone to make sure that wasn't the end of the message.
Finally she started talking again.
“I'm sorry. And you're right. I'm not being fair. I want to meet up with you. Email me your next few weeks.” She sighed heavily. “I miss you. I hope you're all right. Take some ibuprofen and drink some water. Call me tomorrow if you want. ’Bye.”
Damn right she wasn't being fair. Fair would be breaking it off with that guy she likes to cheat on and giving this damn thing with me a real shot.