She shakes her head again and nearly runs out of my bedroom. I’m right on her heels, refusing to let her dismiss the living, breathing desire that’s been between us since day one. “You can’t run from this. You can’t just act like there’s nothing between us.”
She bends down to collect her sweater, still shaking her head, refusing to face me. She’s not just dismissing the kiss—she’s dismissing me. She’s done with me. I’m not even worth a response or even a glance. I’ve been discharged from her service. She doesn’t need me anymore.
Pain-laced rage boils just under the surface of my skin, and I stalk behind her as she tries to scurry to the door.
“Really, Ally? After all the time we’ve sat here–right here in this f*ck
ing living room– talking, laughing, and just being, you want to act like I don’t even matter? Like what we both felt didn’t matter? Tell me it didn’t matter, Ally. Turn the f*ck
around and tell me you didn’t want that to happen back there!”
Her hand is on the door handle and she leans forward, her forehead pressed against the door. I can’t help it. I can’t stand this distance between us. I can’t lose this angel only to be forever cast into hell alone. In a final act of desperation and insanity, I wrap my arms around her, completely covering her body with mine. I want her just as immersed in me as I am in her.
“Please, Ally. Just stay,” I whisper urgently, kissing the shell of her ear. “Stay, or tell me you don’t want this. That I’m a fool for wanting you like I do.”
I hear the click of the door handle and hope splinters like broken glass, falling away into the land of broken dreams and stolen moments. A land where Ally’s smiles are brighter than the sun, and her laughs are the soundtrack of pure, untainted happiness.
“You’re a fool,” she croaks, pulling away from my arms. From me. “And I don’t want this.”
Part of me stands at the door, waiting for her to come back. Hoping that she’ll change her mind and choose me. Choose us.
The other part of me lies at the bottom of the pool drowning, while a million tiny stars look down at me in pity.
“TODAY’S LESSON IS actually very simple. So let’s get straight to the point, shall we? Open the cases in front of you.”
I wait for the sounds of metal latches and the horrified intake of eleven breaths, but I don’t look at any of them. I don’t make eye contact. Not today.
“What are we supposed to do with these?” Lorinda. Or maybe Maryanne. Or…f*ck
if I care.
“Suck them.”
“What?” Another Mrs. f*ck
tease von Clueless.
“You’re going to learn how to suck them,” I say louder, my voice carrying throughout the room. I close my eyes and count to ten in an attempt to get a handle on my shit.
“Now if you’ll all be so kind as to remove the dildos from your case and, using the suction at the bottom, attach them to the table in front of you, we can begin.”
“You really expect us to do this?” another asks, her whiney voice making me cringe. “It’s disgusting and degrading.”
“And that’s exactly the train of thought that forces your husband’s dick into your nanny’s mouth.”
“That’s sick!”
“That’s the f*ck
ing truth.” I massage the back of my neck and take a leveling breath. It’s completely silent, save for the sound of incessant pounding in my skull.
I’m hungover.
And not, like, a little hungover.
I’m a lot hungover.
Plus, I look like shit. I didn’t shave and only had time to hit the hot spots in the shower before class started. My simple tan slacks and white linen shirt are unpressed and my hair is just finger-combed. And my mouth tastes like a raw oyster that’s been sitting under the desert sun all day.
Like I said, I look like shit. And I probably smell like I bathed in that fifth of Jack instead of drinking it, now that it’s seeping out of my pores.
I swallow against the dryness on my tongue, but to no avail. “Look, if you want to learn how to do this shit and do it right, I’ll teach you. If you’re too hung up on stereotypes, or think Jesus won’t love you over giving a little head, then there’s the door. So what’s it gonna be, ladies? You want your husband to look at you as a housewife? Or as his own, personal whore? You choose.”
No one answers, yet they all stay deathly still in their seats, staring in delightful horror at the 8-inch, flesh-toned dildos in front of them.
“Good,” I nod with a grimace. f*ck
, that hurts. “Let’s begin.”
“DON’T BE AFRAID of it, Maryanne. It won’t bite you.”
I watch as the matronly woman slides her trembling lips over the tip of the silicone penis. Her pink tongue gives it a lick before she eases her head down, taking it into her mouth completely.
“Good. That’s good. Let it touch the back of your throat and gently suck as you pull out slowly.”