“Shouldn’t you have red hair, green eyes, and pale skin? Instead of all of this.” My outstretched hand motions wildly, showcasing him to illustrate my point. “Your name is false advertising.” He’s the opposite of red hair, green eyes, and pale skin.
He laughs before he says, “My dad’s family was from Ireland, a few generations back. My name was an attempt to reconnect to that, I guess. My mom was Hawaiian, born and raised. I look more like her, obviously.” The malice I hear in his voice when he speaks of his father flips upside down to reverence when he speaks of his mother. He’s opened up a bit to me about his past. His father was an asshole and has been out of the picture, by his choice, since Seamus turned eighteen. His mother, on the other hand, from Seamus’s stories, would’ve given Mother Teresa a run for her money. She died when he was a senior in high school.
“Obviously,” I agree.
He nods. “My middle name is Hawaiian, though. Aouli, it means blue sky.” Sentimentality, something I’m unfamiliar with, oozes from him. It’s fascinating, he’s an ongoing experiment. Questions and answers like this only add to the pro column. Yes, I’m mentally keeping track of pros and cons. I have plans for an extraordinary life. Seamus is unique in almost all areas, a priceless piece of beauty, and that fits well amongst the extraordinary I’m building. He’s a ‘look what I have and you don’t’ kind of specimen.
We’ve been dating for months now. He’s the only man I’ve ever met who can hold my attention. And vice-versa, I’m clearly holding his. I usually get bored. They usually get intimidated. Blah. Blah. But with him, there’s an odd pull that I can’t walk away from. It’s as if the universe has administered a biting, backhanded slap to my face, warning me to open my eyes, while screaming, ‘It doesn’t get any better than the man in front of you! Don’t be a goddamn idiot!’ My life has been orchestrated in my mind for years. A strict timeline, complete with deadlines for success in all areas: career, most importantly, and the picture perfect fa?ade that surrounds it.
I’ve decided that Seamus needs to be a permanent fixture in my life. I need him to chase away the bad mojo I’m no doubt going to create. It’s not my conscience I’m worried about. I, like my grandmother before me, am not equipped with one; it’s my future fa?ade. An enviable husband and a few spawn look good for well-rounded appearance’s sake, a wolf surrounded by cute, likable, soft little sheep. Everyone loves sheep.
So, I’ve stopped taking my birth control pills.
Seamus doesn’t know.
We’ve talked about marriage. And children. I break out in hives while he looks so contented with the idea I would swear he was put on earth solely for the purpose of procreation and his loins carry only angelic seed.
Cue the commencement of shuddering.
If I get pregnant, he’ll marry me. And even when I can’t pretend to be the Miranda he wants me to be, and the real me shines through eventually, he’ll never leave us. A baby is my guarantee.
The world I’m creating for me
past
“I love you.” His words are haunting in the dark. Spoken as his lips make repeated contact with my shoulder, my neck; painting promises and devotion. I’m greedy and love hearing it. It’s affirmation he’s mine. All mine. Compliant to me in matters of the heart. Willing, emotional servitude is like a drug, heady and boosting. I don’t love the idea of mutual love, but I damn sure love the idea of being loved. It’s powerful, because those who love are easily coerced.
Seamus is lying behind me. We’re naked, coiled in the midst of intimacy. He excels at it. I tolerate it. I do what I need to do physically to keep the emotional free flow on his end perpetual.
Kissing, touching, penetration, he’s skilled at translating what he feels into action.
I’m skilled at faking it. “That’s it, Seamus. Like that,” I sigh as he enters me. The sigh was a token for him. I should enjoy this, I think, as he eases in and out. He’s a massive, potent man, who always handles me with care and affection. His arms are wrapped around me, one hand masterfully stimulating from the front while the other pays close attention to the rest of my torso. His lips worship every inch of skin within reach.
This will go on for a while. We’ll exchange words. We’ll probably change positions. Orgasms will be achieved, mine included.
But here’s the thing.
I don’t enjoy sex.
Never have.
It feels submissive.