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In the dim light of the bar, all she can think about is just how horny she is. Ever since she started this treatment, her sexuality has returned to her. Maybe return isn’t the right word. It returned, changed, like a good friend you naturally lose touch with and when you reconnect they have dreadlocks because they started a pot habit since visiting Jamaica.
And now she called him to this bar under the disguise of getting her medical records, knowing full well she didn’t need them anymore. And he came knowing full well he’s not supposed to do it. It’s an excuse to connect outside the constraints of the doctor-patient relationship. She’s no stranger to walking the ethical gray line and this time, she’s towing him with her.
She is desperate to do something and she can tell so is he, although he seems calmer about the whole thing. He’s always that — calm, almost nonchalant. He’s always so peaceful and in control and she needs a piece of that, badly. She feels like if she could just snake her hands under his shirt she could steal her some. But he’s coy, and it makes her desperate.
She’s just about to run out of things to say when Marissa and Carmen walk into the bar, presenting the very opportunity. Now they are hiding in their booth, waiting the girls out. Their faces are unnecessarily close for what they are doing, and he’s speaking about a fantasy, reeling her out of reality, which she sorely needs.
His face is close, so close, she can sense the faint smell of smoke from the scotch he was sipping. It’s a foreign smell, different from her husband’s, but it’s new and exciting. And it comes from someone who knows his damn paintings. In that moment of forbidden ecstasy, she fancies herself Isolde, and him Tristan. Finally, he gives her what she wants and connects their lips.
His kiss is wet and sloppy. It’s like the concept of capturing another between one’s lips is a foreign concept to him. Rather, he considers the mouth as a single entity, and for some damned reason needs to capture it as a whole. And he makes noises. She tries very hard to push back the thought of how those little whimpers sound like a teenage girl making out with a crush behind the bushes in a schoolyard. This is fine. This is what she wants. She is Isolde and he is Tristan. She returns the kisses as best she can, willing for him to understand the concept of lips coming in two parts, and in fact, have the ability to split into two.
“Wow,” he pants lightly. “I wanted to do that for so long, baby.”
There are a couple of wrong things with that statement. First, there is no “wow” effect to speak of, and secondly, it took him a kiss to call her baby. But he could be just nervous. Yes, that has to be it. And probably he’s trying to convey he’s serious about this, hence the term of endearment. Yes, that’s it. And isn’t the first kisses and first sex always bad and takes an adjustment? Yes, yes it is.
“Yeah,” she forces out, “Yeah, me too, baby.”
He grins like he’s trying to push the limits of his own cheeks. But it’s cute, right? Right! He’s fucking adorable, that’s what he is.
They leave the bar at a brisk pace. Once outside, he takes her waist. Or rather, he digs into the bone that’s neither her waist or hips and it hurts a bit but she smiles at him anyway as she places his hand a little higher. This is definitely working.
“What do you say, baby,” as he pulls her closer.
“Yeah,” she pants. She can’t believe It’s finally happening.
They get into a cab and he intertwines their hands. His hands are clammy and the more he squeezes her hand the more clammy they get. It is positively disgusting but it’s the first time they are holding hands so she pushes the thought away. She pretends to take something from her purse and dries her palm on her skirt. Mercifully, they arrive at the destination just then.
His apartment is everything she imagined it would be. There is a faint smell of incense, and the walls are adorned with artists she recognizes immediately. He takes her hand again and leads her to a sofa. She’s used to frantic kisses and unrelenting hands before the door is even closed. But maybe this is the way to go. Ain’t nothing wrong with dragging things out, if only she wasn’t so damned horny.
He points to the stereo. “How about some Bach, baby.”
Sure. Why not? She loves Bach. She doesn’t prefer it to sex, per se, but he knows so much about art, and Bach, and everything. He is definitely what she wants. He’s Tristan and she’s Isolde. Maybe this is the way to go. “Sure,” she says, “I love Bach.”
He grins again and puts the music on before hovering over her. “Can I kiss you again, baby?”
She’s literally sitting on his couch after a makeout session so it's a bit late to be asking that. But it’s because he’s such a proper gentleman, isn’t it? Yes, yes it definitely is. “Yes,” she whispers, willing for him to take some charge, any charge, dammit.
He crashes his lips on her again, shifting them on the couch and hovering over her. Up close like this, his eyes behind his thick glasses make him look like an owl. Which is fine, owls are cute and wise animals, kind of. The glasses dig into her face, and she forces a smile as she breaks the kiss and removes them. He grins like an idiot again before digging into her neck.
She sighs, his lips on her neck do feel good. But it lasts only a few moments because he keeps suckling on the same spot despite having an entire neck available to him right there. She tilts her head slightly, willing for him to explore and find a sensitive spot but he just shifts with her, his lips glued to the same spot.
That’s it. She can’t kid herself anymore. Lyle Bettencourt is a lousy lay.
But she wants him, still. He has too many qualities she’d been in dire need of and she just needs to make this work. She is Isolde and he is Tristan, dammit.
If she needs to take charge, she damn straight will. She starts unbuttoning his shirt and glues him to another spot on her neck she knows will work. He keeps suckling happily like a baby cow, oblivious to how hot and bothered she is. For a man who makes a living by observing people’s emotional state, he’s failing quite miserably now. But she’s determined to soldier through it. Maybe some verbal commands will help.
She places his hands under her skirt. “Why don’t you take care of that, baby, hm?”
Mercifully, he obliges and starts caressing her thighs. But then he just keeps doing that. On the same spot. Over and over again. He hovers close to her face and whispers, “You’re so beautiful, Diane.”
She appreciates it, really, she does, but she needs things to happen. She lifts herself up and straddles him and starts shamelessly grinding on his lap and sucking on his neck, the way it should be, hoping he will take a fucking hint.
He throws his head back and starts moaning, and he’s a loud moaner. His moans and the Bach that’s still playing for some goddamn reason are nearly enough to distract her from her throbbing clit. She takes a deep breath and focuses on the task at hand. She will get laid by this owl if it kills her.
She unbuttons his pants and pulls the zipper down, now straight up passive-aggressively trying to get him to move the damned thing along. He watches her hands on his lap like it’s the eighth wonder of the old world. She mirthlessly thinks maybe she should have reserved the latex suit for this occasion instead.
She yanks at his hips, pulling his pants down just enough to get him going because she didn’t feel much of an arousal when she was grinding his lap like her life depended on it moments ago. But there is nothing there. Well, there is something there, but it makes her question how the hell he even pees. She decides he’s a grower and not a shower. It happens right? Right! However, it soon becomes evident that she can stroke that damned thing until the cows come home, he’s not growing an inch, not more than the few inches that are there, that is.
She looks at his face, trying to decipher what the hell is going on but he is all flustered, clearly burning with desire. However, that desire seems not to be pumping blood to where she needs it and it’s kind of appalling because it’s not like it needs that much blood. He then breaks her reverie.
“Gods, Diane, I love a woman who takes charge.”
Apparently, his talents end at stating the obvious. She forces a faint chuckle. She doesn’t mind taking charge, it’s just that there is nothing to take charge of. Then he opens his damned mouth again.
“Diana, have you ever heard of tantric sex?”
Oh? Is that a thing? She hopes it’s a thing where the woman is so fucking horny that her clit could explode and all of a sudden the guy comes and takes care of it. Because she’s at this point that nothing else will do.
“Tantric sex is sexual yoga, baby. We can connect our spirits through eroticism.”
Well, that sounds just wonderful. She does want to connect their spirits through eroticism, that is not the issue. The issue is she wants to connect the other parts too.
“Yeah,” she forces another chuckle. “And how are we going to do that?”
He looks at her like he’s about to explain how four-dimensional matrixes work and then proceeds to say something just as confusing.
“We just be in this moment doing what we do, baby. Just you and me, joining together through touch and eroticism.”
She is so horny she can take tantric sex, roll it up and stick it in the ass of the ass who invented it. Since when making out endlessly like teenagers who don’t have a private place to fuck is called tantric sex? If Buddishm was growing on her before, it’s definitely losing its touch now — literally.
“Right,” she forces yet another chuckle. “Right. And does that include the use of a mouth or fingers?”
He dares shake his fucking head. “No, baby. There is no release in tantric sex, we’ll just let the desire build.”
If she builds any more desire she’ll have a heart attack. “Gosh…” she gasps, thanking all deities but Buddha for her ability to lie through her teeth. “I actually forgot something. I… I need to go.”
He nods. “Everything happens for a reason. Everything has a time.”
She forces yet another chuckle because it’s either that or kicking his head. She straightens her outfit, mutters a lie about calling him later, and dashes out the door.
When she’s finally at home, she climbs into her bed. Through therapy and Buddhism, she has learned to count her blessings and express gratitude. Now she calms herself and offers gratitude to the universe for her very long fingers.