I'm not sure exactly how it happens.
Maybe she calls, some overcast afternoon when I'm
feeling restless and disturbingly normal, as though
nothing exciting will ever happen again. Or-no-it's
not that ironic. It's one of those days when I am
rushing and running about, happily engaged in errands
and small, insignificant tasks and that evening's
plans.
I get up early, for there is so much to do, and am
proud of myself for eating breakfast, for catching
the morning news. I take a shower and dress in something
comfortable but chic. And oh yes, it has to be sunny
on this day, and warm but not muggy. A light breeze.
I rush out the door, hair still damp and purse hanging
off my elbow. Perhaps I forget something-the letters
to mail, the library books, my shopping list - and
have to skip back up the iron steps to my apartment.
As I'm searching the clutter, or grabbing a soda from
the fridge to take on my errands, the phone rings.
I'm half-breathless and pressed for time but I answer
it, anyway. You never know.
"Hi," she says, in her same old curt, shy way.
I say hello again, or maybe I am silent. It's hard
to imagine how her voice will affect me, or even if
I'll recognize it.
"It's me. Chelsey," she'll say, her words clipped.
She sounds resentful, as though I should know who
it is, or guess.
Out of spite I'll be tempted to say, "ChelseyÉ" I
could draw the name out in condescension, make her
think that so many Chelseys dart in and out of my
life that I can barely keep track of them all. But
I won't. I say hello, maybe how are you.
It doesn't matter. After the awkward preliminaries
come the facts, the pertinent information. She's here
in my city, for a long weekend. A conference, yes,
that's why she's here. Her office has sent her to
this conference and she has looked up my name in the
phone book.
I am listed, of course. I will be listed until the
day I die.
She has looked up my name in a hotel-room phone book,
a more useful volume than the ubiquitous Gideon Bible
or the in-room tourist brochures. I picture her sitting
on some muted floral bedspread, a beige phone in her
hand. There's that red message light on the phone
and the pull-out card with instructions on making
calls. Dial 9 first. Dial 0 to reach the front desk.
Over her head is a framed watercolor, maybe carnations
in a vase or a seascape. I picture all of these things
as she speaks.
I don't know how she phrases it, for her words don't
matter. Only their meaning matters, and what she means
is that she wants me. Again. All that matters is that
I have her hotel name and room number jotted on the
back of my grocery list, the one I came back inside
to find.
Some excuse must be made, and as I drive through
the sunshine I make them to myself, first, for practice.
An old friend, flown into town for the night. A new
friend, having a crisis. Or nothing. I could just
go to that hotel leaving nothing behind me but silence,
no awkward lies to hang heavily over my soul. Still,
the explanations resonate in my head, each sounding
more false than the last, and even these give me a
guilty, delicious sense of pleasure. I complete my
errands, feeling flushed and hurried, and treat myself
to lunch out or maybe a quick midday drink, something
to calm and change the telltale flush.
I know these hours are the best. I fret and plan,
worry, and wonder, and it all seems like some form
of elaborate torture but I've done this before. This
is the time to savor: honking impatiently at a slow
driver, dashing back up the steps, fumbling with my
keys. Doing a mad dance in my closet as I try on skirts
and dresses and shirts and jeans. Throwing makeup,
perfume, Kleenex into my bag. In the back of my mind
I record all of this activity, as though I am making
a documentary. Later, the memories will be like a
video I can rewind, fast-forward, play over and over
and over again.
The hotel's just a hotel, not particularly fancy.
There are the usual brass planters and thick carpet
in the lobby, the smiling clones in dark jackets behind
a smooth mahogany desk. I ask one of them to call
Chelsey, trying to seem aloof and sophisticated
"Go on up," the clerk tells me, and reiterates the
room number.
In the elevator I curse myself; I should have popped
into the hotel bar for a cocktail first. I'm early,
as usual. Wouldn't it have been nice to appreciate
the tension and anticipation, for just a few minutes
more, instead of bounding into this like a spry puppy?
It's too late. The desk clerk will see me, will think
I'm flaky or fickle or a prostitute. If I backtrack
now I'll lose the few scraps of composure that can
carry me into Chelsey's room.
It is just like I pictured it, while we spoke on
the phone. Everything's done in shades of teal and
mauve and burgandy, even the labels on the tiny soaps.
The picture over the bed is of flowers, so blurry
and impressionistic that it's impossible to tell what
kind of flowers they are, besides pink. There's a
small balcony behind a sliding glass door. There is
one bed, two beds.
But this comes later, afterwards, when I have the
time to look around me. First there is Chelsey, stunning
in her own small, strange way. She's just the same
- hair a little shorter maybe, face a little thinner
- and seeing her makes me think of the streets in
my hometown. Ahh, yes. This is how it was, I think.
I remember now; how could I have forgotten?
"Hello," she says, holding the door open. I make
my way through it, surprised that I neither trip over
the lintel nor fall headlong into her gentle arms
again.
"Chelsey," I say. "Chelsey."
There's nothing else to say. Her name, coming from
my lips, is enough. It's been so long since I've spoken
those syllables aloud.
The door sounds heavy when it closes. Chelsey bolts
it with that funny hotel-door lock and comes to sit
on the bed. I've already moved to the twin chairs,
flanking a small round table, near the balcony.
"Would you like something to drink? I can call room
service."
We order something to drink, needing the distraction
and distance from each other. Until it comes we talk
idly, obliquely, about her conference, the city. I
tell her where to go and what to see, wishing that
I could show her these sights myself. But I cannot.
After tonight she'll go to her seminars and workshops
and dinners, and I'll go back home to accusations
and suspicions and delicious secrets.
The drinks come. I don't know what we drink, but
it's something, with ice. As Chelsey hands me my glass,
the first physical frisson of the evening passes between
us. We did not hug at the door, nor shake hands, nor
kiss each other even on the cheek. So it is while
passing a cool iced drink that she first sends her
heat my way.
"Thanks."
"You're welcome. What shall we drink to?"
Here I will say something witty and meaningful, maybe
just a little poignant, to remind her that I have
no false delusions about this evening or its meaning.
She acknowledges it by raising one eyebrow coyly and
sipping deeply from her drink. I move to the bed,
prompted by her request. She sets her drink on the
nightstand, turns off the bright light above it. There's
a dim fluorescence coming from the bathroom, and the
street lights shining through the sliding glass door,
and nothing else. The lighting is surreal, unromantic
yet appropriate. When did Chelsey and I ever do anything
by the book?
When she kisses me, I wish that everything was different.
That we were on a South Seas island, or in a ski lodge,
or even in some horrid fourth-floor walk-up apartment
on the Lower East Side. Anywhere but in a hotel; how
cheap and typical. I wish that I hadn't left a lover
waiting and wondering at home, that Chelsey wasn't
in town just for the weekend. I wish that it hadn't
been four years since we last did this. Then the kiss
deepens, as if she's willing me to forget the circumstances,
the losses and what-ifs. As if her tongue can erase
everything but the here and now. And, of course, it
can.
Together we lie back on the bed, still kissing. She
becomes more insistent now, sliding her lips across
my face, over my jawline and to my throat. Ahh, yes.
I remember this. Chelsey sucks at the fragile skin,
pulling my blood to the surface. I moan involuntarily,
compelled by the pain as much as by the pleasure,
but she does not stop. She knows me.
I move my hands around to the back of her neck and
clutch at her hair and this motion, too, is almost
involuntary. It's what I always used to do when she
bit and sucked at me like this. Her hair is long and
curly and thick. It smells like a sinner's idea of
heaven, all cheap cologne and desire.
She raises her head and looks at me, and something
about her eyes makes me feel desperate. I am dying
to plunge, to forge into this before something stops
one of us.
Yet I know nothing will, not now. Not once we've
begun. Chelsey kneels above me and removes her clothes,
unbuttoning with a patient precision the white shirt
she wears. It would never do to rip and tear. I strip
my dress over my head but stay in my bra and panties,
lying back to watch as she slides the worn jeans down
over her hips. She comes back to me, her bare skin
warm and smooth like the curves of a dream. I sigh.
We sigh.
Suddenly it's no longer sweet between us, no more
of this tender remembrance. I run my hands down Chelsey's
back, reaching to hold her ass and press her body
into mine. She responds by kissing and sucking at
my skin, just above the silk which covers my breasts,
and then she pulls at the bra's straps with both hands.
This loosens it just enough for her to slide her hands
inside. Already my nipples are hard, but her touch
sets them alive, makes them feel at once cold and
burning. The bra slides down my ribcage. Chelsey's
mouth moves behind it, and I close my eyes when her
tongue reaches one nipple. She teases, licking it
lightly and quickly, moving in rapid circles around
it. My fingers grope desperately and finally make
contact with her skin again, this time near her waist.
She's kissing my nipple now. I squirm beneath her.
She tosses her hair out of the way, impatient as a
horse swishing its tail. This, too, is familiar. I
gather the tresses in my hands, holding them back
for her, letting only one curl stray and fall forward
to tickle my skin.
Chelsey begins to tickle my nipple with her fingers,
touching and rubbing it ever so lightly while gently
she kisses and licks the other. Her touch is exquisite
yet excruciating. I arch my back, wanting more. Soft
whimpers slip from my mouth, then slide into a low
moan as her other hand finds my clit. Somehow she's
pushed aside my panties and is stroking me, long slow
strokes the length of my cunt. I can feel how wet
I am under her fingers, how swollen my clit is. It's
her turn to moan, and her breath comes hot on my nipple.
Her mouth hovers above my skin and leaves a path
of warmth down my body. As she grips my panties, yanking
them from my hips in one swift motion, I reach to
touch my own nipples. She's made them so hot that
I can't bear to have them abandoned like that. I slide
my fingers over them, teasing myself the way Chelsey
teased me, then pinch them roughly. Chelsey smiles.
"I like that," she says. "I like to see you touch
yourself."
"Do you?" My voice is low, a whisper.
"Yes. Oh, yes."
We lock eyes as I continue to play with my nipples.
I'm concentrating on myself like I never have before,
not even when alone; her gaze makes me self-conscious
but determined, like an amateur actress. Chelsey kneels
back and watches. Her own nipples are erect but her
hands stay, resting on her knees. Her eyes hold a
subtle challenge.
I meet it. I don't beg her, I don't reach for her.
After a while I close my eyes, in order to feel more
profoundly the sensations I'm creating. And then,
when the exquisite torture of touching myself under
her gaze becomes too intense, I let one hand slither
down my body. The fingers find my clit and start stroking
it, ever so gently.
"Nice," breathes Chelsey.
"Mmmmm," is my only verbal response, but I send my
fingers further southward. It surprises me how wet
I am, but I do not linger or touch my pussy any longer
than is necessary. Instead I slide my index finger,
now coated with my own moisture, back to my clit and
begin tracing small circles around it.
My eyes are still closed, so it's only a slight squeak
of the bedsprings, or a change in the atmosphere between
us perhaps, that tells me Chelsey's shifted her position.
And then it's the sensation of her fingers meeting
mine. She cups her hand over mine, thumb teasing the
entrance to my cunt, and murmurs, "Why don't you let
me take over?"
Relinquishing control, with her, is easy. I stretch
my arms over my hand, grasping at the cheap wooden
headboard of the hotel bed, knowing that soon I'll
need this solid slab to hold. Chelsey slides her thumb
as far as it will go inside me, and curls her hand
so that her knuckles graze my clit. She starts fucking
me slowly, deliberately, as though every move carries
a message.
"Oh, ChelseyÉ."
"Yes?"
"More, I want moreÉI want you." My hands release
the headboard momentarily, gesturing toward her, and
she obliges by lying on top of me. Her hand's still
underneath her, but she pivots her wrist so that she
can fuck me with her fingers. One by one, she inserts
all four into my pussy, and I moan slightly louder
with each addition.
Chelsey's mouth is at my neck, sucking. Her nipples
are just barely grazing mine; I thrust my titties
upward to meet hers and feel the full weight of her
breasts. I am squirming underneath her, trying to
touch as much of her skin as possible with my own.
She moves her hand, and for a moment I regret the
loss, until she pushes her fingers into my mouth so
I can taste myself. At the same time, she lowers herself
fully and I feel the sweet swell of her clit against
mine.
"Oh, yes," I say. "Oh, Chelsey, yes. Fuck me with
your clit."
"You like this?"
"God, yes. Grind that pussy into mine."
She's wet, too, and we become one wetness, her flesh
and mine together with no discernable boundaries.
All I know is the lovely touch of her clit, the pressure
against my pelvic bones that makes me want to come
and cry and scream.
When I do, Chelsey wraps her arms around my shoulders,
pulling me from the bed and clutching me to her, and
kisses me deeply. It's as though she's trying to mimic
with our mouths what's happening with our cunts, this
slippery intermingling, this loss of self in the other.
I think she comes too, for even after the last waves
of orgasm have subsided she continues rocking on top
of me, rubbing her clit almost frantically against
mine, bruising me, it seems, with her need. Then her
pussy's pressed against mine, her head thrown back
and that hair cascading down in all directions. She
opens her mouth as if calling to the sky, but no intelligible
syllables escape, just a long, low moan.
We rest. We disentangle our limbs and lie prone on
the bed, our hips touching and one of her arms crossed
over one of mine, and we lie like that for what feels
like forever. I can see the light changing outside
the hotel room window, turning from dusk into night.
Or maybe I can even see lights blinking on in neighboring
buildings, streetlights, the light of activity in
the world outside. Or I suddenly realize it's been
dark for a long time, I've lost track of time, here
in bed with Chelsey.
Maybe I stay for another drink. Maybe I get dressed,
while she puts on a robe or wraps herself in the hotel-bed
sheets. We might go to dinner together, but more likely
I'll get up and pee and fix my makeup and prepare
to head back home, knowing that this encounter is
finite and isolated. Knowing that I have to go home,
face the lover I've left for the sake of several hours
in Chelsey's delicious company. There's a slim possibility,
in my fantasy, that I stay-for the night, for the
duration of Chelsey's conference, for as long as she'll
let me stay with her, hidden away from reality in
that hotel room.
Whenever I leave, however, I imagine myself walking
into the lobby and out the revolving door with a sense
of blissful satisfaction, humming softly a tune with
no regret in its notes.
