Folie à Deux (34 page)

I pull the car over and ask, “What we are going to do? We can’t go to your house,” using too stern of a tone after I hear myself.

“Why can’t we go to my house?” Talia asks innocently making me feel worse for snapping.

I try not to sound condescending, “Your mom told you she’s having company. I can’t exactly sit there making believe it’s completely normal that I’m at your house.”

We have normalized so many abnormal behaviors, consistently pushing the boundaries has been the only constant, but there has to be some shred of reality left to guide my survival instinct.

She looks at me seriously, conveying that she is deeply contemplating the validity of my statement. “Well, I don’t know Jim, Mama didn’t say you couldn’t come over. She knew you were getting me from work and knew you were coming tonight so if she invited someone it must be cool.”

Her response baffles me, “Natalia, that is absolutely crazy and you know it. Whoever this is, how can I just walk in your house, sit down and have dinner? Are you just going to introduce me as your French Teacher?” I sound angrier.

Her frustration bubbles, “Hang on, I’ll call her and ask.” She makes the phone call and I hear only her end, explaining my concerns.

She hangs up the phone and gleefully responds, “Mama said come on home. She made steak.”

I open my mouth but have no words. I begin to realize the full breadth of my predicament. I have given power to two people who have little vested interest in my well-being. Of course Natalia thinks she loves me but only because I have choreographed the story as such. And Kathy, who has capriciously given Natalia over to me for the sake of what I believe, is living vicariously only loses her voyeuristic muse if I’m caught. And now after having put all this trust in them both, how do I back out and question their judgment? Without words and with an uncomfortable silent argument hanging, I drive to their house.

We walk into a full dining room table. I only see Kathy in my periphery, my eyes lock on the two strangers in the room. In an animalistic instant, I size them up to analyze if they will leave
this meeting repulsed. My mind revolves, relentlessly around the idea of being caught. I try to guess who it will be, how it will happen and who will bear witness.

The woman at the table, introduced to me as Linda seems apprehensive to shake my hand. Linda and Kathy went to high school together and have always remained friends, “Best friends in the whole world” as she is explained. I cannot read if her reluctance is because Kathy has already warned her of my place in Natalia’s life or her true reaction to seeing me walk in with a fifteen year old girl. Either way, the salutation is half-hearted.

Linda looks to be worn out, the somewhat ragged appearance of having been scorned by too many men, making me a prime target for suspicion. She is slender with dark hair. I think she would be pretty if she would smile or at least lose a little bit of her hatred. Her husband, Bill is personable and warm, shaking my hand readily with a firm grip. He is a typical middle aged looking man, thirty pounds overweight with a moustache that went out of style fifteen years ago.

Their four year old daughter barely looks up, yet says, “Hello,” as instructed. We sit down and are served steak, mashed potatoes and corn. I cannot eat, too anxious about what is unfolding before my passive eyes. How do I behave normally, what if Bill asks me what I do for a living? What if they ask me how I met Natalia or how long we’ve been dating?

There are so many topics that could potentially wind this conversation toward disaster, that I say not a word. I make no eye contact in hopes that I blend into the background. They engage Natalia, asking about school, field hockey and her new job. Although I’m happy they are speaking about a topic other than me the potential still exists to drag me into the conversation
at any moment. I keep my head bowed and chew as quietly as possible.

I take intermittent bites only because not eating will also draw unwanted attention. A ten second silence precedes Linda saying, “So Jim,” my heart sinks immediately, gripped by that feeling in my stomach. I instantly wish for the ability to talk myself down like people who calm themselves from an asthma attack. This time extra painful.

“You’re awfully quiet,” she says sweetly. I choose to interpret her tone as condescending and become angry. I smile and say, “I just like to listen.” Ray Liotta flashes through my mind, saying the same thing in “Goodfellas”, also at a dining room table.

Kathy saves me, “Well is everyone finished? I’ll take your plates,” as she clears the table. I’m thankful for the diversion but regretful for her absence. Luckily, she continues to control the conversation from the kitchen.

After everything is cleared Kathy returns with a store bought chocolate cake and a stack of paper plates and napkins. “I hope you don’t mind such an unfancy dessert,” she says chuckling.

The din of everyone responding with some sort of placation drowns out my thoughts. When I refocus it occurs to me that with dessert being served I’ll soon be free. The small talk continues surrounding foreign topics. They talk about the prom and trips to the shore, reminiscing about old boyfriends and some argument over a guy. I eat my cake in five forkfuls and when Kathy asks me if I would like another piece I place my hand over my stomach, “God, no I’m full,” hoping Natalia reads my cue.

A few seconds after Talia finishes her last bite she finds a small lull in the conversation and says one click above the whole evening’s volume, “Ok, we’re going downstairs.”

Before she can finish her sentence I have my plate in hand and stand up feeling naked except for a polite smile. I dump my empty plate in the kitchen trash can and walk quickly toward the basement door hoping to prevent any further danger.

Like nothing more than a trained animal, as soon as I smell the distinct aroma of Natalia’s bedroom at the bottom of the stairs I feel the same two feelings. I have the deep, distinct nausea from an unknown part of my existence, immediately overlapped by the beginnings of arousal. The laundry room is in the far corner of the bottom floor adjacent to her room so the scent is a mixture of her natural odor, perfume, and laundry detergent. I love smelling it not only because it’s pleasant but also because sex is not far behind.

I lay on her bed while she tinkers with something on her dresser. I’m inclined to tell her how difficult dinner was but refuse to acknowledge the immorality I have so cleverly disguised, so I say nothing. She joins me on the bed, “You know I kinda want to have you come in my mouth.”

The rush of erotic excitement is quickly tempered by the reality of who is speaking. Not all stimulation is squashed but I am reminded that I still own something like a conscience.

“What makes you say that, hon?” I carefully choose my words to avoid her feeling as dirty as I do.

She instantly replies, “Because we have done just about everything else and I think it would be hot. I know other girls that do it and I think their boyfriends are disgusting. You’re definitely not disgusting so I might like it.”

I find no flaw in her logic, “Ok, I’m game.”

The natural flow of this conversation illustrates that there are no vestiges of the boundaries that once guided my life.

With that, she rolls over and kisses me, moves her lips to my cheek, my ear, and then neck. As she finds my collarbone she moves her hand down to my waistline, stopping when she reaches my fully erect penis. As soon as she grabs me knowing I’m fully engorged she strokes. She presses too hard so I grab her hand and explain why that hurts.

With a seductive smile, “Well then let’s take your pants off,” she replies.

I’m naked from the waist down as she is kisses and caresses the lower half of my body. When I writhe she whispers, “Did you like that?”

I moan back, “Uh-huh.”

As soon as she puts me in her mouth my hips surge upward. When that instantaneous rush of pleasure subsides my mind is washed over with the actuality of what is taking place. Again, as so many times before, thoughts arrive with no discernible logic. They come as couriers dropping their message with no time for interpretation before the next one overtakes occupation of my thoughts.

She’s fifteen. My dick is in her mouth. Her mother is upstairs. What are my children doing right now? What would Dana think? Her mouth is warm. What would my parents, my grandparents think? Can I trust Linda and Bill? I don’t think I can come. If I can’t come how do I explain without hurting her feelings? Does her mother know what we’re doing down here? Someone’s walking upstairs. Block your mind. That feels good. I think I can come if she keeps doing that.

“Right there,” I say as I put my hand on her head.

She increases her pace slightly perhaps from the excitement of controlling my pleasure. I lock my hips and drive my head
back into the pillow and warn in a raspy whisper, “Talia, you’re going to make me come.”

With only another moment of rhythmic stroking, I pop. All of the built up arousal and excitement explodes in a release accompanied by a low moan that escapes the back of my throat.

I open my eyes to see her kneeling over me, her face blaring panic. I fight through the euphoria, trying to discern her problem. Her body heaves once as she shakes her head as if to say, “This isn’t happening.” I realize when she puts her hand over her mouth that she is fighting her reaction. I don’t know if it’s mind over matter or her gag reflex but she’s in crisis. She looks at me with distress, seeking my approval to void what’s in her mouth. I’m absolutely useless, riding out the orgasm. Although I have no reason for personal alarm the look on her face is compelling enough to make me share the emergency. My heart rate pinned at the same pace as when building to ejaculation.

All I can do is reach down and grab her hand to let her know that she can do whatever she needs, otherwise I’m checked out of this horrid affair. There is no bathroom down here so I look for a waste paper basket, but unfortunately, I’m still completely paralyzed. When she can hold herself no longer and the fear that has frozen her disappears, she wretches where my stomach meets my groin. She doesn’t empty the contents of her whole stomach, but only the exact amount of semen she tried to swallow.

Despite my warning, not knowing what to expect, she immediately swallowed what hit the back of her throat and before she could control anything else she choked. She swallows hard a few times, a disgusted look on her face and as soon as she can gain control says, “Oh my God Jimi, I’m so sorry. I did not mean for that to happen. It wasn’t you. I just wasn’t ready. I’m so sorry. I’m so embarrassed.”

“It’s fine Talia,” I say fighting through panting breaths, “I understand.”

She runs to the laundry room and returns immediately with a clean towel. While still standing next to the bed she wipes from my upper thigh up to above my navel the regurgitated, chocolate colored semen. She looks as if she might cry.

I take her hand and say, “Hey, don’t be upset. It’s ok. We shouldn’t have done that maybe, but there is nothing to be upset about. I promise I’m not upset.”

She nods in agreement with the corners of her mouth turned down. This is the perfect ending to our evening where every aspect has been a glaring spotlight on how depraved this all is. But the illumination forces no end. And remarkably we have all, Kathy included been able to masterfully cram down our subconscious doubts. We have normalized the consequences of our decisions. Talia has also reached her limit and can no longer swallow the disgusting reproduction of this disease.

I leave shortly thereafter, not too quickly to make her think something is wrong. I avoid lingering which would only provide opportunity to dwell on what was just etched in our collective memory. Natalia is quiet. I want to know why but don’t ask, afraid of the conversation that would surely ensue. I say goodbye and walk upstairs to find Kathy and her friends sitting on the couch. The same couch where I received Kathy’s blessing.

“Ok, goodnight. It was nice to meet you,” I say.

I would normally shake their hand politely but I’m too afraid. I’m certain that the events downstairs are written all over my face. I say, “Goodbye,” looking toward them but walking in the other direction, out the door. I power walk to my car, start it and
stall as I pull away, letting my foot off of the clutch too quickly. I start the car again and cry the entire ride home because of what I just did to that girl. I have no idea the depths of the damage, but feel distraught even attempting to understand the hurt I continuously cause.

My life is reminiscent of standing on the beach. I’m lost in the peaceful illusion that I’m safe, watching the tide. Until, without feeling threatened by any of its predecessors the first wave hits. Tides move methodically, the only warning is common sense that the water level will undoubtedly rise. There is a definite wax and wane to the feeling of potential, if not imminent danger with which I live. My decisions felt precarious at the beginning because everything was unknown. The behavior that sends up red flags is anonymous, the appearance of impropriety cast well before its existence. Driving her home and listening to her problems were both aspects of what was still a genuine relationship. When those habits continued without admonition crossing over into the lascivious was simple. And of course, as the human condition dictates, each time the line is crossed, pushing further feels harmless.