Goody Two Shoes (31 page)

As I pull into the driveway I notice that all of the lights in the house are off.  Maybe he’s not even here, that’s likely.  I sigh with the understanding that he’s probably off with his bartendress and hasn’t given me a second thought.

I prepare my mind for another landslide into depression as I fumble with my keys at the back door and step inside the dark house, hands grab me.  “Relax baby, it’s me.”

My body becomes stiff with the attack and my fingers fumble with my key ring that contains a tiny container of mace.  But the voice is Simmons’; the thick hands on my arm belong to the man in the upstairs bedroom. 
What?

I struggle a little in his firm grip.  “Hang on Tara, here, give me your hand.”

He places a tiny lapel pin in my hand, and suddenly the full weight of what he knows is revealed.  I’m ashamed, busted, life less.  So many emotions, thoughts and worries engulf me that my mind fogs.  But he walks me towards the small nightlight in the foyer so that I can identify him.  It’s definitely Simmons.  “Do you really think I was going to let anyone fuck my gorgeous pussy?” His voice is gruff with need… like the man in O’Malley’s that afternoon.

I stand stunned in his arms.  It’s not only his words that I find unusual.  I now recognize the deep voice of a man in destitution.  “What?  It was you all along?”  His lips meet mine and certify his desire.  As he presses against me he’s rock hard.  I feel the manliness lost to me for so long.  I remember our first kiss.  But now I know, with all certainty, that I wasn’t having my last first kiss that night under the high school bleachers thirty years ago.  I was kissing my soul mate for the first time.  I’m excited for our future together.

“Yes baby, it was me.  In the bathroom stall, in the bedroom, in the attic and even tonight touching you at the party.  I couldn’t let anyone else have what’s mine!  I had to show my ownership.  There’s a certain pride in having a pussy that belongs only to me.  Oh and you’re a wicked witch; spraying that delicious perfume in my car and leaving your panties and toys all over the house.  You have no idea how hard it was not to touch you.  Half the time I couldn’t even
be
around you I was so hard.”

“It was you?” I mutter because, well, what else is there to do.

“I didn’t know it was you until the bedroom upstairs.  Oh my God you were so beautiful there.  It was your perfume that gave it away.  I
never
thought you’d do this!  When I figured it out, well, baby, I went haywire.  Then I was sure you’d stop, I mean it’s intense.  But you never did, you kept on going.”

“I couldn’t help myself,” I say, oddly without guilt or shyness.  “But how did you end up at Ellen and Jonathon’s anyway?”  Now I’m accusing.

“I’m Ellen’s writer darling.  Quinn Carmichael is my pen name!”

I’m frowning from confusion, “How in the world did you pick that name?”

Simmons grins, “One of the kid’s college schedules,” he says with a shrug.

All of a sudden, the fog lifts and I’m able to see my husband for the first time.  The grin on his face is endearing, and the sexy little crow’s feet that frame his eyes lend an air of experience in a Sean Connery kind of way.  Vagina and Clitoris are jabbing elbows and nodding at one another, saying
I told you so!  No, I told you!

He laughs heartily, “I have so much to tell you, so much do with you!”  And he kisses me with passion that I recognize as water to parched lips.

We have been starved of one another too long, and now my hands are roving over him as if I’m blind and feeling sight.  And he’s clinging to me; I can feel each muscle in his body shivering to control his need.  I sink to my knees.

Touch is no longer adequate to satisfy me.  I grapple with his belt and zipper until his pants are gathered around his knees.  His manhood is larger than I remembered.  When I look up into his eyes he shrugs, “Androgel.”

I giggle, but something else is awry down here, “There’s no hair,” I squeal.

And his belly shakes with laughter, “You seemed to like it in the attic.”

“I love it!”  But then I consider, “Well we’ll try it for a while at least,” because now that his body is mine again I want to try different outfits on it.  “I like it with the hair too,” I state but the blood is pumping in my heart so disturbingly fast that nothing registers other than pulling him into my mouth.  Tasting his masculine scent; he’s salty, like the marsh outside my window.  Yet something else is here, I nuzzle closer, yes, there it is… the one scent that awakens my body fully and completely, the smell of the man I truly love.  I lick him, taste him like never before, and his body above me is lost to my enjoyment.  You see, no longer am I doing this for him as a kind of gift, like a crock pot or a toaster.  This time I am sucking him into my mouth because it’s what I want.  Like seeing a bakery fresh birthday cake and having the urge to lick off the curly icing from the edges, only this time I’m actually letting myself do it.  I want to cover my face in his manliness, wear it on my nose and lips like jewelry; I want to roll like a dog and he’s my grass.

But he pulls me upwards back into his arms, I’m sure I must look like a wild animal but his eyes show nothing but determination.  With a kick and shuffle he does away with the pants around his ankles.  He carries me to the kitchen counter, sits me on my blue Corian countertop and pulls my dress above my knees roughly.

In an instant he’s inside me, and Vagina is ready for him.  She’s been sniffling with happy tears and only wants to love him now.  She wants to hold him tight and let him consume her.  He moans with her silken welcome, “Oh God Tara, please come with me.”

And I’d like to tell you that we fell into a long lovemaking session, but that’s not how it goes.  Things don’t work that way.  Had I counted strokes I would’ve known that our need was so great that he plunged inside me exactly thirty times before we exploded with release.  His head falls to my shoulder as we struggle to catch our breath; he nuzzles beneath my ear tenderly.  “I have something to show you.”

His voice is deep and breathy below my ear, and goose bumps pop up on my thighs.  And by the way, I can feel everything now.  Parts of me that I hadn’t noticed in years are suddenly awake, sensing smells, sights and sounds that had gone unnoticed.  But he pulls me from the counter to my feet and now he seems excited.  I realize he’s wearing a dark suit tonight, his pants are gone, but a white button down shirt and dark blazer are still on his body.  His lapel pin is still in my palm.

“Simmons?” I choke on my own thoughts, “Are you a member of the Sand Dunes Club?”  I reach up and push it back into his lapel, attaching it there as I’d done before.

“Quiet, and do as you’re told!” He responds with a wink, but doesn’t answer my question directly.  Suddenly I’m imagining him tied to a table in Elise’s attic like Jonathon had been.  But the strong tone in his voice snaps me to attention, and I stand steadfast as he ties a blindfold behind my head.  He guides me carefully through the back door.  As the screen slams I realize that it’s no longer broken.  It’d slammed three times a few weeks ago, the night he’d rejected me.

“Did you fix the door?” I ask randomly, thinking that I’d forgotten to call a repairman.

I can hear his laugh, “There was nothing wrong with the damn door Tara.  It was me banging my head on my desk.  I’m telling you, I was a suffering man!”

And I can imagine how hard it was on him.  But suddenly a flash of anger takes over.  Damn it, I’ve suffered too!  I’m the one who had to question the value of my very soul, the one who had to let go of all the imaginary rules that it’s taken generations to create.  Why’d he let me go through all that if he’d wanted me all along?  Of course I say nothing because I’m too infatuated by his closeness for anger.  This is a time of celebration.  He could drag me to the water and drown me and the only thing I would concentrate on is his hands touching me.  Instead, he leads me down the steps to our garage and holds me still.

“Now just wait here.  Don’t move,” and he steps away.  I grumble with his absence, but some rational part of me has been awakened and I understand that I’m glad I went through the training.  I’m
really
glad I went through it.  I can hear the irritating squeak of the garage door as it scrapes its way into the open position.

“You had to know I wasn’t serious about that van, right?”  He pulls the blindfold over my head.

As my eyes adjust to the bright florescent lighting of our garage I see a vision.  A restored, black 1967 Mustang Fastback is sitting in the center.  I feel her.  She’s perched on tires that itch to dance.  My mouth hangs open as I stare at the front license plate with curiosity, “Tara Too?” I ask furrowing my eyebrows.

He laughs, “I figure you’ll still need the van for sex toy runs.”

I leap into his arms, “Are finished making love to me?” I whisper teasingly against his neck.

His lips brush mine, “I’ll never be finished making love to you, Tara.”

We sit at the light; you know the one on Chuck Dawley Boulevard that blinks on occasion?  Today it blinks red and I’m really not sure what to do about it.  Do I go forward or stop altogether.  I’ve decided so far to err on the side of caution so I’ve stopped.  I glance over at Simmons, but he’s not paying attention.  His head is hung out the open window of my Mustang and he’s smoking a cigarette.  Do I find it insane that a forty-nine year old man has suddenly taken up smoking?  Damn skippy I do.  But he explained that he always wanted to look like the ‘cool’ kid.  So after a bout of cookie tossing and green tinted skin, my husband is now a smoker.  And I’ll be damned if he doesn’t look ‘cool.’

I edge forward in the intersection to see how traffic looks coming off Ben Sawyer, but I’m caught by the sights around me.  Spring is in the air in our small town, azaleas and tiger lilies are spaced randomly amongst the palms and they are threatening to burst with their colors at any moment.  I stare at an azalea that is barely peeking its eyes after a long winters nap.  I’m in love with its beauty and innocence.  Lately I’m in love with everything.  I let go of guilt, imaginary rules and ‘crap my Momma told me,’ and now all that’s left inside me is love.  My eyes see the love in every single encounter I have.  From a curbside azalea to that man who wants to wander around in diapers.  And love makes me want to please them all.

I inch forward into the intersection much like the azalea itself, peeking through dark buds to verify that the world is still out there.  A white Toyota flies in front of me and I halt quickly, Simmons lighter flies across my Armoralled dashboard and out the window beside him.  He laughs and I’m in love with his smile.  By now I’m used to people oogling over my car, so when the frazzled man in a minivan pulls up next to me I ignore his stare.  But I notice he’s not drooling over my car, he’s looking directly at me.  Before I move into the intersection, I see him pop his forehead.  I laugh because I know he needs a mid-life crisis.

And as we pass by my Parish Church I feel an extraordinary flush of love.  Because I’m convinced that I feel like Jesus must feel.  He loves everyone, and my heart is so full now that I only want to give to others, let them know that they can feel this way too.  I feel like the man who sells dry-lock spray on television, “You too can have this outstanding product! (Points to visual)  I want to share my happiness, the secret to control and my love to every single person.

Now before you rank me with the heathens, you should know that Simmons and I never have been a pair that rushes into anything.  We’re taking things slow and steady, making sure we don’t miss a single particle of each other.  I drink him for breakfast, lunch and dinner.  And if we’re in the mood, a late night snack.  But today is all about love, and as my car dances across the Ravenel Bridge towards Jonathon’s, I’m impatient to see Ellen in her wedding dress.  All week we’ve manicured ourselves for today because we know it’s the most exclusive event of the year.  I giggle as my car reaches the highest peak of the Bridge.  Already there are helicopters swarming over White Point Gardens, paparazzi trying to get that perfect photo.  I giggle again because I know; Jonathon Galloway never does anything half ass.

Simmons grins next to me, “So how do you feel?”

I chew the bottom left hand corner of my lip, “I don’t know, I’m pretty nervous.”

“Oh come on Tara, you were born to take her job.  There are a few guys at the Club already shaking in their boots.  I’m telling you, they’ve got a whole new attitude.”

A flash of dominance swarms through me, “As well they should.  Are you aware that Bonnie’s fiancé has a gambling problem?  I’m telling you that man is on my last nerve.  You need to straighten that out Simmons, or I will.”

“Whhoooo, ‘Danger Will Robinson, Danger!’” And I know he’s patronizing me.  But he tosses his cigarette butt out of my car window and I’m stunned by his inconsideration.

I raise my hands from the steering wheel as if to ask,
what the fuck?

Simmons poses innocence, “What?  I can smoke but I can’t litter?  I swear woman you need to write these rules down for me.”  But as his hand slides up my thighs and he toys with Clitoris, I forget the rules.  His head leans against my shoulder and he whispers, “What do you see in our future now, Tara?”