Messalina: Devourer of Men (5 page)

            “It’s only 12:30.” He smiles.

            “What’s the problem? Don’t you like the idea of getting out early . . . on a Thursday . . . with no class on Friday? Do you have another class or something?”

            “No, it’s not that. I was going to ask if you’d join me for lunch. Buy you a beer.”

            “A beer, eh?” I sigh, making my chest heave and the top button of my blouse rub against his shirt. He doesn’t move away and I hold my ground. He smiles and takes a half step back.

            I give him the once-over and he reciprocates. Unashamed, his focus starts between my legs and travels up over my midriff, then lingers on the prominent overhang of my chest before meeting my gaze.

            “You make a tempting offer.” I say and his already-confident grin swells. If he thinks he can flirt with me, I’m willing to spar with him a little bit. “But I don’t think so.”

            “Aw, teach,” he chides. “There’s nothing that says students can’t buy their instructors a beer.”

I lean back against the edge of my desk and look at him over the top of my glasses. He’s waiting for me to accept his invite. I decide to throw him a bone.

“Tell you what. I’ll take a rain check on your offer until the end of term. Then,” and I give him a wink. “I’ll drink you under the table. My treat.”

            “You got a date . . . teach.” He smiles and walks out of the classroom.

            My skin is hotter than before. Neil is only posing but he’s tempting, which isn’t good considering my state of mind.

This is Jared Delaney’s fault for making me so hot and bothered. I don’t like being attracted to someone. It’s messy and it keeps me from thinking clearly. I’ll probably never run into Jared again, but the thought of giving Neil Hollister private lessons has a risk I don’t care to take. 

* * * *

My best friend, Ana, and I sit on the patio in front of The Market in Larimer Square watching yuppies and college students compete to appear trendy. It’s become an unwritten rule among my friends that we take advantage of restaurants with outdoor seating during the summertime. While I pride myself on never having called in sick to work, it wasn’t hard to convince Ana to play hooky for the rest of the afternoon.

            Friends since elementary school, Ana-Marie “The Scarlet Woman” Scarletti and I met while serving detention together. I was there after being told for the third time not to chew gum in class. Ana was there after being caught showing her panties to Donny Nichols during recess. My early act of defiance for not wanting to waste my last stick of Juicy Fruit got me into trouble at school and at home, while Ana became a legend on the playground.

            We once shared the same dream of artistic scholarship. I said we should’ve been artist’s models: her, Erté; me, Reubens. Now she’s Dr. Ana Benedetto and a curator at the Denver Art Museum. “I’m one of the DAMned,” she likes to say.

            Fanning the heat away, Ana looks delicate and elegant. Her willowy figure and porcelain complexion complement anything she wears. Right now, it’s a cream-colored Donna Karan suit. As usual, our conversation quickly drifts to the subject of men.

            “Eva, men have been waiting for you to open up like junkies outside a crack house. Why are you playing so hard to get?”

            I haven’t told her about Jared. Even so, I make a sound of disgust.

            “Most of those men waiting look like junkies outside a crack house, Ana. My track record with men isn’t impressive. Besides, most of them are incredibly boring.”

            “What about David Reese, the art instructor? You and he got along well.”

            “That man had no clue about art. He doesn’t know his Asselyn from a Holbein.”

            Ana crosses her legs and the movement sends a subtle hint of musk-tinged perfume into the air. “Marcus Scaggs?”

            “Oh, Marcus was irresistible,” I say and take a sip of cola. “Until he admitted his goal in life was to have a clitoris of his own.”

            “Oops! Sorry, I forgot.”

            “Listen, why are we—”

            “Troy Collier?”

            “Ha! As soon as I let slip to Troy I was attracted to him, he back peddled fast enough to win the Tour de France.”

            She throws up her hands in frustration. “Hell, shit, and damn, girl! I’m sorry, but I don’t understand why you can’t put it about more.” She starts playing with her watch, a clear sign of her agitation.

            “Put it about? Ana, you make it sound like a product, or something.”

            “It must be made of gold considering the way you guard it. Why so uptight?” She leans across the table and slugs me on the arm. For someone so trim, Ana is tough. She has a firm, direct approach that’s probably the result of being raised with four brothers. “What happened to the girl I took to Trisha Steven’s New Year’s party?”

            “Oh, please.” I drop my head in shame. “Don’t go there.” But it’s too late. The event Ana jerks to the surface of my mind happened over three years ago and is the reason I put restrictions on myself today.        Trisha’s party had a Roman theme and when in Rome . . .

            Suffice it to say, Tom Collins and togas make quite a mix. It was like cramming the sexual energy of a herd of teenagers into one night. I never would’ve guessed I’d participate in group sex or public sex. By the time the New Year arrived, it was togas-off-and-the-last -one-penetrated-loses. Trisha had plenty of guests and I started the New Year with a bang.

            “Mmm, yes,” Ana drawls in recollection. “We tied for first place that night.” She giggles. “You were in fine form, girlie. They were calling you Messalina by the time the night was through.”

            “Shut up!” But I’m not mad. “As if you can talk, Scarlet Woman.”

            She’s right, though. I had earned the name Messalina and played the part of the infamous, sex-driven Empress of Rome to the max. I even had my own Emperor Claudius by the name of Eddie Norton.  Years later, we still laugh over it, but I have to admit that was the last time I’d been laid good and proper. Three years is a long time. 

            That night, for the first time in my life, I experienced a rush of freedom and abandon. Apart from going to The DeLuxe every week for public, mutual masturbation, I don’t know any other way to get that feeling back. Sure, I can stay at home and do this sort of thing in private, but I don’t. Trisha Steven’s New Year’s Eve party awakened something in me.

            Why should I accept the stigma of being sex-starved because I’m a woman who likes sex? I like the way sex makes me feel, the giving and receiving. I may not be catwalk material, but I like the touch, smell, taste—the
sound
of sex. My “wild” history has taught me to appreciate the whole experience and refine my technique.

            Hell, I’m getting too old for sport fucking. I don’t want just any dick invading my space, and if that means letting strangers feel me up until something better comes along, then so be it.

            I think of Jared. Shit, I haven’t felt anything so intense in my life, sexual or otherwise. Not even the New Year’s Eve orgy or my list of miserable boyfriends compare to what I felt with Jared. He may be talented, handsome, and self-assured, but there’s something about him I can’t define that allowed him to get straight to the core of me.

            If I ever see him again, maybe I’ll discover what it is.

            I look at Ana eating her ice cream cone. She’s like a sister to me. Not long after that New Year’s celebration, I introduced her to an acquaintance of mine who turned out to be her soul mate and future husband, Frankie Benedetto. They were married by the end of the year.

            From that moment on, Ana’s mission has been to hook me up. She wants to help me strike it big even if it means going through fool’s gold before hitting the mother lode. Unfortunately, the men on her roll call were
her
choices for me—and they were the ones with potential. Those pairings always ended before sex came into it.

            That’s why I didn’t accept Jared’s offer after the movie. I don’t think I can control myself in a private, sexual situation. In public, I’m forced to keep myself in check. What I’m doing is actually a public service, because the next man in my clutches is at risk of being worn down to a shadow.

Protect the body and exploit the mind, that’s my mantra.

            Ooh, that man . . . I replay our meeting over and over and keep his drawing in my purse inside a protective plastic sleeve. Thinking about him makes me hot and I put my glass to my forehead to cool down. Ana sees me and frowns.

“Are you all right?”

I nod. I haven’t told her of my weekly excursions. They are mine and mine alone. But I have to say something. I pull the sketch from my purse, show it to her, and tell her the sanitized version of what happened. Her reaction hardly helps.

            “Evadne Cavell, how can you sit for being so horny?”

            Her sudden increase in volume has other patrons looking our way and I glance around.

            “Lower your voice, for Christ’s sake.”

            “And you’re just telling me this now?” She clicks her tongue in annoyance. “What’s he like?”

            I blink as if trying to remember. “He’s charming. Has to be to use that approach. I did my share of resisting.”

            “You give him the civil-servant look?”

            I nod. She throws her hands up in despair.

            “Little Miss Evasive rides again. And he stuck it out? I’m impressed.”

            “But—”

            “What?”

            “As we talked, I got this feeling, a warmth.”

            “You were blushing.”

            “As if he could notice.”

            “Nah, you’re high yellow enough for anyone to tell.” She licks her fingers and finishes her ice cream cone. “Eva, come off it. You take yourself too seriously. Brush the cobwebs from between your legs and join the living.”

            Oh, if she only knew. But I play along. “Why so mean, Ana? Retaining water?”

            “Like a dam.”

            I push my half-eaten chocolate cheesecake in her direction. As she digs in, I tell her how I excused myself from the rest of the evening. She almost chokes.

            “That cat’s been dead for fifteen years! How could you drop a bullshit tale like that?”

Once again, her volume puts us center stage. She gives a frustrated sigh. “Has he called?”

            “No.”

            She’s annoyed and I can’t blame her. I’m feeling sorry for myself for passing a chance to get screwed—in a good way.

            “Have you called him?”

            “No.” I turn away, trying to play casual. But she’s shaking her head because I hear her earrings jingle. I look back at her. “Don’t worry, Ana. I’m not sweating it.”

            She arches an eyebrow and scans my face. “Aren’t you?”

* * * *

            When I get home my phone is ringing. I’m exhausted and debate whether or not to pick up, but I do just before the answering machine turns on.

            “Hello? Evadne?”

            “Jared? Hi, how are you?” I’m gushing. Fuck, I sound so stupid! It’s been ages since a man called me at home, especially one who can blow any cobwebs straight to hell.

            “Not bad. And yourself? You sound out of breath.”

            “I was just coming in the door.” I collapse into the nearest chair. Out of breath or not, I’m about to pass out.

            “That’s good. Glad I didn’t miss you.”

His voice coats my body like honey and as I indulge, there’s silence on the other end. “Evadne?”

            “What? Oh! Yes, Jared?”

            “Umm. Sorry I haven’t called before now, but I’ve been working real hard on an assignment. Listen, I’m catching a redeye to Dallas tonight, but . . . ”

He sighs and the telephone amplifies it into a growl, making me remember the orgasm he got out of me. I cross my legs.

             “Are you free tonight?”

I hear the uncertainty in his voice and decide that Little Miss Evasive has run her course.

“Why don’t you come over?” I say. “Let me make you dinner.”

Chapter Three

“The First Date”

From the balcony of my high-rise apartment in Golden, I can see across Denver or turn to face the foothills and mountains. I open the Venetian blinds so Jared can appreciate the view when he arrives and load the CD player with as many piano and saxophone jazz discs it will hold.

In the kitchen, I hide all evidence of takeout food cartons. Hell, I’m trying to impress, so I went to a bistro and bought chicken Alfredo and a wild-green salad. I even went to the best wine shop to pick the wines. There’s a raspberry cheesecake for dessert, but hope I’ll do instead. Tonight, I plan to use all my weapons of seduction.