The Devil You Know (13 page)

It should be noted that I have had every advantage in life, and that I am well aware of my own good luck. I am in reasonably good health, not unattractive, and have a well-paying and comparably secure job working in communications for a large public service. I was born into a middle-class family, am on good speaking terms with my parents, and make the mortgage payments on my condominium without undue hardship.

Though I am loath to admit it, I have read a number of self-help books recently in an attempt to shake off this cloak of misery. In the short term, which is to say over the weekend while I'm reading them, I feel as though change is within my grasp. I have sat down on Sunday nights and made my to-do list for the week with renewed enthusiasm. Like that oft-clichéd phoenix, I shall rise from the ashes of my many failings. Incompleted projects and soured romance, missed fitness classes and fast-food hamburgers, all will be blown away by the breeze. I will spring fully formed into the dawn of a Monday morning, living a new day, in which there is ample time for all my desires and not a moment of life's precious gift misspent: exercise taken, sensible meals prepared and eaten, reading, fresh air, pleasure and efficiency in my work, time for family and friends, a clean home.

Of course, any good plan must allow for contingencies and forgiveness. Those Monday mornings turn into days and afternoons and weeks filled with circumstances beyond one's control, and after trying to accept the things one cannot change, it becomes clear that the book's author did not allow for the possibility that the universe will beat one down the moment one's back is turned.

Soon enough, I'm leaving the bookshop with my latest purchase tucked under my arm as though I'm smuggling pornography. But now, even the hopeful dreams promised on its dust jacket ring false. Only halfway through Sunday, I can smell the failures of another week approaching. I am doomed, it appears, to repeat this same pathetic charade without ever changing at all.

I have not been sleeping well. My physician, hesitant to prescribe sleeping pills, advised me to try Gravol as an occasional sleep aid. I'm now punching half a dozen of these tablets through their crackly tinfoil shells each night. The no-name brand offers considerable savings. I divide my purchases between the three pharmacies in proximity to my home. I have also lost a great deal of weight in a relatively short time. The depression diet, I suppose. I was quite unaware of the changes in my body until I put on a pair of slacks one morning and they slid off my hips as I walked to the kitchen. A rare gaze into the full-length mirror behind my closet door revealed the physique of a person requiring some medical attention.

Each morning, when I wake up, I have about thirty seconds of feeling well. I'm awake; the sun is streaming through my blinds; the bed is soft and warm and comfortable. Then a cloud covers my thoughts, as I slowly realize all the things to be unhappy about. Then I don't wish to be awake and roll over, hoping for more sleep, which seldom comes. I rise and begin the joyless enterprise of getting ready for work.

And yet. There is something—someone, specifically. A cook, of all things, at the greasy spoon where I sometimes eat lunch when I need to escape the stifling office environment. I went there only days ago, to eat something eggy, try and coax a bit of nourishment into myself. (My work skirts are so large they spin around my waist as I walk, the back vent eventually working its way around to the front.) When I'd finished my omelette, a hand took the plate away and replaced it with a smaller plate on which sat a slice of lemon meringue pie. I looked up to tell the waitress I hadn't ordered it, only to see a man in a white apron.

“This is on the house,” he said.

I shook my head, but he shook his head back at me and I could immediately see he would brook no argument. “You've lost too much,” he said, flicking his head at my frame. “A little extra looks good on you.”

“Is that so?” I said, ready to instruct him on the correct way to address his customers, but then he grinned and I confess, it was quite disarming. Then he turned and walked back through the swinging silver doors of the kitchen.

When I went to the front counter to settle the bill, the server told me that “Troy” had taken care of it. At first I thought she just meant the pie and moved to correct her, but she insisted it was the entire meal.

For some reason—my own curiosity and outrageous vanity, I suppose— I returned the next day for a cup of coffee and a bowl of rice pudding. They make a lovely homemade rice pudding, with none of those vile bloated raisins to spoil it. Sure enough, halfway through my coffee, Troy came out to refill my cup. I felt pathetically obvious.

“Mind if I sit down for a second?”

“Not at all. I wanted to thank you for yesterday. It wasn't necessary.”

“I know.” He smiled a big wholesome smile at me. His shoulders seemed nearly as wide as my peripheral vision would allow. Thick neck, close-cropped hair, ruddy cheeks. He looked like a Polish settler, ready to construct a prairie homestead, not flip burgers in a downtown diner. A farm girl's dream. But his expression was sweet and gentle. “I would like,” he said, resting his broad hands on the table on either side of me, “to take you to a movie on Friday night.”

We went to a Hollywood blockbuster, the sort of thing I usually abhor, but I said nothing, happy enough to have gotten out of the house. Within moments of the coming attractions, Troy placed his hand on my knee. It crept up my thigh through the first act, making it difficult to concentrate. Luckily, the movie asked little of the viewer, so instead I sat wondering what to do. What had brought this on? Why was this man interested in me? Why was I responding to his overtures? Had I become desperate in my loneliness? He slipped his other arm around me and pulled me close. As though reading my thoughts, he whispered, “Just relax.” I usually hate being told to relax, but I decided that being tense and over-thinking the situation in a darkened theatre when I could be watching a film and eating from a shared box of Junior Mints was in fact, silly.

We went out for a drink afterwards, and under the table, Troy caressed the inside of my thigh. I must admit, the sensation was pleasurable, but I felt ridiculous and juvenile. I worried that we would be spotted carrying on. The drinks worked a strange spell on me, though, and I allowed him to continue.

He said he wanted to walk me to my apartment, so I let him. Then outside my apartment, he said he wanted to come in. I let him in. He kissed me before I'd even removed my shoes, and without exaggeration, picked me up in his arms like a bride and carried me into my own bedroom. I could not believe this was happening, yet there was something so romantic, so—and I assure you I am cringing even as I say this—
masterful
about it. I felt like an overcome heroine in his arms, and his kisses were bold and persuasive. I am fully aware this sounds like the penultimate scene in some paperback bodice-ripper novel, but there it is. I was completely carried away and we made love without hesitation.

When it was over, I felt as though I had suddenly recovered from a strange dream and began to fully realize my lapse in judgment. The weight of his body next to mine felt awkward. I wanted my bed back to myself as soon as possible, and luckily, he made preparations to leave without any prompting. Before he left, he took down my telephone number and email address.

I did wonder the next morning if I'd ever hear from him again, or whether I needed to find another restaurant. My head felt heavier than usual, and I blamed alcohol for my predicament. When I finally left my bed and started my computer, I discovered he had already emailed me and said he was hoping to see me again soon.

Of course, nothing is without complications. Troy lives with a woman—has for nearly a decade, in effect making her his common-law wife. In my self-help books, this situation would be referred to as an attraction to “emotionally unavailable men.” While I'm certain that this is a tale that women have been falling for since we learned to walk upright, I'm inclined to believe Troy when he says that his relationship is merely one of convenience, long since bereft of a sexual connection. They bought a condominium together when prices were better, and now neither of them wants to give it up, so they are locked into permanent roommate status.

Looking at this objectively, I shake my head. Why am I embroiled in some affair with a short-order cook with a girlfriend at home? What could possibly be in this for me, other than the inevitable heartbreak? But here I am, mooning over him like some lovesick schoolgirl.

I will tell you what the secret is. It is what happens in the bedroom. He is the most unusual lover I have ever had, and the reactions he provokes in me are strange and compelling. For example, he talks to me during sex, in a manner that is reminiscent of the limited pornography I've viewed in my lifetime. He says things that no man has ever said to me before. Things that if I heard someone calling a woman in public would make me consider phoning the police. But when he breathes this filth into my ear while touching me just so, I am reduced to a compliant, aching mess. Sometimes he makes me say things back to him. It pains me to no end; I can feel every fibre of myself resisting, but he does not let up. He keeps insisting, often while I am on the very brink of climax, and then I do say them, I have no choice but to say them, and as soon as I do, the relief and release is profound. It is a kind of freedom that I have never felt before.

And then, in the aftermath, there is the calm of resting my head against his broad warm chest and feeling utterly spent and safe. Feeling as though I have nothing to hide. It has become rather addictive, I confess. Not just in terms of the sexual pleasure it brings me, which is enormous, but also the surprises about myself that I feel I am about to discover. I am a little afraid, as it seems the proverbial envelope is pushed every time we are together, and I don't want it to go too far. Perhaps the novelty will wear off soon enough and I'll be able to return to my life. Although why I am in a hurry to get back to that old misery, I'm not exactly sure. I've been eating and sleeping well; I am filled with nervous energy and excitement. I have what could be described as a spring in my step.

One of the things I enjoy most about Troy is that I don't feel as though I'm pretending when I'm with him. I seem to have lost the need to lie, to present a false self. I certainly can't tell any lies in the bedroom, and it doesn't seem worth it to tell them anywhere else. Of course, I'm aware of the irony, since the very nature of our affair is concealment.

Troy understands the person I am, sometimes in ways that I think might be more accurate than the ways in which I know myself. Last night in bed, he flipped me over and began spanking me while working my cunt over with his other hand. “That's it, that's my good girl,” he said over and over, and I joined in the chorus. After I orgasmed, I became a crying, blubbering heap. He gathered me in his arms and held me while I sobbed, then lifted my face to his and asked me sweetly, “If you're a good girl, then what am I?”

“You're my daddy,” I whispered. It came from me without thought or hesitation. But recounting it now, I am filled with shame. This shame mixes with my eroticmemories of the moment and leaves me feeling very confused indeed.

I know how foolish it is to hang my romantic hopes on this person. He is seldom able to stay the night, leaving me alone in my bed. I wonder why it matters to his wife that he comes home at all. (I have taken to calling her the “wife” in my mind because it's easier and it eliminates the trite, teenaged sound that “girlfriend” makes. If anyone gets that youthful moniker, I surmise, it ought to be me.) I want to ask questions about their relationship, yet I don't want to know the answers. I wonder what she looks like, if she is more attractive than me. Troy seems so committed to me and to our happiness. It is not surprising that when I ask questions, he brushes them aside. I imagine it's not something he wants to think about when we are enjoying our time together. When we are apart, we are always thinking of each other. He sends me text messages and emails at all hours of the day and night.

I long to please him sexually, and wonder what kinds of things we'll do next. I wonder if he gets tired of doing things the way we do, if sometimes he doesn't want things to be simpler and more “normal.” But perhaps this is what “normal” is for Troy. I ask him about it, and he says he's had plenty of what he calls “vanilla” sex. “But I could tell you needed something more.” He tells me that women have always been drawn to him for that, that he's found himself in this role before, and that he enjoys it. I feel an ache of envy even thinking about others. Were they better than me? Did they enjoy practices even more outrageous? Did he care for them the way I believe he cares for me? But I say nothing. I would rather not ask than run the risk of being lied to.

He has a magnificent cock. He fucks me so perfectly with it, with an understanding of timing and restraint that I've never experienced in another man. That waiting, that holding back, is half the battle. I feel like a fool, but the force of my emotions and the power of my orgasms often move me to tears. They are transporting. Sometimes when I climax, he has to hold me up around my waist while tears and fluid and wails and sobs pour out of me. He holds me in his strong arms and kisses me tenderly and calls me “babe.” How can I not love him?

Since I've been spending so much of my free time online, waiting for messages from Troy, I've taken to doing a bit of internet research on my recent sexual interests. Beyond the ridiculous photographs and the leasterotic texts I've ever read, there are a number of serious discussion groups and forums for women to have intelligent conversations on the subject. I joined one of these groups in the hopes of finding some like-minded individuals. I cannot believe that I'm suddenly a part of an online BDSM chat group. It turns out that this acronym, that I assumed stood for Bondage, Domination, and Sadomasochism, is actually more of a catch-all term for Bondage and Discipline, Domination and Submission, and Sadism and Masochism. According to my research, I am a Submissive. Good heavens. Only months ago, I would have assumed that anyone involved in such a thing was a fringe-dweller in need of psychotherapy. On another site, I discovered a checklist of practices and sexual activities that partners could peruse together. I also read about things like “safe words”, which is the BDSM way of saying “uncle” in a world where shrieking “no” is all part of the fun, and “soft limits”, which are things that you wouldn't want to do if left to your own devices, but might be willing to do in service to a master. I bookmarked the list and showed it to Troy on his next visit. He did point out a few things he had done before, and I felt again the hot-cheeked, irrational envy of a teenager. There were a number of items and activities on the list I didn't even understand, and dozens in which I had no interest. I felt embarrassed by my pedestrian desires.