Dirty Diana

Chapter 19

Chapter 19

—

I wasn’t going to tell you the truth.

I sit in my office, letting Mia’s voice play through my headphones. My seventh interview in two weeks. It’s been two weeks since I interviewed Jada. Two weeks since Oliver lied to me about poker. So far, I’ve coped with his lying by no longer asking him where he’s going when he tells me he’s “off to poker.” At night, I watch him walk to his car and I can hear the music in my head, the loud thrumming bass of whatever club he was calling me from, the snippets of a lap-dance conversation and heavy breathing. But I don’t say anything. I don’t want to give him the chance to lie to me again. I’ve almost confronted him so many times, but then what? I avoid him more than ever, making up excuses to stay late at the office on the nights he’s home, then lining up interviews, which have steadily trickled in, one after the other, by word of mouth alone.

Mia is a friend of Jada’s, and as soon as she sat down, Mia let me know she was not interested in talking about her real life.

The truth is, I haven’t had sex in a year and all my friends are getting married and I’m meeting assholes with bad breath online. But I do feel it all—I feel it in my body all the time. Just not in real life. Jada said she told you about one of her fantasies?

I told Mia she could talk about anything she wants, so she does.

In my fantasy, I’m a coat-check girl at one of the snottiest bars in Dallas. I actually did that job in real life for years. I’m a terrible waitress and I’m nosy as fuck so it works out well.

I love looking in people’s coats and purses after they’ve left them with me. I’ve never stolen anything. I’m just curious what their lives are like. The bottom of my purse is like the bottom of a trash can at the beach. Crumbs from an old granola bar, a tampon that’s lost its wrapper, old receipts that I don’t even know why I took in the first place.

But these Dallas women—their purses are meticulous. They smell like a fragrance counter. Everything is clean and new. A fancy tin of mints. A monogrammed wallet with crisp bills. A lipstick the shade of rubies. And in my fantasy, well, I do steal one thing—a card. This SoulCycle mom—perfectly manicured in every way—tosses her Stella McCartney car coat at me without even making eye contact. I can smell her perfume as she walks away and so I rub my wrists on the inside of the jacket, you know, to steal some of her scent. In her coat pocket is a thick black business card, like a black American Express, expensive and heavy, like something dumb that Tesla would make. And it’s blank, except for a phone number, hand engraved in gold type. I know instantly it’s for sex. These wealthy women are all bored and underfucked.

I call the number on the card and a man answers. His voice is low and gravelly. He asks me for my address. I race home and clean my disgusting apartment and wax everything that needs to be waxed. I smoke a joint and drink a glass of wine. I’ve never done anything like this before.

So this guy knocks on my door and I answer. I don’t know what I imagined. This guy looks like nothing, really. Reddish-brown hair, nondescript eyes. He’s just a guy you would pass and never even remember. Totally anonymous. But he walks around my apartment with a confidence that makes me horny, like he owns the place. Like nothing is off-limits to him.

He tells me to show him the bedroom and he follows me in there. Then he tells me to sit down on the bed. So I do. I’m used to taking control in the bedroom. That’s the way it’s always been. I’ve never had someone order me around. But I want him to. I’m hanging on his next command and it’s turning me on. “Take off your pants,” he says. I keep trying to read him—he’s direct, but his eyes are soft and curious.

I do exactly what he says. Sort of. I take off my pants but I leave my underwear on, which annoys him. He comes closer, so he’s standing over me, looking down at me on the bed. “You know what I meant,” he says. His voice is commanding but gentle. He is showing me how to play the game. “Do you want me to leave?” he asks. “No,” I say. “Please.” I pull my shirt off and lie back on the bed. “Don’t move,” he says. But it’s hard to stay still when he touches me, slipping my underwear down my legs and spreading them open.

He sucks on his fingers and immediately pushes one inside me, then two. It’s surprising and powerful. His fingers reach a place most guys miss. Then he tells me to turn over. For a moment, my body freezes. Maybe I’ve taken this too far. Maybe lying on my stomach would feel too vulnerable, not being able to see what’s coming next. But part of me wants exactly that. The thrill of not knowing what’s coming, or what he is going to do to me next. I feel as if he can see my mind turning, or maybe my legs starting to quiver, thinking about how it would feel to have him fuck me from behind, when he repeats, “Turn over.”

I do what I’m told, flipping onto my stomach. At first, nothing happens. He doesn’t move and neither do I. In the stillness, I imagine him admiring my body, lingering on my legs, my body glowing. Then I hear him shift. He leans over my body, resting one hand on the bed next to me. With the other hand he grips the back of my thigh, pulling my legs farther apart. I moan, my hips lifting up toward him. He slips a finger inside me and moves it in a circle, then pulls it out again. “You’re ready,” he says. He found what he was looking for.

“Where’s the money?” he asks me. I tell him I don’t have the whole amount, I can’t afford what he charges. I bury my head in my hands, terrified now that he’s going to walk out of the room. Because I want him to keep touching me so badly. When I don’t hear him move, I turn over my shoulder and find him staring at me. He walks away from the bed and I think he’s going to tell me he’s leaving. But then he comes back, takes my hands, and ties them behind my back. I keep my head turned so I can see and he likes that. He stands at the side of the bed close to my face. He unzips his pants and pulls out his dick. And it’s big. Thick and heavy. Then he kneels on the bed and pulls me to my knees. From behind, he holds my hips in place and slides inside of me. I’ve never been with a guy this big, so I gasp. He fills me up. Moving in and out, and in and out, over and over. And he’s so deep he’s hitting a spot that no one has touched. He moves in a steady rhythm, pushing inside me while resting one hand lightly around my throat. It’s a soft pressure. Like a hint of his power. My legs are spread and I’m sweating and open so deeply to him because I’ve let go of the control. Suddenly it feels like I’m going to come. I try to slow it down but he says, “No, let go. You’re so close.” And then he whispers in my ear that I feel so good to him and that’s it. I let go. And I have this crazy once-in-a-fucking-lifetime orgasm. And then he pulls out, gets dressed, looks at me, and says goodbye.

I listen to Mia, alone in my office. My mind wanders to the sound of Oliver’s voice against the loud thrum of the strip club, until that is all I can hear. Distracted, I shut off the recording. I think about catching up on some work, since I had told Oliver I’d be at the office late, and Emmy is at her grandparents’ for the weekend anyway.

Instead I open a folder on my laptop with the audio files I’ve recorded. Lately what this project might be has shifted for me. I’m no longer just sketching the women who are sharing their stories with me. I’ve begun to feel they don’t need my interpretation of their words. Their desire. Their fantasies are perfect as they are: raw, unvarnished, and true. With permission, I’ve been sharing links to audio files of the interviews with Alicia. I told her how the stories have taken on a life of their own. “I’m thinking about giving them a place to live where other women can listen.”

She agrees. “My friends keep asking when the next one is coming.”

“You sent them around?”

“Only to a few people I trust. They’re good, Diana.”

Sitting at my desk, I think about what a website could look like and how I would design it. I search for a domain name and find exactly what I was hoping for. Dirty Diana is available.

—

When I get home, Oliver is falling asleep to a Seinfeld rerun. Everything is normal.

Quiet.

Safe.

And I can’t fight the urge to blow it all up.

“Who is Amanda?”

Oliver squints at the TV as if the plotline has just gone wildly off script.

“What?”

“Oliver. I know. You called me. Or Amanda’s ass called me as she was dancing on your lap.”

Oliver stammers. “Sorry, what?”

“Do you ever go to poker?”

My voice is steady. I want to show him that I’m not angry. Not really. I just want the truth. Oliver looks at me then down at his hands.

“I hate cards.”

“So. Who is she?

“Why? Why does it matter?”

“It matters because you’re spending time with another woman. What do you like about her?”

“If you’re going to get mad, then just get mad. You have every right.”

“I’m not mad.”

“You’re not?”

“No. I don’t think so.”

“You either are or you aren’t.”

“Is Amanda pretty?”

“Yes.” He says it carefully.

“Okay. And what else?”

“Nothing else.”

“You’ve been lying for months.”

“I’m not always there. Sometimes I just drive. I know you don’t believe me—”

“I believe you.”

“Some nights I pull over and fall asleep in my car. But yes, some nights it’s a strip club.” He sighs. “She thinks I’m sexy.”

“You pay her to think you’re sexy.”

“Diana, if you’re going to turn this into a fight, let’s just fight. I’ll never go again. Okay?”

“How do you know she thinks you’re sexy? Does she tell you?”

Oliver stares up at the ceiling. “I can feel her get excited.”

At the thought of Oliver with another woman, I feel a quiver, part jealousy, part something else. “You’re allowed to touch her?” Oliver looks different in the flicker of the TV’s light, the outlines of his face sharper.

“I don’t know the rules. Maybe not. But she lets me.”

“I want to meet her.”

“What? No.” Oliver laughs nervously.

“Why not? What don’t you want me to see?” I grab my purse by the door, strangely excited. “Let’s go.”

“Seriously?” His voice is high and pinched. He clears his throat. “Now?”

—

The summer raindrops are fat, falling heavy against the windshield. Oliver is silent in the passenger seat except for offering the occasional driving direction. “This is a terrible idea,” he says.

I feel like screaming I’m just trying to fix us! over the sound of the pounding rain, over all his doubt, over the slow disease that is spreading through our marriage. But I stay silent and focused on the road. The buzz of arousal still tingles in my veins, giving me a sort of hope that I feel compelled to chase.

As I pull in to the parking lot of the strip club, Oliver’s knee bounces up and down. “We didn’t bring an umbrella.” We stare out into the dark rainy night together. “We don’t have to do this. Now you’ve seen the place.”

“Let’s go.” I open the car door and make a break for it, not turning around to make sure he is following.

Inside, it smells like sharp perfume and stale beer. I squint in the dim, pulsing light. I can’t make out the faces of any of the men. They seem to merge into the walls, the booths, the barstools. But my eyes travel to each of the women in the room, each seeming lit up by their very own spotlight. The sparkle of their makeup makes them flicker. “Which one is she?”

“We should sit down, not just stand here.”

We stop at the bar to order drinks and we take them to a velvet-covered half-circle booth with a sticky cocktail table in the center. The chill of the air-conditioning gives me goosebumps; my clothes and hair are damp from the rain outside, sticking to me. I shift in my wet jeans. I see one woman who looks different from the others, a little older and rounder, with less makeup on. Long blond hair. She wears short black shorts that hang low on her hips and a paper-thin tank top.

Oliver sees her too. “That’s her.”

“Invite her over.”

“Diana.” Oliver sounds petulant, like I’m asking him to get up and close the window even though I’m the one who is cold. “You invite her if you want to meet her so badly.” But even as he says it, he waves his hand in the air like he is ordering a drink. Amanda flashes a wide smile when she sees him.

“She’s pretty,” I say.

Oliver refuses to respond.

“Hey, you.” Amanda leans in so close to Oliver that she might be about to kiss him. But then she stops, just inches away.

“Amanda,” Oliver says, sounding so formal that Amanda might laugh if she wasn’t so frozen and confused, “this is my wife, Diana.”

“Oh,” she says, seeming to notice me for the first time. “Hi.” The light goes out of her eyes.

“It was her idea to come here.”

“Ooooh,” Amanda replies. “I love that.”

I can see through the performance. Amanda doesn’t love anything about this. “Please,” I tell her. “I’m not here to judge. Go ahead and do whatever you would normally do.”

“This is not…” Oliver looks at me and whispers, “Please don’t do this.”

“He wants a lap dance,” I say, avoiding Oliver’s pleading eyes and looking at Amanda. If I meet his gaze, I’ll lose my nerve. And I don’t want to chicken out. I want to know what he likes about this place. I want to know him again.

“Are you sure?” Amanda directs the question to Oliver. “How about we start slow? Like last time.”

She sits in his lap, focused on Oliver, looking like she wants him every bit as much as Oliver had said. She grazes Oliver’s shirt with her nipples, and I watch them as if outside my body, hovering in some space above their heads. I can see Oliver become aroused despite himself, and I reach out to feel his excitement, to touch him. I can’t help it. When I move my hand across his warm, hard erection, I feel a warmth of my own. It turns me on to see him so aroused, to be experiencing something entirely new with him. I slowly start to massage him, feeling him grow. He clutches onto the top of my hand tightly, as if warning me, but not pulling away. A soft moan escapes his mouth as he leans his head back into the leather booth. Amanda smiles. “I have a better idea.”

“We don’t have to do this,” Oliver says. But we are already moving, pulled by an invisible string down a hallway bathed in blue light.

The private room looks, disappointingly, exactly how I had always imagined or at least seen in movies. Mirrored walls. Leather banquette seats that sag in the middle. A shiny pole in the center of the room. But when Amanda closes the door behind her, I’m relieved that the noise of the other room is muffled.

Oliver and I sit in the corner of the L-shaped banquette. My left knee touches his right. Amanda climbs immediately into Oliver’s lap. “Do you want to show Diana what I like?” She places his hand on her breast. Oliver pulls away as if he’d burned himself. “Relax…it’s me…You like this?”

“Yes,” he says quietly.

This time, I feel weighted down by my body, not like I’m floating above. It’s as if someone has pinioned me to the leather. I should get up, but I can’t. I should want to get up, but I don’t. I want to keep watching. I stare straight ahead, into the mirror, at the image of all three of us.

“Your wife is beautiful,” Amanda says loud enough for me to hear. Then, into his ear, “You know I like to be touched…”

“I can’t.”

“But you’re so hard.” This is their routine. He touches her when he gets hard. And she lets him. I study Oliver’s confidence as he caresses her breasts softly.

The heaviness in my body turns to a prickly heat—a flush that starts in my legs and moves up through my body.

“We should stop…” Oliver turns to face me. More like a question this time.

I reach out and grab his hand. “No. Keep going. Please.” I want this new feeling I’m experiencing to last. I recognize it now—a cocktail of desire and greed—I want to remain jealous. I shift my body so I’m watching them not in the mirror but right next to me.

“I make your dick so hard, don’t I?” The strap of Amanda’s top falls down her shoulder, exposing her naked breast.

“Yes.”

“How hard do I make you?”

“So fucking hard.” I’ve never heard Oliver speak that way. I want him all to myself. I want to make him hard. Not her.

But Oliver is no longer thinking of me. He had been so aware of me until now, so worried, constantly looking over at me. Now his hands are all over Amanda, grabbing her hips, her legs, her ass. I lean into him so that I’m partially sharing his lap with Amanda. I put my lips close to his. “Kiss me…”

“ I’ll kiss you…” Amanda tries to intercept me.

“No,” I say. “Oliver.” It’s my husband I want and it feels so unbelievably good to finally feel that.

“What?” he whispers.

“Kiss me,” I tell him.

Oliver’s eyes widen and his lips meet mine and I feel a rush of desire for him. We keep kissing and the dulled throb of the music from the bar fades and Amanda fades and it is just us. I breathe in his scent, and it is good, it is the scent I’d always loved, of cedar and soap. Safe and warm, but not just that—there is something else, too, the way Oliver’s tongue strokes my lips, the way our bodies move together, like a dance that is sexier for having been practiced. Oliver feels more confident in his own skin. Our lips part and he says, “God, I’ve missed you.”

The moment we stop kissing, the club returns and the music grates and there is Amanda again, leaning over Oliver, wearing her pretend smile. “What about me, love?” she says. “Can I kiss her too?”

Oliver looks between the two of us, and Amanda once again grazes his chest with her breasts, leaning across him toward me. At this point I will do whatever Oliver wants me to. If he wants me to kiss Amanda, I will. Oliver nods yes and reaches between my legs while Amanda leans in.

When Amanda’s lips are just inches from mine, she pauses, her mouth curling into a smile. “You’re just a horny little bitch, aren’t you?”

Oliver flinches and we all feel it. The needle scratch.

“Diana.” He looks at me, as if for help. I must be looking at him the same way, a mirror image—two stricken faces—we’re both feeling it—the strangest sensation of looking at yourself and at a total stranger all at once.

“I need some air,” Oliver stands up, grabbing for his drink and finishing it in one big swallow.

I call for him but he strides out through the club and into the rain. Don’t leave, Oliver. Not now. We can save this.

“Oliver!” I catch up to him. “You can’t leave like this. Let’s go back in.”

“What are we doing here, Diana? This was a horrible fucking idea.” He finds his keys, finally, and unlocks the car.

“Don’t run away. Not now. That was the closest I’ve felt to you in so long. We can salvage this. I know we can,” I plead.

Oliver shakes his head, pulls my hands off his shoulders. I’d been gripping him so hard. “Stay. Please.” I plead. “I don’t want us to go home.”

“That isn’t me. That isn’t…us,” Oliver says and he gets in the car, waiting for me to follow. “I can’t go back in,” he says and I see there is no changing his mind.

Once I’m in the car, we buckle our seatbelts and I pull out of the parking lot. Not a word is said. Another night ends in us both soaking wet, this time drenched in rain and a prickly kind of shame. We sit in it the entire way home.