ifeljamescandoit

[ifeljamescandoit]

after death.

After Death

First, was the social media strategist.  He’s divorced, too, his being far more amicable than mine.  Duke Ellington soothed us as we talked over whisky on my living room floor. When I decided that I didn’t want to have sex after all, he asked to kiss me.  It was the most empowered I felt in my body in a long time.

Our baby died.  We died shortly after.

It’s said, and I don’t know who spoke such statistics, that couples who experience infertility or miscarriage after miscarriage, as Smith and I did – break up.

And then there was the police officer.  I made no pretenses about how I felt about his job – nor my desire for him.  We were equally yoked and horny and didn’t make it further than my front door.  He pressed me against it, with his chest to my back, wrapped his thick forearm around my middle. A perfect grip.  He punctuated each delightful stroke with nips to the nape of my neck.

Our foundation was strong enough for us to get married, right?  For better or for worse, right? As I drank champagne on our wedding day with my bridesmaids, the worst I expected was that his job would force us back to Michigan.  I hate Michigan.  But.  When I walked hand-in-hand with my mother to be given away, and saw through my own haze of tears that Smith was wiping his away: my biggest fear was that no matter where we were, our love would never reduce him to tears, as it did that day.

The executive chef’s schedule called for meeting at 3 am.  He walked into my kitchen and immediately washed his hands.  He brought pre-made Pillsbury chocolate chip dough.  A fire stroked in my belly at the sight of his thighs spread, thick and hairy.  I tasted chocolate on his lips. Sweet and earthy.  His beard created sweet burns to the inside of my thighs.

I remember the last time Smith saw me. It was after the fourth time.  The remorseful ultrasound technician was followed by an even more morose doctor. There is no heartbeat.  It’s common.  It’s part of the process.  All you can do is keep trying. The tears.  Oh, how tired I was of the fucking tears.  He held me through it.  Loved me through it. I’m proud of you.  There’s nowhere else, no one else I want to do this with.  We will get through this.

The barber had an infectious sense of humor.  I enjoy talking to him, could do so forever. He holds me at my waist as I sit on his lap.  We had sex, despite us saying that we should take our time. I smile until my cheeks ache.  A reminder that I deserve to feel good without having to know a new person or their routines or adhere to scheduled dates and all that comes with a new relationship. Still. He feels deserving of me.

We met the faint parallel lines on a pregnancy test with apprehension. I couldn’t bring myself to get excited.  Not at first.  I was going about my day when ‘What to Expect’ would alert me that baby was the size of a cherry.  It might as well have said: “Are you going to invest in this, or nah?”  “No,” I would have said, as I swiped it away hastily.  It wasn’t until the first trimester passed and there was a heart beating rhythmically besides my own and baby was the size of a pineapple that I felt my bones give in.  As my skepticism wavered, Smith and I made room for names and thoughts of playdates and sponge baths and sleepless nights and Boppy pillows.

The nanny hopped in my shower without my permission.  He didn’t ask if I finished. I blocked his number and unmatched him as he put on his shirt, water clinging to his hair, falling to the carpet.  As his shoes echoed against the hardwood floors, I cried.  It was the first time I felt degraded. Small. Less than. A used rag.  His job was to take care of people; how foolish was I to think my needs were greater than his.

I told myself that Smith and I had outgrown each other when he said that he was leaving. It didn’t keep me from hating him or crying for him or fighting with him so he’d fight for us.  I just wanted to believe it as much as I want to believe that there’s nothing wrong with me or my body or wanting to be someone’s mother.  That all of this, choosing Smith and losing Smith, wasn’t my fault.

The librarian was beautiful. Self-assured. Sweet.  She took her time with me: caressed me, sucked the length of my body, kissed me as if she wanted to take refuge in my mouth.  My fingers are a perfect fit inside of her. Her moans a pull, a motivation for me to thrust deeper and deeper.  Harder. Faster.  We played like this for a long time.  Using our fingers and bodies to create pleasure until we built up the need.  Her thighs created a shell for my head.  She delivers a breathy chorus as she comes.  Tells me that I’m lovely as I tuck her hair behind her ear.

Baby’s room lives behind an ever closed door. Evidence of progress that will never be made.  The clothes are still hanging in the closet, as if baby will wear them or grow out of them someday.  There are gaps of Smith all over.  I’m lonely and aching and empty as if he were dead.  It feels like it.  I’m dead, or at least living through this makes me feel like who I was before, during, and after our dead babies and our dead marriage is dead.

The stranger from my morning commute lifts me up and takes me to bed. I loved the weight of him. His confidence leaving me incoherent and breathless. The best that I’ve ever had.  My little death. This wondrous resurrection. 

[ifeljamescandoit]

us.

I’m in front of Nina’s place when she arrives. She’s been with her friends; friends that know nothing about me – let alone us. Of course, there is no “us” … just this.

She walks ahead of me, the heels of her boots click nosily on the asphalt, punctuating the relative silence of her neighborhood.

Last week, we were in a bathroom stall. It was a tight fit; but the very thought of it, the heel of her boot resting behind my head, the fabric of her skirt bunched around her hips, the taste of her sweet slit and her quivering body against my eager mouth makes my dick pulse.

Once we’re inside, she turns on the lights and I make my way to the couch. The cushions mold to my body, their softness act as a salve to my aching joints. She pulls a hanger from her hall closet and removes her coat, which reveals a burnt orange slip dress that clings to her hips and gives around her thighs. She sits on the bench in the hallway and inches to take off her boots, when I demand that she leave them on.

She smirks at me, stands with her legs apart and rests her hands on her hips.

I asked her to drive her boot into my back once. I wanted to know if my longing for her could be measured by something, anything, and I have yet to find an answer. But what I know for sure is that I hate Nina for not needing me. There will no “us” or “we” or “ours” spoken about Nina and I. Having her in the private spaces that we can manage – the backseat of a car, an obscure stairwell, an office bathroom, my place or the home Nina and her wife share – will never be enough for me. I’m not enough for myself, but once I am, thiswill end.

“Come here.”

“How was your day?”

“Come here,” I order.

I sit on the edge of the cushion and spread my legs, anticipating her arrival. Once the distance is closed between us, I reach for her calves. I want to be in her in any way that I can, always. That is nothing new. But. There’s something about this – her standing above me, the sight of her breasts rising and falling, her eyes both patient and eager, being close enough to know that she smells like coffee and florals – that’s like a drug I can’t help but chase, no matter how high I get.

I reach beneath her dress and find her thighs, hot to the touch and meaty. Her bare ass is full and perfect and spills out of my hands. I squeeze. She brushes my curls out of my face with her fingers, runs them to the nape of my neck, gathers a good grip of my hair and tugs backwards. She straddles my thighs and kisses me. We never kiss – her rules. It’s too personal, she said. But I’ve ached to do this for months, to know if her lips are as soft as they look – and they are. I kiss her hungrily, our tongues slip in and out of one another’s mouths. It feels that at any moment, our faces will weld together.

I pull the straps of her dress from her shoulders to expose her nipples, full and brown, and take one into my mouth and grind it softly between my teeth. I can feel the heat of her pussy on my thighs as she pants and writhes her swelling clit against my fingers. She parts her sea of moans and pleas and demands that I fuck her. My dick feels like it could rip a hole in my pants at any moment, but I want to watch her. In one swift motion, I lift her with one arm, place her on her back and put my head between her legs. I eat her with everything I have, my finger and chin making perfect accessories for her to arch and grind against. The sounds coming from her are unintelligible; I know that she’s close.

“Please,” she hisses.

I pull away from Nina and reach for a condom in my jacket pocket. Once I sheath myself, I brace my back against the couch and she places herself back into my lap. I grab the back of her neck and press my forehead to hers. I don’t want to take my eyes off of her.

“What do you want?”

“I want you to fuck me,” she answers.

I grab the base of my dick and tell her to put me in her. She groans as I start to slip into her, I lift my hips to push in deeper. This makes her eyes widen and she braces herself on the back of the couch. I’ve learned her body and she’s learned mine so it doesn’t take long for us to find our rhythm. I push my hips forward; she pushes hers forward. I push back, she pushes back. She kisses me again. Her lips are hard-pressed against mine. It’s slow; slow is a pace we never stick to. But I can’t fight the ache I have to not change anything about this. I want this to last. I pull to her my chest and wrap my arms around her waist. She clings to me. Her cheek pressed to my temple. The muscles of her pussy contract and flex against me and it feels majestic. My breath grows harsher and deeper; I can’t help the groans that escape me. Sensing this, she starts to swirl her hips harder.

“Come for me,” she whispers to the shell of my ear.

I reach for her clit and roll it between my fingers and pound into her without mercy. I smile to myself as she starts to shake. I’m not coming until she does. Her body grows still but she cries out as slickness hits my hand. Her hips let out their last grind and finally, I join her.

She collapses against me. Our heart rates grow slower and slower. I use the little energy I have to rub her back and shoulders instead of pulling out of her. For a few minutes or hours, we don’t talk. We don’t pull away. We stay put in each other’s arms. Once she stands and undresses, she doesn’t ask me to leave as she usually does – but I do. This is us.

[ifeljamescandoit]

jim.

“I’m not calling you, ‘Jim’,” I say with raised brows as I take a sip of wine.

He counters, “Well, ‘Mr. Spader’ is far too formal.”

“It’s appropriate,” I bite.

To this, he laughs boisterously and with each of his teeth as he leans back in his chair. Jim’s right; Mr. Spader is too formal, but satisfaction isn’t a gift I want to give him.

Last week, we ran into each other in Greenwich. It was the fourth time in several weeks. He asked if we should bump into each other on purpose … for a date. From the moment I accepted, until he sat beside me at the bar – I’ve told myself that we’re simply “getting together.”

He stands, offers his hand and says, “Come.”

I drain the contents of my glass and lace my fingers with his.

He allows me to lead him to the dance floor and I wonder why I keep fighting the heat that ebbs from the root of my locks to my toenails. We are in two separate stages of our lives, which I find hard to ignore. But. I like Jim. I like his self-assurance. I’m six years younger than his oldest child. I like that he plays his jazz records at an absurdly loud volume. What can I offer him? I like that his suit jackets always fit loosely around his forearms and wrists. I like that he doesn’t entertain matters of zero interest to him. Our birthdays are three days and 33 years apart.

We part and he spins me ‘round, now my back rests against his chest. As D’Angelo’s voice saturates the room, my hips begin to swivel, Jim follows. Awkwardly, at first, but he finds my pace and encourages my movement as his hands rest on my hips. I guide his palms to my midriff; their warmth melts me into him like butter in a hot caste-iron skillet.

His lips graze my shoulder, I feel him mouthing the lyrics: “You’re my lady, such a beautiful lady.”

“Jim.”

“Yes,” he answers, his breath tickling my ear.

“I’m not your lady.”

He smiles against my cheek and hugs me tighter, “I know.”

I exhale.

This — a woman in the arms of a man she likes and likes being with, feels like enough – for now.

[ifeljamescandoit]

it was all yellow

The buzzer sounds.

I exhale and look to my dog, Pearl, and say, “She’s here.” I sweep the apartment one last time to ensure that nothing is out of place. There isn’t. I made sure of it days before. I don’t have much time to fret over how I look, but I glance at myself in the hallway mirror anyway. I shrug and the woman looking at me shrugs, too. I turn to the door and open it.

There she is. Nicole has a bag of groceries in one hand and another dangling from her forearm as if it were a tote bag. Her hair is loose and curled around her face, just the way I like it. “Hi, stranger,” she says with a smile that reaches her cheeks at the sight of me. “It’s good to see you.” 

“Me too. Let me grab one of those for you,” I say as reach for a bag to carry and invite her in with a quick wave of my hand. I close the door and she begins looking around the room. I’m nervous and hyperaware of her as she trails behind me towards my kitchen. After putting the bags on the counter, her eyes wander across the kitchen.

She points to the cutting board decorated with avocados near the stove and raises her brow inquisitively.

“A housewarming gift from my Mom,” I answer. She makes her way towards the worn moleskin labelled ‘Nan’s Recipes’ and before picking it up, she asks, “May I?” 

I nod in approval and she slowly picks it up. She runs her fingers along the binding and turns each page with care. She stops at a particular recipe and laughs, “What exactly is … ‘Pee Line Pie’?”

Embarrassed, I cover my face with my hands and say, “I couldn’t say ‘Key Lime Pie’ when I was little, so that’s what my grandma called it every time she made it for me.”

“That’s adorable. I feel bad for laughing now,” she says placing the book back to its original place on the counter and pushing her curls out of her face.

“No need,” I say, as reassuringly as I can manage. It’s been a few years since she passed, but sometimes, introducing the remnants of her life to someone else reminds me of how much I miss her.

She walks towards me and motions for a hug. I walk into her embrace and I’m welcomed to the heat of her body and the smell of lavender on her skin. Her shoulder feels like home. So does she. People aren’t homes. I know this; but I feel safe here. We stand there for a while, hugging. We say nothing. We don’t pull away. This is all we do. It is everything.  

“What comes to mind when you think of love?” She asks finally. 

“Hmmm, well ... I think of preparing food, plating it, and serving it. I think of Nan washing my hair on Sunday afternoons. There is also Pearl’s tail wagging and hitting the floor.”

I feel her chuckle against my chest as she rubs my back.

There is something else. It hangs in the air like mist. I consider what I feel and whether that will scare her. Me saying this might make another landmark in our history. A history that started with us sitting on her hotel room floor drinking and talking until the wee hours of the morning before her flight back to LA. There is the sight of her unraveling her blankets and laying them on the grass for our picnic. I see the sun dancing on the back of her calves as she laid on her stomach reading me Alice Walker poems aloud. 

“I think of you in yellow,” I say quietly.

Nicole stops rubbing my back abruptly and pulls away. Her index finger rests on her lips pensively. It might have been seconds, but it felt like hours before her smile finally created wrinkles at the bridge of her nose. She bites her lip as she looks at me and exhales. I sigh in relief and close the distance between us. Her face rests softly between my hands. I study her eyes. They’re brown and comforting and warm, a refuge to behold. I kiss the tip of her nose and neck and collarbone. She nestled my top lip between hers. They taste of honey, as does the rest of her.     

[ifeljamescandoit]

reconciliation

The question dangled between them, like a pendulum swinging back and forth.  Grace wondered if he asked at all.  She knew that he did … but she wished he hadn’t. But more than that, she wished that he hadn’t hurt Stephanie.  She wouldn’t be sitting there now, with her eyes fixed to the wall behind the sofa with her hands folded in her lap, considering a life without him more than answering his question.

They met at a party six years ago.  Grace was dragged out of the house by her best friend, Candace, who was convinced that Grace needed to interact with other living beings besides her cats. She saw him when they first arrived, but made no notes to remember him.  She didn’t want to remember anyone there.  The night drew on, when Grace found herself alone on the balcony – separate from Candace and the party.  She was taken by the lights that punctuated the darkness of Oakland below more than the gathering inside.  Grace pulled her carton of Marlboro’s from her pocket when the door opened, and there he was. She put the cigarette between her lips and prepared to light it when he said, “They say that’s bad for you.” Grace ignored him and lit her cigarette. She inhaled, let the smoke linger in her mouth, and blew out.  This, the first puff, was the reason she smoked.  The calm that spread from her head to her feet could not be achieved by yoga or mindful breathing or a piece of gum.  She turned to him, thankful that the darkness of the night’s sky masked the irritation on her face.  He was taller than her, which was a feat considering that she was five-foot-ten. He had a head full of hair and wore too much cologne.  As she drew the cigarette away from her lips, she said, “They also say that you shouldn’t bathe yourself in cologne.”  He laughed and stayed put, which meant her attempt to make him leave had failed. By the end of the night and to her surprise, she was happy that he stayed.  His name was Murray and he was from Paris, Texas. He had recently graduated from the Air Force Academy and would be stationed in Fairfield, which was an hour north of her.  When Candace had too much to drink when they saw each other again two weeks later, he held Candace’s head back as she threw up on the curb outside of the bar. That was the night that he and Grace kissed for the first time.  Grace knew that she would marry Murray after their road trip to Montana for their second anniversary.  They spent only two hours hiking in Beartooth Mountains, when he turned to her and asked, “Do you want to go home?” Later that year, once they were engaged, he introduced her to Stephanie, his friend from the Academy.  Stephanie was, by conventional standards, beautiful. Grace couldn’t deny it; but she was far more envious that her pores were seemingly invisible to the naked eye. But more importantly, she couldn’t help but like her.  Stephanie was warm and kind-hearted.  If she was speaking to you, that’s where her attention was.  Plus, she had a laugh that made everyone else laugh.  It was sharp and boisterous.  It made her memorable.

As she sat there, with her back straight and staring a hole into the wall, Grace wondered if Stephanie would every laugh again.  The thought enraged her.  ‘Angry’ felt mild.  It was not enough to describe the heat boiling in her bones.  

“Grace! Do you believe her?!”

His shouting pulled her from her reverie, but it didn’t quiet her rage.  From the moment she found out, the rage hadn’t stopped, it simply simmered.  Her fingernails bit the palms of her hands from squeezing them so hard.

“Yes,” she said, quietly, “I believe her.”

The warmth normally exuded from Murray’s eyes was long lost; it had been replaced by fury.  He stood and sat at the table, across from Grace.  Her eyes were still fixed to the wall while his attention was on her.  Murray reached across the table to touch her, but her hands remained in her lap.  They were silent for a while, just sitting there.

“It’s still me,” he said.

“Yes,” Grace said calmly, “and you were still you when you made a choice.”

Murray shook his head. “I didn’t rape her.”  

“Well, you didn’t fuck her!” Grace screamed as she slammed her hands on the table, “This would be so much easier if you’d just fucked her!” Murray quickly stood away from the table with his back to her and said nothing.  She knew that he was listening.   Grace looked toward him and said, “You have given me some of the happiest moments of my life, but you are responsible for the worst thing that has ever happened to her.”

The words hung between them as Grace walked towards Murray.  She kissed him passionately and hungrily.  She was channeling her rage.  Their kiss was messy; as was reconciling her love for him and him intentionally causing irrevocable pain to someone else.  His hands roamed her face.  He told her how sorry he was.  Murray knew that it wasn’t enough, but he said it anyway.  She abruptly pulled away, leaving him panting and confused.  As she grabbed her suitcase, she wondered if this would be the last time she would hear the sound of her boots on the hardwood floor, or if she would ever cross the threshold of their house again.  It was of no consequence.

She barely made it inside of her car before the tears came, one after another, they fell without any sign of ending.  She was crying for herself, and Stephanie, and the nameless that were at their jobs, at school, and in their homes who had yet to name their monsters. She lit a cigarette.  The last of the fourth pack she’d bought in five days. As the ignition fired to life, Grace knew that before she left town that she would see her.

When Stephanie opened the door, she looked unsurprised, as if she expected Grace to be standing there.  Stephanie’s dark hair, accentuated by a widow’s peak, was freshly washed.  It once fell to her shoulders, but bluntly rests below her chin.  The circles were heavy and dark beneath her eyes, but Grace was still taken by her.  They stood in silence for a long time. The only sounds to be heard was the house settling into the earth and the passing cars along the avenue.  Suddenly, Grace fell to her knees before Stephanie and reached for her hands.  She studied them, drew them to her mouth, and kissed each of them softly.  

Through tears, Stephanie finally said, “I’m pregnant.”

[ifeljamescandoit]

cupid’s shuffle

We are standing side by side in my living room.  The coffee table and couch are cast aside to accommodate our every move.  The chorus of “Cupid’s Shuffle” reverberates from the speakers and the bass line etches itself into my legs and feet, as I shuffle, as instructed, to my right.  I’m lost in the motions, but the sight of Sam standing still with his hands on his hips stops me.  I pause the music and turn to him.  He towers above me, but the expression on his face is wonderfully child-like, spelling out his confusion.  I ask, “What’s the matter?”  He goes to speak, but catches himself and snaps his lips shut.  He purses them and runs his fingers through his hair, a telltale sign that his patience is wearing thin.

“You already know.” He’s right.  I know him to his very bones.

He goes on, “I’ve done this four times now and I still don’t get it.  I’m over it.” I couldn’t help but chuckle, considering that the song’s lyrics make the steps quite simple.  Sam shakes his head in disbelief and asks, “You’ve never had trouble learning something that everyone else seemed to take to easily?”

“Of course,” I reply, as I close the gap between us and cup his face in my hands. “I’m not trying to poke fun or undermine you, but you insisted on learning this.”

He sighs softly, encasing my hands with his palms, “Yes, because it’s your best friend’s wedding and you’re the maid of honor.  I don’t want to embarrass you with my historically bad dancing.” I smile.  “The only way that you can embarrass me is if you say some white nonsense like: ‘You don’t understand how Donald Trump became president.’” Sam’s face lights up, which is exactly what I want.  He lets go of my hands and steps away for his whisky on the mantle.  He takes a small sip, and another, and suddenly drains the glass and sets it back down.

“I’m sure if I did that … you would never speak to me again,” he says mournfully, as if the very thought would break him. I say nothing.  I consider his words and my racing heart.  I welcome the distraction of my phone vibrating in my back pocket.  I leave the message unanswered and instead, search my music library.  I stumble upon the record I’m looking for, and as the first chords from the bass guitar emit from the speakers, I ask, “Will you dance with me?”   His crooked smile reaches his left cheekbone as he inches closer and puts his hand to the nape of my neck and joins our bodies together.   His stare is intense.  It is an ocean of the clearest blue; perhaps, clouded by drink, but it is earnest.  It is true.  My hands eagerly roam the lines of his body, seeking out the warmth of his skin; and when I find it, I inhale, desperate to take him in.  Our bodies sway as the Flamingos croon us with ‘I Only Have Eyes for You.’  He sings the song quietly, as if he were singing to himself.

I whisper into his chest, “I didn’t know that you knew this.” I feel his smile in my hair.  His hold on me becomes tighter, but tender. Always tender. I think of when we met, and how I never anticipated this tether.  It happened so fast, like a piece of glass shattering against pavement; the idea of losing him would put me in a million little pieces, never to be the same.  Could I be whole?  Yes. But not the same.

He pulls away to look at my face and lightly touches the beauty mark above my lip with his index finger.  He sings to me now, softly; the only thing softer than his singing are his kisses to my forehead, each of my eyelids, and my mouth. The smokiness of whisky punctuates each kiss.  I hear the penultimate line of the song’s last verse and wish it were longer. He smiles into my mouth. We are eye to eye as he sings me the finals notes, clearly and purposefully, as if he’d written them.    As the song comes to an end, his accent, which is stronger when he drinks, pierces the silence, “I have a dance to learn.”

“Yes,” I sigh regretfully, “you do.” His hand lingers at the small of my back as I pull my phone from my pocket, where my friend’s message reads: ‘How’s the lesson going?’ “Tell her that we’re on to round five,” he says, as he playfully taps my backside.  I look at him, unsure of his meaning, but his lips to my collarbone make it clear.  He loosens the top buttons of my blouse, giving him easier access.  I close my eyes and ask breathlessly, “I thought we were practicing this dance?” Coyly, he replies, “I think it’s better to use this extra space to do something that we’ve learned quite well.”  He pulls his shirt above his head, tosses it aside, and draws me in.  I feel myself disappearing into the taut folds of Sam’s arms, like petals in a rosebud.   I think, as the world bursts into oranges, reds, and yellows: yes, this is better.  Far better.