Page 73 of Dirty Diana
Over our first glass of champagne, the frost between Oliver and me continues to melt. “You really do look good,” I say to him. “Really fit.”
“I’ve lost six pounds from running.” I imagine you can’t grow up with Vivian as your mom and not feel proud every time you lose a pound.
“You look so nice.”
“You do too,” he says. “I should have told you that earlier.”
“Thanks,” I say. “Why didn’t you?”
Oliver doesn’t answer. He orders us two more champagne cocktails and hands one to me. “I don’t know.”
Please don’t. Please stay present.Please let’s look at each other like we used to.I didn’t know how badly I needed that until it was gone.
“I get it,” I say. “We seem to have lost the plot, haven’t we?”
“It happens. It’s not like anyone here is on their first marriage.” He gestures around the room of tightly pulled faces and obscene privilege.
Beside us, a toothy woman is discussing the benefits of redshirting her six-year-old, which she hopes will give him an advantage on the lacrosse field. And behind us, a crowd of familiar real estate scions debate which plane to charter for a hunting trip to Wyoming.
“I don’t want a second husband,” I blurt.
Oliver sighs. “Same. I don’t think I have the energy.” It’s not the exact affirmation I’m looking for, but I lean in anyway. I take a deep breath and exhale. “Want to look at the art?”
Oliver almost spits out his drink.
Years ago, when we would visit Oliver’s parents, before Emmy was born, I would ask Oliver if he wanted to look at the art, which was code forDo you want to have sex in your old bedroom?
“Look at the art now?”
“Sure. Why not?”
His expression is impossible to read. “With everyone here?”
“Let’s go look at the art,” I say again.
After a moment of silent torture, Oliver nods. “Let’s look at the art.”
We slip from the crowd and up the back stairs to Oliver’s childhood room, holding hands the entire way. Oliver closes the door behind him and smiles. His room has not been touched since he left for college, except to be cleaned, Vivian making sure his rugby trophies are polished regularly. “Shhhh,” he tells me as I start laughing, while kicking off my heels. “We should make it quick,” he adds, still seeming unsure we should do it at all.
“What if I don’t want it to be quick?” I ask. I hate how I sound. I’m trying so hard to seduce him that it feels like a charade. Isn’t seduction always a charade? Why does this time feel so flat-footed?
I carry on and unbutton Oliver’s shirt. I kiss his naked chest, then stand on my tiptoes and start on his neck. But when I look up, he’s not smiling. A dark cloud passes behind his eyes and his jaw clenches. Where I usually see tenderness, there’s only anger. Instead of kissing me back, he grabs me by the shoulder and turns me around so I’m facing the wall. Then he presses his hands on the wall on either side of my body. He moves close to me.
“Why now? Why tonight, Diana?” His voice is almost shaking, as if he’s fighting the urge to be here. “What are you doing?” He doesn’t want to want me.
I lift my dress, inviting him to make love to me. I hear him exhale. I let him tug my underwear to the side but I’m still taken aback by how agitated he’s become. This isn’t how we have sex. He doesn’t fuck meagainst walls. I gasp when he wedges his knee in between my thighs to open my legs.
“Oh, Oliver,” I moan, but Oliver covers my mouth with his hand. I turn my head to see his face; I need to know what his expression is. I want to look in his eyes, but he keeps his gaze down, watching himself enter me from behind.
It’s surprising being fucked by your husband who is nothing like your husband. He is potent and passionate. There is nothing tentative about him. He tugs at my bra until my breasts fall out and then he pinches my nipple tightly, rolling it between his forefinger and thumb. I turn my head to the side so he can see me moan. But he’s upset. He doesn’t want me to moan in pleasure. He lifts my leg and forces himself even deeper inside me so I can feel his power. His wet lips on my neck, the smell of champagne on his breath as he exhales into me. And then a sharp pain on my earlobe where his teeth meet my skin. I waver for a moment, unsure if the pain is too much. But I’m wet. So wet I can hear the slapping of his erection thrusting in and out of me. “Fuck,” Oliver almost yells. “Fuck.”
“It’s okay,” I tell him. “Keep going. Fuck me.” He uses his entire body weight and presses me flush against the wall, my breasts pressed hard against his plaid wallpaper. I stick my hips out even farther as he speeds up, until it feels like a pounding and I’m riding a fine line between pleasure and pain. Then, in a flash, Oliver changes positions. He pulls himself out of me, takes me to the bed so that I’m kneeling. From behind, he pulls my underwear down to my ankles and enters me again. “Harder,” I whisper. “Even harder,” I tell him. Oliver does as he’s told, clutching the headboard for extra resistance. “Now?” he asks. Before I can answer I feel him pulsing inside me as he comes harder than he ever has.
When he pulls out, I turn to him, finally looking him in the eye. I’m speechless and not because of the pleasure. I don’t know what to say to this man who fucked me from behind and avoided eye contact. Oliver quickly zips up his pants and buttons his shirt. “We should goback to the party,” he says, his voice cold. It’s the strangest response to the strangest experience. So I follow suit. “Sure.” I slide back into my dress. “Let’s go.”
On our way downstairs, Oliver is grabbed by a pair of investment bankers. I go in search of a quiet place where I can process what just happened. I lock myself in a guest bathroom. It’s neat and clean and decorated with seascapes and family mottos.We may not have it all together, but together we have it all!
My breath is impossible to steady. Even now, surrounded by Vivian’s bath towels that match the bath mat that brings out the pale yellow in the floral wallpaper, it’s hard to believe that someone who lived here could ever struggle.
