Page 61 of Dirty Diana
I have this fantasy I think about sometimes. I think about walking over to her apartment, once her girlfriend leaves for work. She lets me in, like she’s been waiting for me to arrive. Then she leads me to her bed and slowly undresses and puts my hand between her legs so I can feel her soft wetness. And the minute she does this, I can feel my orgasm building. It’s immediate. Nothing like when I’m with my girlfriend and it feels so far in the distance, and I’m concentrating hard—any rogue movement can throw it off, any miscalculated dirty talk candestroy it. But this, it’s right there for me. I’m the one trying to stop it for once. It must be what men feel like all the time.
I draw Jada at the window, her back to us, and through the window, Celine in her bed.
Then what happens?
I lay her down on the bed and suck on her breasts, and kiss between her legs and slide my fingers into her. Seeing my fingers disappear inside her, she holds me even closer. She kisses me deeply, breathes into my ear. I know how good I’m making her feel. Better than her girlfriend ever could.
It’s such a feeling of power, you know? Pleasing a stranger. And I’m determined to make her come. I can’t leave her unsatisfied the way her girlfriend does. But she wants me to come, too, so she starts kissing me, all the way down my stomach. And it feels like, this is the moment, the only moment I’ve ever really wanted, and now it’s here and I don’t ever want it to stop.
My pencil hovers over the paper, not moving, and I just listen.
It’s 12:30 in the morning. Oliver still isn’t home, which makes me imagine all the places he could be and all of them make me worry. I picture everything from a car accident to an illicit affair with Connie Britton, the last woman Oliver told me he found attractive. I find anold Xanax from my nervous flying days and pray that it still works. It kicks in ten minutes later, and I feel more relaxed than I have in months. As I lie in bed, I stop thinking about Oliver and focus on Jada. Her desire is right there on the surface. Waiting for her.
Do you come?
Like a freight train. As soon as her tongue slips inside me, I can’t stop. I come harder than I ever have. And then she lies back on the bed and I tease her with the vibrator she hands me, bringing her so close to climax, and then pulling away. And she kisses me with desperation, with want, and she’s kissing me so deeply and her breasts are pressed against mine and she feels so soft that I want to fucking melt inside her. When I touch her, she’s so ready that it takes less than a minute. She laughs when she comes and there’s something incredibly gratifying about it, like putting the last piece in a thousand-piece puzzle.
But then we hear the front door open. Her girlfriend is home early and I have to climb out on the fire escape, and we’re both laughing uncontrollably, like teenagers. She makes me promise to find her again the next day. It all feels so real. That attraction. It’s so powerful.
Do you go back? The next day?
Do I go back?…Wouldn’t you?
Suddenly, I’m not thinking about Jada. Or Oliver. I’m in a parking lot and it’s cold and snowing, and someone is there, but I only feel his body, I don’t see his face. He’s strong and slim and I’m pushing him against my car. Our hands everywhere, searching.
Alone in my bed, a throbbing sensation builds. My body is begging to be touched. I slide my fingers between my legs just as my phone vibrates on the bedside table.
I don’t want to answer but I know I should.
“Hello?” I say brightly, trying to not sound like a woman who has been interrupted while masturbating.
No answer on the other end, only music.
“Hello? Oliver?” I check the screen again to make sure and Oliver’s name is as clear as day.
“Oliver? Can you hear me?” The music is loud, a deep thrumming bass.
Then, a woman’s voice. Slow and kittenish. “Is this how you like it?”
Then a voice that is unmistakably Oliver’s. “Yes. That’s how I like it.”
I feel pinpricks of shock on my face, across my back and belly. “Oliver. I can hear you.Oliver.Pick up!” I yell into my phone.
Then the woman’s voice again. “You’re so fucking hot.”
Oliver moans in response. “Amanda.”
“Yes, baby.”
“Oliver?” I say again, quieter this time.
I sit up in bed. I disconnect the call. My own desire drains out of me as my mind races trying to understand what I just overheard. I draw myself a bath and run through every scenario of how to act when Oliver comes home. Some versions play like the soap operas I’d spent an entire summer watching when I was nine. I picture myself demanding answers and throwing something, narrowly missing Oliver’s head.
I slip under the bubbles into the warm water. Beneath the surface, I think maybe I should just forget it ever happened, swallow it down with another Xanax and fall asleep. Maybe it will feel different in the morning, farther away and less important.
Or maybe he will find me here—sitting in the bath and totally confused.
Eventually the water turns cold. Oliver still isn’t home. I shiver and climb out of the bath, dressing myself in warm pajamas and crawling into bed.
