Page 4 of Two Wrongs
Apparently, almost four million explanations exist, according to the results that flash up on the screen.
Seventeen celebrities who have had sex tapes, reads the first link.
I open the article, skimming across claims of stolen electronic items, compromised luggage, dodgy computer repairmen, and vindictive girl/boyfriends. Lots of finger pointing and the threats of lawsuits, mentions of out-of-court settlements, and insinuations of flagging careers and the hopes of boosted publicity.
None of these explanations ring true; Dylan doesn’t need extra publicity because he’s probably at the height of his fame. The current bad boy darling of Hollywood. The man whose exploits titillate and entertain. In fact, I’m sure he’d like a dose of the opposite; more privacy. I expect he must be tired of seeing his drunken exploits splashed across the screen, along with speculations of who he’s screwing now and how long it’ll last. It seems famous people have literally no privacy. The lengths we had to go to keep our marriage a secret were ridiculous. We’re no longer in touch, so it’s not like I can askhimwhy the world has knowledge of my bum even existing, never mind them seeing it in 2D.
I suppose it’s possible he had his phone or laptop repaired, providing someone with the chance to make a quick buck. Possible, though not probable. He’s more likely to rip out the hard drive and go buy new.
Would he do this on purpose? I don’t think so. I can’t think he’d gain anything from its release, and it’s been months now since I left. No, his releasing a sex tape as an act of vindictiveness doesn’t make sense, no matter how ugly our ending. Besides, my face wasn’t shown. If he wanted to hurt me, he’d out me, right?
And all the while I’m pondering and hypothesising—weighing the whys and why-fors—the elephant in the room taunts me.Go on, you know you want towatch ... it isn’t anything you haven’t seen before.
Okay, so I have watched myself have sex with Dylan—lots of times—but it doesn’t make it right in this instance.
When I’d asked Nat to text me the link to the video, I’d told myself it was just to be sure it was me; billions of people live on this planet, and we’re all supposed to have a double somewhere. What if my doppelganger was being banged by Dylan’s doppelganger, and they decided to make a sex tape, too?
Unlikely? Yes. Impossible? There’s no such thing. Just ask the hair stylist who married a movie star. Though, technically, I didn’t. I married a man with great arms; a man who worked as a landscape gardener but happened to be a jobbing actor, too.
So I flick through my text messages, trying to convince myself that I’ll delete the link. Of course, I click it instead.
I may as well add weak and masochistic tendencies to the list of things I don’t like about myself.
It takes only a moment for the clip to load, and a white comforter on a bed is the first thing that comes into view. We were on holiday in Puerto Rico, Isla de Culebra,and had spent the morning on the beach—me under the shade of a palm tree and Dylan catching rays. The house we’d rented had direct access to a private and pristine white piece of coastline, and what the audio doesn’t reveal is that the sounds of the lapping waves could be heard from our bed.
In the room, the light is low, the white shutters almost closed, and the late afternoon sun casting the shadows of palm fronds to dance against the walls.
It was the holiday of a lifetime. A belated honeymoon for a couple who married on a whim and then fell in love.
On screen, I hear myself giggle softly after a bit of static. Dylan whispers something low and indistinct as the bumps of my spine come into view. The camera pans out a little more, though it wasn’t really a camera; he’d used his phone. Dylan’s free hand strokes my neck, my shoulder, as his fingers catch the halter string of my blue bikini top.
Slowly, so slowly, he pulls.
My breath hitches as it falls from chest to waist, or maybe the sound is in response to the drag of his finger down my spine. He loosens the lower tie, the camera following the path of his hand; his fingers wrap around my hip, the digits dark and tanned against my pale skin. His index finger hooks under my bikini bottoms and gooseflesh breaks out there. I shiver, both then and now as, on screen, he pulls at the fabric, exposing one rounded, sand-dusted cheek to the camera. His hand begins to touch and roam, to squeeze and hold like he can’t quite get enough. I moan, and the picture blurs for a second, his head now cradled in the crook of my neck as he whispers words the audio fails to catch.
Memories that echo anyway.
‘Get on your knees,’ he’d whispered, right before pushing me forward and onto the bed. ‘God, you’re so fucking sexy.’
My dark hair splays out against the comforter, breath catching in my throat with a distinct gasp. I remember the feel of the comforter against my bare breasts; the drag of threads against my taut nipples as I’d caught my weight against my palms.
My face turns to the camera, visible yet not, the strands of my hair like a veil.
‘That wasn’t nice,’ I say, my words tinged with laughter.The skin of my arms glistens in the light, a peppering of fine sand from the beach shining like a dusting of sugar.
‘You don’t like nice,’ Dylan replies, the laughter in his words less evident, though still lurking there. ‘You like rough. Hard.’
The knot between my thighs tightens, matched by the sensation in my chest. Perhaps, it’s because of the shame of this knowledge—of being called out—or the fact I’m watching us fuck when I said I would never again. I feel sort of furtive like I’m doing something wrong and likely to be caught; a pleasurable angsty stew of aroused and bad.
Back on the screen, my arm languidly rises to move the hair from my face, but Dylan’s hard body leans over me to do it instead. It’s such a tender action, countered by what he says next.
‘You don’t want soft, babe. You just look like a girl who does.’He brushes the hair from my shoulders. The camera follows the movement, his shadow obscuring my face as my body trembles. ‘Only I know what’s going on in that head of yours. That you aren’t afraid of a dirty fuck.’
‘What kind of dirty?’ I ask, low and huskily, my words wanton in their intent.
‘You like all the bad words, baby. All the best words. Fuck me,’ he whispers, low and rough. ‘Lick my pussy. Harder. Deeper. Just fuck me, please.’
My God. I try to ignore what his voice does to me as I watch myself trembling on the bed. On the screen, his torso leans left and out of the frame, and for a fleeting second, I’m there—absolutely visible. It only occurs to me briefly to be worried because who would be looking at me when a superstar is about to get undressed? But there, in profile, my long dark hair is splayed across the white linens, my lips slightly parted, and my gaze clouded with desire and need.
