"Having fun?"
I turned, somewhat startled, to the unfamiliar, but oddly friendly voice nearby. A young man was grinning at me. I smiled cordially back. Was he one of the waiters for the party? Looking for the lady of the house for directions to the wine cellar? Couldn't be. No black tie. He was a guest. A young guest. He looked drunk, charmingly drunk, dressed in a conservative three button suit, with floppy black hair and very green eyes. The eyes sparkled now in the dark wood paneled room.
"Why do you ask if I'm having fun?"
He didn't reply immediately and I wanted to ask whether he was feeling all right, but then I watched, in amazement, as his green eyes slowly surveyed first my face, then my neck and then lower.
"I know I'm not having fun here and I wanted to see whether I'm strange," he said as his eyes continued with their descent, now directly focused on my breasts.
"I'm having a blast," I said, hoping to knock him out of his trance. My dress was reasonably revealing--nothing ridiculous--but certainly fit well enough to suggest what was underneath.
"I doubt that very much," he replied, as his eyes jumped to my face. "No. I doubt that you're having a blast."
I smiled to myself. So arrogant, some of these young attorneys. He simply didn't know who I was. Had he known, he would have not dared to have acted so flippantly. . . .
"You must have just started at the firm," I said gently, wanting to help him avoid making a complete idiot of himself or worse.
"Two weeks ago."
I leaned toward him a bit to make sure he would hear me through the buzz of all the voices in the room. "I'm Mrs. Turner," I said slowly so it would sink in. "Jack Turner's wife."
And instead of taking a step back, instead of showing even a slight hint of concern, the green- eyed boy continued grinning.
"I know," he said.
"You know."
"I know," he nodded absently.
The rascal. I wanted to laugh. I took a sip from my drink. He was in my house, had just started at my husband's firm, was attending a party for him and the other neophytes and he was hitting on me. It was too much.
We stood for a moment smiling at each other. I expected him to start acting normally after he'd cleared his head, after the realization of who I was settled in, but nothing. He was unfazed and I wasn't sure momentarily what to do or say next. It was an odd feeling, something I didn't often feel.
"Did you have anything special you wanted to say to me?" I tried.
"Philip," he finished my sentence and extended his hand. "Philip Rogers."
I shook his hand and we released our slight grips.
"Well, how may I help you, young man?"
"I think we both need help."
"We both need help. How so?"
"We're both bored, and we're both looking for something else to do."
"We are?"
"Yes."
"And what are we looking for?"
He grinned unabashed, his intent clear. The brute. And, at that moment, he wasn't quite as entertaining. Who did this little brat think he was? I had a son probably a year or two younger than him. My husband was. . . .
"Ahh, Janine," a warm voice interrupted my thoughts. A large arm wrapped itself around my almost bare shoulder and hugged me tight.
"I see you've met, Philip Rogers."
I leaned into Jack and wanted to shake my head for letting the little imp bother me even slightly, but I was now more than composed.
"Yes," I smiled at Philip who continued lazily staring at me. "He's a very charming young man."
"We have high hopes for him. He may not have told you but he just finished a two-year clerkship for Justice Scalia. Right out of Harvard, too. Highly unusual."
I nodded and watched Philip as he watched me. That would make him about twenty-seven. He looked so much younger. He smiled still watching me and I immediately reproached myself. The little shit knew exactly what I was thinking. That didn't happen too often.
* * *
I wanted to be tired but wasn't. These mandatory parties at the house could be so weary, and this one would have followed precisely that path if it hadn't been for him. It seemed I couldn't avoid him. His eyes, that is. They followed me, I could sense, everywhere. No one else, of course, would have gotten the least bit of suspicion because he was subtle and relaxed about it. To say he was stalking me would have been ludicrous. I was in my own house, dozens of people surrounding me and yet. . . . Two more times he'd tried to corner me into a more private talk, away from the others, and each time someone would interrupt. And I would pass from relief to disappointment in a matter of seconds after he slyly left me to a boring discussion with people I more likely than not disliked who were trying to impress me.
Relief and disappointment?
I was becoming more and more annoyed with myself. What was I relieved about? Was I going to throw myself at him? Ludicrous. Disappointment? Was I enjoying his attention? How awful! Disappointment? Much more awful than conjuring up images of him caressing me or having his way with me in some dark crook of the house. That was at least understandable. It could be dealt with. Everyone fantasizes. Perfectly natural. But disappointment? I'd never felt disappointment around another man before, even with my husband, who loved me dearly. Men shouldn't cause disappointment. Only personal failure should do that.
I looked around and saw he wasn't anywhere near. Goodness. Now I was looking for him. I shook my head and stepped in front of a mirror and looked at myself for a moment, pretending I was attending to my hair. Could I, a forty-eight-year-old woman, be attractive to him? I was tall, thin, active. This was so silly. What was I doing? I turned away from the mirror and, it seemed out of nowhere, there he was at my side. And, once more, try as I might, I was relieved and disappointed to see him. He was short, I realized, maybe an inch or two shorter than I. And he looked so terribly young, hardly any beard or. . . .
"I want to let you know I'm leaving," he said. "I wanted to thank you."
"For what?" I asked.
"For the party, of course," he grinned and I knew he was being sarcastic.
"Oh . . ." I tried smiling, hoping I could match his sarcasm with something quick, but those staring eyes . . . nothing came to mind. "Of course," I managed.
"I'm glad we met," he said, extending his hand.
Glad we met? What was that? "I'm sorry. I'm afraid I don't understand," I said coldly.
"You're beautiful," he whispered, drawing a few inches closer to me.
"That's neither--"
"Oh, but it is," he said and gently touched my wrist.
I looked down at his hand and looked up to his face. Out of the corner of my eye I could see a good friend was walking toward me, but then she stopped, looked at our joined hands, and turned away. I could only imagine what she was thinking.
"Why are you doing this?" I asked, abruptly pulling my arm away from him.
"I want you," he replied instantly, his voice betraying neither tension nor nerves.
I'd never met anyone like him before. It was insane. In my own house. In front of my husband. Goodness, in front of dozens of people, some even friends.
"Do you want me?" he asked, after a few seconds.
"You . . . " I started, my voice almost screeching. I could feel my body trembling. I took a deep breath. "I'm not sure, young man, who or what you think you are, but this little game is becoming tiresome."
"This is no game."
"You don't know me, Philip."
"I don't want to know you, Janine. I want to fuck you."
I looked around quickly to make sure no one had heard the monster's babble. No one was within hearing distance. I stood as tall as possible, and I saw him slightly crouch lower. The bastard was making fun of me!
"Come with me," I whispered harshly and grabbed his arm. He floated behind me, as we walked down a long hall way and into my study. I quietly shut the door behind him.
"Young man," I started. "You're obviously very drunk or drugged out of your mind. I don't care. I'm going to do you a favor. I will not mention any of this crap to my husband, but if you ever speak to me that way again, I will . . ."
His hand was on my bare shoulder.
"What do you think you're doing?" I barked at him and slapped his hand away.
"I want you. I can't help it. I get what I want," he shrugged and took a step toward me.
I backed away, feeling my knees giving way. "Don't take another step, Philip, or I'll scream. Do you understand?"
He wasn't listening and I felt his arms wrapping themselves tightly around my waist. I swooned as he pressed my abdomen against him. It was strange. His torso was so small and stringy compared to solid, massive Jack. I could feel him hardening. And yet all I could do was stare at his smiling face as he pressed tighter into me. I felt helpless. This could not be happening.
"I'm sorry," he was whispering, but his lips were already pressing against mine. We were both dry, chapped.
I pushed him away as hard as I could and he released me.
"Are you insane?" I breathed.
"Hardly."
"What do you think you're doing?"
"It's obvious what I'm doing."
"Yes. Yes. That's all very nice, but I don't want you. Do you understand?"
"You lie."
"I do not lie, you little shit!"
"I want to be inside you."
"Inside me?"
"I want to fuck you."
Just like that? I was speechless. No one had ever simply said "I want to fuck you" to me. Never. This shit had said it twice in ten minutes. I didn't know how to respond.
"Why? I'm old enough--" I said weakly.
"I'm sorry. It's just the way I feel now."
"Well, stop feeling like that."
"You've been watching me tonight as much as I've been watching you."
"Because I wanted to make sure you didn't have a knife or something, you psycho."
"I'm usually not wrong about these things."
"You could be no more wrong in your life, Philip. I'm not interested in you."
"What's the big deal?" he asked, and for the first time I sensed a little annoyance in his voice.
"What's the big deal? Kid, you have a screw loose or something. Do you understand what you're even asking me to do?"
"Wait," he smiled. "Let me understand this. We're attracted to each other--"
"I'm not attracted to you."
"Whatever," he smirked. "Let's assume you are."
"We will not assume any such thing and you will leave this house and if I have anything to do with it, you will no longer be employed at my husband's firm."
"You can't honestly be telling me you don't want to fuck because of your husband?" he shook his head. "Be serious."
"The fact I'm married means nothing to you?"
"Zilch."
"The fact I'm old enough to be your mother, that I am a mother myself--that's irrelevant, isn't it?"
"It only makes me want to fuck you more."
I'd had enough. I couldn't remember ever feeling more outraged at someone's effrontery as with this brat. Of course, a person makes certain presumptions in their interactions with others. We'd be in caves still, otherwise, but the naked presumptions of this kid lacked any sort of grace, charm or interest. I could even see that the little prick was erect, his crotch obviously tented and his face a bit flushed. The fool was treating me like a whore off the street. Never in my life had any man treated me like that and I wasn't about to permit any more nonsense.
"Go now, Philip."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. Leave."
"As you like it, madame," he ginned and bowed and then stepped out of the room.
* * *
Jack's naked body gently rolled onto me. I was ready, had been ready for some time now. Jack was a wonderful lover, the best I'd ever been with. He was slow, methodical, ever-present. I tried smiling up at him and opened my thighs wider and his waist, narrow for a man of fifty-two, lowered itself in between me. I closed my eyes, felt his warm pressure, the parting of my body for him and the wonderful familiar feeling of being unavoidably, slowly, filled. We both groaned as he seated himself fully inside. He felt good, warm and heavy. It had taken several years before I could fully accommodate Jack comfortably inside, but that was a long time ago. Now, his face rested on my shoulder and he gently pulled back and just as gently pushed in.
He continued and I wanted to think of nothing, not Jack, not anything, just feel him moving inside me. But I knew it wasn't working. My mind kept going back to the incident in the study. Had I really kissed that kid? I moaned as Jack's pace quickened. Yes. I had. Only two hours ago. I had. I tilted my head a bit to the side to let Jack better nuzzle my neck. His wet tongue felt nice and my body shivered at the slow, sliding, sticky sensation. You should tell Jack what happened. Tell Jack? I could feel my body bouncing underneath, against him. Jack is fucking you right now. Enjoy it. Get your mind. . . . I groaned. My body wasn't thinking and I realized I was rutting up, meeting Jack's movements. It was wet, drooling at my center, at Jack's target. That's right. That's right. Feel Jack press and push. Feel him, open yourself to him. Don't think. I reached around and grabbed Jack's clenching, sweating ass, my hands rising and falling with him. That was better. Although I knew it meant nothing, a part of me felt more in control, more in touch with him. It was better. I could hear Jack's panting, could feel the hot rush of air on my ear. I clamped my legs together around him, urging him. Yes. That was it. Now. Soon. So much I wanted my mind and body to be one. Don't think. Feel. There. Yes.
"Oh, Jack," I groaned as my body rippled and bounced against his, anchored by that piston, that magnificent cock of his. "I love you, Jack!" I cried and he groaned, increasing the tempo. "I love you. I love you. I love you. I . . . Oh! Oh! Oh! Yes! Yes! Yes!" I screamed into his face.
And then my husband was grunting his masculine weakness. I could feel him freeze painfully tight against my sensitivity, could feel my own tremors, and then his throbbing and lurching inside me-- the release and everything was so deep, so right, so normal and yet I couldn't see him. I couldn't think him. All I could see in my mind were those smiling green eyes and that patient, dull voice telling me, "I want to fuck you."
* * *
"A Philip Rogers for you, Janine," my secretary's voice called out on the speaker.
I put down my pen and thought I hadn't heard right.
"Who?"
"Philip Rogers."
It was a week later. Friday afternoon. What was the bastard doing? Certainly not to apologize. He would have done that much earlier in the week. Instead, nothing from him. And then, of course, I realized what he was doing. It was all so deliberate and juvenile. Just as I'd stopped thinking about him, just as my equilibrium was starting to return, he was going to attempt to upset everything once more.
"Show him in," I called into the speaker. I was ready. I could feel my heart racing after my secretary's "Yes ma'am," and took a deep breath to calm down. This would be good. I would show the little shit he was irrelevant, a lame little ant, to me.
He stepped into my office grinning, same floppy hair and same three button suit as when he'd kissed me. His eyes did a quick survey of the office, looked out the window and then I marveled as he focused everything out except me.
"It's a shame," he began, taking a seat, "you're behind that table."
I didn't respond.
"I would kill to see your legs."
I shook my head, in spite of myself. Nothing had changed. The same presumptions, the same smugness.
"I made a mistake," I opened.
"What was that?" he leaned forward.
"I didn't tell me husband about your behavior."
"Why not?" he waived me away. "Like I care."
"I thought, until now . . . No. l thought you'd been drunk last week, but obviously, there's something very wrong with you."
"What's wrong with me?"
"You're psychotic."
"Continue."
"No. I don't think so. I'll speak to my husband tonight."
"Why do I frighten you so much?"
"Please go."
He stood up and shook his head down at me. "Only if you'll come with me. Let's go have a drink."
I took my pen and began marking up a memo. I could feel him waiting. "Go now or I'll have security walk you out," I said, continuing with my writing.
"I'm flattered," I heard him laugh. "I never thought I would be so threatening to someone that I'd be thrown out of an executive suite in my Brooks' suit."
I looked up at him and he was grinning. I shook my head. Unbelievable. Nothing bothered the loon.
"Look," he smiled. "I'm sorry. I can't help it. This is the only way I know how to act. I mean, it's not like we're kids and need to play games. I was convinced you wanted me as much as I wanted you. Otherwise, I wouldn't be bothering you. Tell me you're not in the least interested and I'll leave."
"I'm not in the least interested."
"Okay," he continued. "Fine. There won't be a next time. You know my number." And he smiled, bowed, turned around and walked out, whistling, `Three Blind Mice'.
I continued writing.
* * *
"Do you remember Philip Rogers," Jack said, as he took a sip from his glass of wine?
"Yes," I replied, not looking at him, staring down at the fork in my hand playing with the Tuna filet.
"He's taking a leave of absence."
I looked up. "After only two months."
Jack smiled. "Yes. He's being offered a very special position with the Bush administration. With the national security team. Quite a senior position. In fact, I made a few calls for him."
"Good," I sighed looking down at my plate. The fish seemed to be swimming and I took a deep breath. I suddenly felt like crying.
"Yes, good for him," I heard my husband gulp down some more wine. "Bad for us. Still, it's understandable."
"Of course," I muttered.
* * *
As I dressed for bed, I stared at myself in the mirror. I smiled. I was finally starting to show a little gray. Jack had laughed that my pact with the devil was through before he'd gone back down to finish up on some work. Jack. What would Jack do? What would any man do? It was so simple. A man in his late forties confronted with a luscious eager woman in her twenties . . . it was obvious. No matter how faithful, how disciplined, he would. Of course, if he were a good man, he'd never seek it out. But that's not what had happened. What if it literally fell onto his lap? Would Jack? Of course. And you couldn't really hold it against him. What was he supposed to do?
Would I? Philip would be leaving town in a week or so. One week and then never again. He'd be gone. Why should I? For pleasure? I grinned. I doubted greatly Philip of the green eyes, stringy body and small tent in the pants could bring me as much physical pleasure as Jack. For what, then? Ego? I was happy, so fortunate in family, career, everything. Excitement? I'd had plenty of excitement in my life, at Berkeley, in Europe, with Jack and once or twice after Jack. I didn't need excitement. Why should I? To affirm my femininity, my beauty as I entered menopause? The gray and the changes I welcomed, had been resolved to for a long time. I knew I was attractive, had always known it, all my life. I didn't need some brat to confirm that. Something Oedipal? Good grief. My son was half a foot taller, blond and blue eyed, thoughtful, charming, a gentleman. Philip, the creature, was none of those things. Why?
A last dance to youth? A farewell? No. That was so not me. I'd never been an idiot romantic.
Nothing made sense except that he told me, more directly than anyone else in my life, that he wanted to fuck me. Pure and simple. He'd challenged me. He didn't want to make love to me, whatever the hell that was. He wanted to fuck me, to use me, with no pretense or drama and he was inviting me to use him in the same way. I doubted highly that Mr. Supreme Court Clerk was motivated by a desire to embarrass his boss or stoke his ego. The idiot was about as egotistical as I'd seen, and I'd seen a lot of big egos in my days. None of that would matter. No. For the hour or so I'd be with him, none of that would matter. We'd be two people fucking. I could imagine it, had imagined it dozens of times, but did I want to? .
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