In a way, sexually speaking, Rick was honestly was my least satisfying partner. He was selfish. Well-endowed, had stamina, plenty of drive. But just didn’t seem to think much about what I was feeling, especially once he was close to his own climax. If I wanted him to do something, and I asked, he would, and knew what he was doing, but…I don’t know. I guess some part of me wanted him to put my needs first, at some point. To think about my desires as much as he thought about getting himself to his enjoyment. He took me, sexually, as his right, as his toy to get himself off. And unless I clearly expressed what I wanted, he wouldn’t think about it.
God, now that I think about it objectively, Rick was an asshole.
And I stayed him with for…four years, nearly. I’d met him at Julliard, and we’d been hired at the troupe together, and the whole time, I don’t think I’d ever once been totally and fully sexually satisfied. What about emotionally?
Nope.
He’d been aloof, hard to communicate with, selfish. Spent more time with friends from the company than with me.
A thought occurred to me, then.
A horrifying thought which, if true, would probably just flat out wreck me the rest of the way.
I scrambled for my phone so fast I dropped it, but thankfully I kept a rubber case on it because I was always dropping it. I didn’t even think about what time it was, I just dialed.
It rang half a dozen times.
“Huh—hello?” A muzzy female voice. A pause. “Cass. It’s…it’s seven in the morning on a Saturday. What the hell?”
“Sorry, Charlie—if it makes you feel any better, it’s three a.m. here.” I swallowed hard. “Do you think Rick is gay?”
A long, long, weird pause. “Cass. Babe. You dumb sweet bitch. Yes, he’s gay.”
“You’re mean when you get woken up,” I muttered. “You say that like it should be obvious.”
She groaned, and I heard a faint click in the background as she turned on a light. “Cassie, sweetie, chicken dumpling, my lovey-dove.”
Oh boy. The idiotic terms of endearment—that’s when you knew Charlie was about to unload both barrels, usually something she had probably been harboring and keeping to herself until directly asked about. Like now.
“Rick is gayer than a gay pride festival.” She sounded…almost like she was holding back laughter. “I thought you knew.”
“No, I didn’t fucking know!”
“Well how the hell am I supposed to know what you know? It didn’t seem to me like he ever tried to hide it. He wears the tightest pants I’ve ever seen on a male who wasn’t in tights on stage in a ballet. He’s a fantastic dresser, and not just because his family is richer than god. He doesn’t have the flamboyant lisp or anything—like, he doesn’t talk like Jonathan from Queer Eye, but he’s most definitely gay.”
“We had sex at least once a week for four years.”
“So maybe he’s bi, or still figuring it out.”
“You think he was…do you think he was sleeping with men while he was with me?”
A really difficult pause, then. “I…I don’t know.”
“Charlie.”
“I don’t! I don’t know anything for sure. I suspect he was, yes.” A sigh. “I never liked him. And not because he’s gay…I couldn’t care less about that. I just don’t think he’s a good person. He’s a dick, an arrogant, selfish jackass, and he treated you like shit. I never understood why you were with him. You called me at least once a month complaining that he left you unsatisfied in bed. I thought that was…like, duh. I always assumed you knew he was either bi or curious or something. I mean, he’s an incredible dancer, no doubt about that. And I’m not saying, like, that he can’t be straight because he’s a professional dancer. I just…he’s just not straight. Not all the way, at least. And I really thought you knew, and I figured it wasn’t my business. I told you straight up more than once that I didn’t like him, and didn’t like him for you, and that I thought you could do better. Again, I want to be clear, this is not because he’s not straight. If you want to date a guy who’s into dudes too, cool. Your business. I didn’t like him as a person and didn’t like him as your boyfriend because he’s a piece of shit person and you deserved way better than him, whether he’s into men, women, both, or kittens. I don’t care. You just deserve a man who cares about you, who takes care of you, who puts you first. And he didn’t do that.”
I sniffled. “I’m gonna call him.”
“Cassandra.”
“Charlotte.”
“Why? What are you going to get out of that?”
“It’s over anyway, but I have to know.” I wiped at my nose, swallowing hard. Hating the sting in my eyes. I shouldn’t still be able to be hurt by Rick, yet there’s the ache in my chest, a heaviness, an anger. At myself, and at him.
“Okay, but leave me on the line.”
“You can’t make a sound, though.”
“I won’t.”
I added the call, hoping he hadn’t changed his cell phone number. I looked at the screen, watching until it went from “calling” to counting the duration of the call. It rang, once, twice, three times.
“Salut, Cassie.” That voice, not quite French-accented, and smooth as French chocolate. “What is it?”
“I…I need you to answer a question for me, Rick.”
“I am going by Richard, now.” He gave it a distinct French pronunciation—REE-shar.
“Great, good to know.”
He sighed. “What is your question, m’belle?” A stammer. “I—Sorry. Old habits, you know.”
He was suddenly really leaning into his French heritage. He’d always tried to balance it, to not sound too French or too American, but a suave balance of both. Not anymore.
“Are you gay?”
He laughed, a bark of amusement. “You know, that’s a question I have been asking myself a lot lately.”
“Rick, come on. It’s three in the morning where I am, and I just need an answer. Were you sleeping with men while we were together?”
A tense pause. “To say ‘sleeping with’ is a very broad thing, cherie.”
“Quit with the affectation, Rick. This is me, okay?”
A sigh, and he dropped the accent. “It’s not an affectation, I’ll have you know. I’m half French and I’ve lived more than half my life here. But whatever makes you feel better.”
“What will make me feel better is to know you weren’t messing around with guys while we were dating. Maybe you were confused or figuring it out—I could accept that. But if you were lying and deceiving me…” I sighed bitterly. “Whatever the case, just give me the straight truth.”
“I was experimenting, yes.”
“Meaning?”
“You really want to know what I was doing, play by play?” His voice was sharp, arrogant. “I’ll tell you, but I don’t think you want to know.”
“If you’d just told me—”
“I was embarrassed, Cassie. And I really was attracted to you. I really did care for you. I wasn’t lying about that. You weren’t a beard or anything.”