The cold air pumping through the vents blows over my skin, turning the sweat into a fine glaze. It feels like sticky heaven, like what having sex in a walk-in freezer might feel like.
I’ve never had sex in a freezer, though Hollis and I did do the deed in the kitchen of our high school’s cafeteria, where he pressed me up against a walk-in freezer. It was after hours, and we were supposed to be living it up with the rest of our class in the gymnasium, which had been decorated to look like Paris (complete with a flimsy Eifel Tower wrapped in tinfoil and white Christmas lights) for our senior prom. But Hollis and I never liked to conform, thought we were better than the hundred and eight students we graduated with, and opted to say good-bye to our youth in our own way. We shared hits of rum from a flask while Hollis pushed into me, poured into me, my bare back sticking to the freezer’s cool metal, but I didn’t care, didn’t care at all, because Hollis was whispering Fuck, Becca, I love you, I fucking love you into my ear over and over again and giving me more orgasms than I could count.
I think about this now, think how pathetic it is that the hottest sex I’ve ever had has all been with a man who isn’t my husband.
When Nicholas and I do fuck, which isn’t often, it’s usually in our bed back home in Minneapolis. It never lasts long; Nicholas usually falls into a deep sleep right after he comes, while I retreat to our bathroom, sprawl naked in our oversized clawfoot tub, hoist my leg over the edge, and finish with my vibrator.
It’s not ideal, but I’ve gotten used to the routine, of taking care of my own orgasm. There’s a reassuring rhythm to the strokes, a comfort that comes with timing my own release. It’s nothing, of course, compared to what I experienced with Hollis. But everything comes at a price, and this is mine.
Walking out onto the back deck is like walking into a sauna, not a freezer, and the sudden change in temperature along with the heaviness in the air makes my head swoon. Or maybe it’s the gin. I’ve already downed half my glass, and by the time I slide into the chaise lounge, I need a refill. I pour some more, and after that drink, I ditch the glass, opting to take long pulls straight from the bottle.
The heat and the liquor have loosened my limbs as well as my mind, and before long, my mood turns from anger-tinged depression to a relaxed buzz, allowing me to re-examine the events of the morning from a new angle.
I don’t make it a habit to check up on my exes. All, well…both of them. Though you can hardly count Garret, my high school boyfriend that moved away at the beginning of our junior year and wasn’t smooth enough to talk me out of my virginity. The poor guy just didn’t have a way with words. Not like Hollis, who was able to talk me out of it, even while I was dating Garret. Words were my Kryptonite and, back then, Hollis didn’t even have to use his hands to get into my pants.
I swill more gin and think about this now, about our first time together under an old afghan in his parents’ basement, remembering the gentle way he spread me open, slowly, taking me from pain to pleasure with his hands, his mouth, his voice. I think about all of this as I slide my hand down my stomach, over my smooth mound, spreading my legs wider and wider, hooking one knee over the arm of the chair and pretending my fingers are his. I’m already sweaty, sticky, and as I dive into more wetness, the thrill of performing such a lewd act outside makes me tremble, moan, writhe with want, need. I push in one finger, then two, three before pressing my thumb to my clit, circling it round and round and round. I’m drawing this out, this self-sufficiency, the ability to take charge of my own orgasm. And I am taking charge, arching my back, the sun hot on my skin, its rays like a lover’s caress, its heat a heaviness that’s urging me on, on, on. I’m exposed, completely bared, every inch of me on display out here in our backyard, on our deck, bathed in bright sunlight. A few yards away, the waves of the Great Lake lap at our private beach in the same way I’m imagining Hollis’s tongue lapping at my core, sucking on my flesh, the pressure gentle yet insistent. And when I come, when I cry out his name, I hear another sound. Another voice, deeper in pitch, coming from the other side of our privacy fence. A strangled grunt, crying out with its own release.
I don’t have to look to know who it is. We’ve had a standing date this past week, this fence peeper and I. Like clockwork, we meet in our backyards, pretending to be unaware of each other yet knowing, knowing the other is just steps away, close enough to touch if we wanted, if we dared.
I don’t know our neighbor to the left, the only neighbor we have, the one who moved in next to our vacation home a few months ago. I’ve never seen him before, either. Though I have seen his wife, have nodded to her over the hood of my Lincoln Navigator when passing her driveway. She’s a little older than me, though still maintains her appearance.
I wonder if she does this for him, shares herself in this way? If she lets him watch her when she’s at her most vulnerable, her most powerful? Or if that’s the reason he watches me, feasts on my body, my orgasm, because, like me, he’s unsatisfied at home?
Either way, it’s nice to be appreciated.
From the other side of the fence, I hear a rustle of bushes.
See you tomorrow, asshole.
I decide to extend my solo trip, visiting the coffee shop every morning, altering my appearance subtly each time I do. One morning, I sport a suede fedora along with a black and white stripped halter top that shows off my toned shoulders, my firm arms. The next, I pile my hair high on my head, paint my lips bright red, and wear a frilly blouse that buttons up to my neck. Yesterday, I went so far as to forgo my glasses altogether, counting instead on a complicated smoky, cat-eye look and tight chignon to mask my identity.
Each time, I carried with me his book.
In the end, every single one of those efforts were wasted. Because even though Hollis arrived every morning like clockwork (sans the bitch he married), he never once glanced in my direction. Here I was, a mere twenty or so feet from the love of my life, yet I might as well have been sitting on the moon.
But isn’t that what I wanted? Wasn’t that the very purpose of shifting my appearance, altering myself in such a way that I could slide in under his radar? Right under his nose? A watcher, able to look but not touch?
The thing is, I want to touch.
So this morning, I show up as me. The me I’ve become, that I am now, which is far different from the me that he used to know. But nonetheless, when I fall into my regular seat at eight o’clock sharp, it’s with my usual look: platinum hair down, black V-neck tee, dark skinny jeans. My makeup, artfully applied layers of moisturizer and cosmetics, is so subtle it looks like I’m not wearing any at all. I curled my hair in such a way that, as the waves spill over my shoulders, the soft curves frame the swell of my breasts. My necklace, an antique heart-shaped locket, falls just low enough so that the V of the charm brushes the top of my exposed cleavage. I left my wedding ring at home, and while it might not seem like much (the union it symbolizes is as dull as its diamond is glittering), the absence of its weight is unbelievably liberating.
I’m subtly sexy, casually sexy, approachably sexy. It’s the sort of style that seduces all men across the board equally, regardless of their preference for hair color and body type. I suppose it appeals to their animalistic nature, this uncomplicated girl-next-door vibe, igniting a hunger that’s always there, writhing just beneath the surface. An alpha always wants to dominate his catch, and dressed like this – innocently sexy, unknowingly sexy – I’m the most delectable prey.