Bitten to the Core
an excerpt

Chapter One

The Ocean City Poetry Society meets at the Ocean City Library, 17th and Simpson Streets, Ocean City, New Jersey, the first Tuesday of every month. The announcement on the local television station cracks me up and I decide this is something I cannot miss. Besides, I need to get out of the house because I’ve been wallowing in depression for weeks which is not like me at all.
But when I walk up the stairway to the reading room on the second floor it’s all I can do not to groan out loud. The M&M gang is here, seated primly on folded metal chairs. One lady is knitting and another has a Bible on her lap.
I first met them last week I went out to breakfast at what I thought was a hip little cafe but I want to sue for false advertising. They may have had pumpkin pecan pancakes and coconut custard French toast on the blackboard menu posted in their window but my luck it turned out to be a hot spot for church ladies. There were six of them, all wearing red t-shirts emblazoned with a large M&M on the front – each one a different color - and her name embroidered in three inch yellow letters on the back. If one is to believe what is written on her shirt and her proprietary air at the head of the table, their fearless leader is named “Dottie”. I watched in a mixture of horror and shock as they bowed their heads in loud prayer over their coffee.
One woman, the obvious rebel in the group because she cut the sleeves off of her t-shirt but it was probably more to fend off hot flashes, was persistent with her questions. It didn’t matter what she asked because Dottie always had an answer ready and it was always the same one:
“You are a wife, a daughter, a mother…you are God’s child.”
In the hour or so that I sat there, this explained terminal illness, the war in Iraq, and September 11.
I wanted to scream Shut the fuck up, you are praying in a public place, that’s against the law in this country and you are violating my constitutional rights!
But naturally I did no such thing, because even at this age I still haven’t changed. I want everyone to like me even though that’s never going to happen.
Especially in light of the fact that I don’t like most people myself.
I think that I am a little jealous because Dottie’s response is all it takes to give these women comfort. They serenely stuffed their bulging red t-shirted midriffs with huge stacks of pumpkin pecan pancakes while I suffered silently over an egg-white omelet.
Though I did have a private snicker that their husbands must come in their mouths, not in their hands.
So here we are, together again, at the Ocean City Public Library. I grab a seat in the back and do a quick scan around the room. Oh god. There’s the Waiting to Die Because I’m Left With My Wife Twenty/Four Seven Since Being Taken Kicking and Screaming into Retirement Quintet -- five men who hang outside Ove’s Apple Cider Donut Stand on the boardwalk all year long, even now, when it’s boarded up and closed for the winter and you turn blue unless you are dressed like an Eskimo.
Seated front row center is Laura, the woman who owns the only beauty salon on the island, another one who should be on Social Security but I’m glad she’s not because she gives one hell of a French manicure.
“I keep up with the trends,” Laura says, patting her perfectly gelled mullet.
So this is cool. For once I’m the youngest person in the room, and by several decades yet. But oh good grief, what kind of guest poet could they possibly have booked? Am I going to have to sit here for two hours and listen to Hallmark greeting cards?
Probably.
I look longingly over at the refreshment table. Wine and cheese? Awesome!
No boxed cookies from the supermarket and Kool-Aid? What a nice surprise. I really need to stop being such a snob.
I bet that old hipster manicurist Laura was in charge of snacks.
The librarian steps to the podium and announces our special guest. I don’t pay attention because I am fascinated by one of the Hope to Die men. He’s got two fingers up his nose simultaneously. Ooh, he must be about to extract a small creature from his hairy left nostril and I don’t want to miss it.
“Hullo,” says a warm, British voice.
What’s that? I glance up at the speaker. This is our poet? Oh, there is a God. Long shaggy dark hair, five o’clock shadow, heavy lidded eyes – and my soul mate, completely dressed in black polo and jeans topped with a black leather jacket.
You would think by now I’d have learned my lesson about British men, but no, no, there you have it, I almost slide off my chair.
And then he starts to recite something he wrote and our eyes lock because we both know I’m the only one in the room who has a clue as to what he’s talking about and I’m thinking it’s been two and a half months since I’ve had sex while my boyfriend travels across Europe allegedly promoting a cookbook which we illustrated together while taking care of his ex-girlfriend who may or may not be grievously injured as a result of a motorbike accident in Paris.
I wonder how old the poet is.
Hopefully nearer to me in age than my oldest son, but upon closer inspection, my stomach sinks. I mean, he could be forty, but I doubt it, though he’s got the kind of looks where he could be anywhere from twenty-five to thirty-five.
Please let him be thirty-five. At least a six year age difference wouldn’t fall under the dreaded May-December category, would it?
Oh, what do I care. He’s probably splitting from here as soon as he’s finished reading, unless the M&M gang kidnaps him and takes him down to the church basement where they will wrap his naked torso in chains and commit terrible sins in the name of our Lord.
Right, Elizabeth. You’re normal. Can’t you have thoughts like other people?
As it turns out, the two of us end up in a bar after the reading and as soon as I get the chance I ask him how old he is.
“Twenty-nine,” he says, taking a swallow of beer. “And you?”
“Forty,” I lie. “In fact, today is my birthday.”
Hey, if you are going to lie, you may as well lie.
He looks at me and grins. “This is the best you can do?”
So now I’m not sure if he means “this is the best you can do” because it’s a lousy fib, or “this is the best you can do” meaning spend such a momentous occasion with a poet who is forced to take a speaking engagement at the Ocean City Public Library.
But because I am now on my second vodka martini and it has already been well-established that I am a cheap drunk – a very cheap drunk – I look at him and say “What can I tell you, I’m horny.”
Apparently I am not that drunk after all. Kill me now. Please. I’m begging you.
“Oh? Just how horny are you,” he asks, looking at me through those all too familiar man in heat narrowed eyes.
“Horny? Who’s horny? I had great sex with myself the past seven days in a row,” I reply, adding to my heretofore unknown plan for suicide.
He laughs. “What’s your name again?”
“Elizabeth. And what’s yours?” Because really, I had no idea. Even though had I looked, I’m sure there were posters all over town.
“Andrew. Andrew Kent. For fuck’s sake, you didn’t know that, did you.”
“Nope. Sorry. I feel guilty, I swear.”
Not.
And to prove it I reach over in front of him and grab a handful of peanuts, half of which I drop on his thigh.
He brushes them off and shrugs. “Now why would you feel guilty?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I’m a painter and you are a poet and we should all support each other and all that happy stuff.”
“That makes absolutely no sense at all. But whatever. Let’s have a toast for your birthday. Cheers!” We click glasses and I feel more like an idiot than ever. Worse. A cradle robbing idiot.
“So you are a painter. Is that what brings you to Ocean City, Elizabeth?”
“No. I’m here nursing a broken heart. Or not. I have no idea, really. My boyfriend and I are separated at the moment and I’m not sure if it’s real or in my head and...wait, why are you looking at me like that?”
“No reason. You’re very pretty, you know?”
“I’m screwed no matter how I answer that, aren’t I.”
“In a perfect world, yes” he grins.
“Oh really,” I say, because I can’t think of anything else.
“Really.”
There’s an awkward pause between us made worse by the sound of me furiously eating peanuts. This is because I am scared witless he’s going to do something mortifying like kissing an older woman in public and it will totally be my fault if he does. Who tells a total stranger that they’re horny? I mean, who over the age of sixteen, that is?
Luckily one of us is more mature than the other.
“Where do you live when you are not nursing a broken heart, Elizabeth?” he asks. Oh great. Now I am in trouble. He’s idly playing with my fingers. I pretend it’s not happening.
“New York. East Village, actually.” At least I think that’s where I still live although it’s Rob’s apartment, not mine, but he wouldn’t just put me out on the street, would he? Oh who cares. I have money of my own.
But of course that brave voice is the alcohol speaking, not me.
“Ha! I would have guessed that. Somehow I doubt there are any other women in Ocean City, New Jersey dressed in black jeans and a Lou Reed t-shirt.”
“Sadly there aren’t that many of us left in New York, either,” I reply. “But since we are drawing stereotypical conclusions here, I guess the same could be said for you. London, then?”
“Nope, New York, same as you. But not the east Village – the slums of Brooklyn.”
“Who are you kidding, Andy – can I call you Andy? Brooklyn is all yupped up now. You aren’t a writer unless you have a Brooklyn address.”
“Trust me, I live in the underbelly. Poets are not apparently paid as well as painters.”
Since I’m not about to launch into anything personal with him like my finances or worse, throw any emotional baggage at him at this point in our relationship, I stay quiet. Or as quiet as I can while he continues to lightly touch my fingers and I struggle not to spill vodka martini all over myself.
He walks me home, I don’t remember saying the words but I guess I invite him in, and pretty soon we are sitting side by side on the ugly plaid sofa in my off-season rental home with our tongues down each other’s throats. I give silent thanks that the thrifty owner had the good sense to use sixty watt light bulbs throughout the place, making it both sexy and just enough to conceal our age difference.
We take a short breather but it’s pretty obvious we’re both consumed by lust.
“Can I get you something to drink? I have some Pinot Grigio, some..”
“Pinot Grigio would be lovely,” he says.
I open a bottle of wine and we proceed to get wasted and the next thing you know, he’s chasing me upstairs to the bedroom, both of us laughing as we collapse on the bed, shedding our clothes.
Oh hurrah does this guy know his way around a woman. We’re both too drunk to attempt anything sexually Olympic wise so we just opt for a round of down and dirty fucking and he has one of the most perfect senses of timing I have ever experienced with a man. He knows how to move and he has exquisite control, even after all that alcohol. Man, what a lucky find.
Later that evening when my blanket is wrapped around our ankles he asks: “What do you think about, now that you are forty?”
I stare at him incredulously. I mean, he wasn’t that great in bed.
“Death and disillusionment, mostly,” I say after a while.
“Ah, it’s just like being twenty-nine, then,” he yawns.
Oh shit. I forgot to include dismemberment.
“Yes, exactly the same,” I say, looking around for a weapon but all I can see on my nightstand is an emery board which is, alas, made of paper.
He misunderstands completely and reaches for me again and now I remember just what twenty-nine year old men are good for. Funny how quickly I forgive him for his tactlessness.
It isn’t until hours later, while I listen to this beautiful man-child snoring next to me, that I realize the magnitude of what I have done.
I mean, I just fell into bed with a total stranger and I’m supposed to be in love.

Chapter Two

So how did I end up in a New Jersey seaside resort swarming with disillusioned retirees and M&M addicted religious zealots in the middle of winter?
Because as usual, things were going great. Too great. So naturally the bottom had to fall out. It’s the law, I guess. So here’s the story. I was -- I mean, I am -- in love with Rob, the world’s most incredible man, and we live in a knocked-out loft where he encourages me to follow my dream and paint although there is that little business about twisting my arm into staying on as manager of his restaurant and helping him run Nana’s. But it’s only so he can concentrate on being its executive chef. I still get two days off to go to my studio and I’ve pretty much been trying to stick to that, except for when Rob comes up with some enticing plan which I can’t refuse.
Which was starting to be on more and more occasions, but then again, he’s been gone for over two months now so the real truth is, I’ve been using my days off to run the restaurant so the rest of the staff can get a day off before they boycott the place.
But yeah, other than that, things are still okay. My ex-husband married a woman wealthy enough to buy out my share in our former home, so I have no financial worries. My oldest son is – I kid you not – an NBA superstar, and my younger son is an artist well on his way to establishing the very career that I would love to have. So life is good, right?
Wrong.
It all started to fall apart when I moved in with Rob, I think. It was too soon for him after his split from Marianne, his girlfriend of the past four years, and only one year after my divorce following twenty years of marriage to the only man I’d ever dated. I mean, I know we are in love but I think we went into the relationship so hot and heavy we forgot that there are other things that are important in our lives right now.
For me, it’s re-establishing my career as an artist.
For Rob, it’s fatherhood.
Yeah, that’s right. I said it. Forty-one years old, the mother of two young adults, and my boyfriend wants a baby.
And it’s not as if he kept it a secret from me; it’s why he split up with Marianne. She was too busy with her career as a classical pianist and honestly didn’t want children.
“Oh, I love kids,” I gushed to him back in the day when I was still lusting over him and he belonged to another woman.
What was I thinking? Somebody please tell me. What the hell was I thinking?
In the beginning it was awesome. We were inseparable, and it was Rob who told me I should stop working at the restaurant and me who said “Oh no, I like being with you every single waking hour,”
And it’s true. I love the guy. We giggle together every day; we’re both food obsessed artists, and if life isn’t perfect enough, we got a contract for a cookbook which Rob wrote and we co-illustrated, and damn if the thing isn’t slowly inching into best seller territory. Our plan was to do a cross-country book tour, and then one day Rob remarked idly, “Do you think you can handle a combination of a book tour and being heavy with child?”
It was so off the wall, the way he said that, I actually thought he said something about combining our tour with Julia Child.
“Isn’t she dead?” I asked.
“What?” he gasped.
“Yeah, I think she died last year. Or the way time goes it could have been even longer than that, I’m not sure. I just know she’s dead.”
“But I thought we discussed this. I thought it was something you wanted!”
“To travel the world with a corpse? What are we going to do, prop her up in front of a table and hide her rotting flesh with cosmetics made from embalming fluid? Rob, what the hell are you talking about?”
“No, Elizabeth. It’s more like What are you talking about. I like how you always seem to zone right out the minute I mention kids.”
“Kids? When did you mention kids? What am I missing here? I thought we were talking about going from city to city, hawking our new book. When did kids enter into the conversation?”
He gave me this look of disbelief and then stormed into the kitchen and slammed cabinet doors. It was so unlike him I was completely freaked out so I followed him in there to try and apologize and make some sense of what was going on.
“Rob, I’m really sorry if I misunderstood something. You know what a dreamer I am. We were talking about the book tour and I started going on a mind trip about that and all of a sudden I hear you say the word “child” and it was completely out of context to what I was thinking…anyway, I’m really sorry. Please tell me what it is you said so that I can at least reply like a sane person, okay?” I walked over to him and gave him my best big-eyed little girl look.
He sighed and kissed the top of my head.
“I can’t stay angry at you, Lizzie. What I said was, will you be able to do a lot of traveling on behalf of the book while you are with child.”
It still wasn’t sinking in.
“I’m not pregnant,” I said.
“Not yet. But hopefully soon,” he replied.
I felt a pain in my stomach. A bad one. Oh god, he wanted me with child. I needed a get-me-out-of-this plan and I needed to choose my words carefully, something I was never good at doing despite an expensive law school education.
Exhibit “A” of why I no longer practiced law.
“Rob, call me old-fashioned, but we’re not even husband and wife and you are talking babies.”
“So? Let’s get married, then. How’s Saturday?” He opened the refrigerator and took out some mushrooms. I leaned against the wall and watched him slice and dice. Damn, he was sexy.
“Saturday? Oh sure, why not,” I laughed.
“I’m not joking. Let’s do it. Tie the knot and immediately start working on our baby. C’mon, Elizabeth. We’re both forty-one – we don’t have much time.”
I thought I was going to have a seizure. Okay, yeah, we knew each other for a couple of years but we’d only entered into a serious relationship six months ago, and after three of those months I’d moved in with him. Even that had me questioning my sanity. I was barely out of a twenty year marriage and other than one totally whacked out year before Rob and I hooked up, had never even known the freedom of living in my own apartment. And that year didn’t count because it was so miserable.
But now things were different. I had a lot of money and could get a really nice place on my own. The idea of going through children all over again, as much as I loved Rob and as much as I loved my own children…oh God, I couldn’t deal with it.
It meant another twenty years of no sleep and worrying. Little league and homework and trips to the zoo and Muppets on Ice and sleepovers. Worst of all, it meant other kids and other kids’ parents.
I didn’t know if I was willing to do that for anyone.
And then fate, as fate is wont to do, played a heavy hand – in fact, it fucked with everything.
We’d just finished supper following that traumatic conversation and I was contemplating how to keep it from continuing throughout the evening when the telephone rang. Rob looked at the caller identification, wrinkled his brow, and picked up.
It was Marianne, ex-girl of his dreams, calling from Paris. She’d been in a motorbike accident and was in pretty bad shape. Not in intensive care nor even the hospital, mind you, but home in her luxury apartment on Rue de La Paix. However, she did have several broken bones in her upper extremity which was problematic in that she was a classical pianist. While recuperating she’d had time to think, and realized what was important to her in life.
And that would be Rob.
Naturally, he had to fly to her side.
“You have to be kidding me,” I said when he gave me the news.
“Elizabeth, she has nobody. No family, no one to help her. She doesn’t have use of either arm and she’s relying on a nurse to feed her. Besides, I can combine this with a few book signings in Europe.”
“You? All by yourself? What about me? I thought we were doing this together!”
“That was when we were just going to be doing it a few days at a time in the U.S. I need you to run the restaurant while I’m away.”
“What?” I was so mad, so astounded, so hurt…I can’t even begin to describe it. I started to cry both from shock and jealousy and just plain misery.
“I don’t understand why you are so upset. You are the most confident woman I know – you can’t possibly be threatened by Marianne? I love you, Elizabeth. Marianne is history but we were together four years and I owe her this.”
“You do not!”
“It’s not like I’ll be gone forever. A week or two, tops. While I’m gone you can plan our wedding.”
Yes, he actually said that. I think my jaw fell somewhere beneath the earth.
To make a long story short, two weeks turned into three, three to four, one month then two. I ran the restaurant with the help of our two managers and tried not to have a nervous breakdown.
It’s not like Rob disappeared. No, he called daily and told me every day how much he loved me. He showered me with emails and digital photographs – to show me what I was missing, I guess – and didn’t let me forget for one minute that he was still my boyfriend.
It’s just that Marianne needed him and he couldn’t bring himself to leave her. He was afraid he still had feelings for her and he had to work them out before he came home.
If he came back home.
He didn’t come right out and say that, but every time I asked him when he thought he’d be returning to New York, he said he didn’t know, that it was “complicated”. That if I loved him I would give him time and take care of the restaurant for him because it was our future.
And so I did what any other normal woman would have done in my position. I packed my bags and rented a house with an open-ended lease in my favorite place in the entire world, a seaside town where I vacationed as a child. Ocean City, New Jersey. Long white beaches, deep blue water, an old fashioned boardwalk and one hundred fifty miles from New York City. Of course I had to pick the middle of winter when absolutely nothing was open except a nail salon, library, and café swarming with church ladies and candy freaks but what the hell, it made perfect sense.
Because we’ve already established I am not normal, haven’t we.
For me going back to Ocean City was the equivalent of returning to my mother’s home and sleeping in my childhood bedroom while my mom stroked my forehead and told me everything was going to be alright. Except my mother died twenty years ago and my childhood home is now a part of a strip mall housing a Domino’s Pizza and a Jiffy Lube but oh well, this was the best I could come up with.

Chapter Three

The icy pink winter sunrise is breathtaking and it’s the first thing I notice when I wake up but that is because I am on my side, facing the window, and I’ve temporarily forgotten about the poet sleeping behind me.
I carefully turn over to have a better look at what is one of the bigger mistakes I’ve made in my adult life and it occurs to me that if the karma police are keeping count, I’m in big trouble.
Oh my god, he’s a baby. A beautiful baby, but a baby nonetheless.
Okay, a beautiful man-child.
Must get to bathroom and repair damage of being forty-one and hung over before he wakes up. I’ll be needing a putty knife, crazy glue…
I don’t really care how I look. This is fucked up. I just want him to leave so I can pretend this never happened.
And before Rob calls.
“Hi,” the poet says. What was his name again? Oh right. Andrew. Andy.
“Morning, Andy,” I yawn. “So what are your plans for today?”
Oh no, I didn’t just say that. He probably took it totally the wrong way, like, I’m some desperate lonely woman who is going to cry when he gets up to leave. What to do, what to do.
“I have a lot to do today,” is what I come up with.
He laughs. “Do you have something to do right now?”
I look at him and he’s got such a sexy smile I blush. How dare he look so perfect and handsome first thing in the morning, all tousled black hair and five o’clock shadow. I, on the other hand, probably resemble the crazy cat lady on The Simpsons. Great. Now what am I supposed to do.
As it turns out, nothing. He does it all. Did I say he wasn’t that great a lover? What the hell was I drinking last night? He’s bloody fantastic -- oh great, one night with a Brit and I start talking like Madonna -- and for the first time in weeks I feel happy and relaxed and not on the verge of tears.
Well, assuming I don’t really think about what it is that I’m doing and the ramifications, that is. But still. This is nice. Very, very nice.
He pulls me on top of him.
“Sit up with your legs straddling me. I want to watch you,” he says. “Touch yourself while you ride me or would you rather I touch you?”
“All depends how good you are,” I gasp. “I’ll let you know after you audition…oh…nice.” Damn is it ever. He’s good with his hands. I love that. It takes all of about five seconds to come and he has the decency to wait before exploding himself. Which he does with a very sexy “Oh you are incredible!”
Hey, even if it’s a line, I’m so love starved right now I’ll eat it up with a spoon.
I roll off of him and we lay side by side, panting.
“I guess you expect me to make you breakfast now,” I say to break the silence.
“God no. The thought of food before noon makes me gag. Coffee would be lovely, though.”
“That I can do.” I get out of bed and grab my robe off the hook and don’t look back at him. I don’t want to see his face after he’s had a glance at my middle-aged ass in the daylight.
I go into the kitchen and grind up some beans, half hating myself and half drunk with lust. I pour him a huge mug I find in the china closet which says “Life is a Beach” all over it in multi-colored script and has a sea shell for a handle.
I put his coffee on the nightstand next to him and he smiles at me.
“What happened, happened once. So now it’s best
in memory—an orange he sliced: the skin unbroken, then the knife, the chilled wedge lifted to my mouth, his mouth, the thin membrane between us, the exquisite orange…”
“What?” I ask stupidly, climbing back into bed next to him with a normal cup.
“Kim Addonizio. Unbelievably brilliant poet. That’s from one of hers, called Stolen Moments,” he says. “It’s what you are thinking, I can feel it. So somehow it seemed right to share it with you.”
“Thank you. Shall I take it personally, then?”
“Only if it’s true.”
“Then you’ll have to repeat it for me after I’ve had my coffee,” I laugh. It’s kind of cool, having a gorgeous young guy recite hip poetry to me with the ocean as a backdrop. I could be doing a lot worse.
“This is actually a very nice place you’ve chosen to nurse your broken heart,” he says as if reading my mind. “Single home, beachfront, plasma big screen television and everything. How long do you have it?”
“As long as I want. It’s ridiculously inexpensive this time of year and I pay the rent month to month. So technically I’m here for another four weeks at least since I just sent them a check.” I wonder why I’m giving him so much information. It’s really none of his business. He’s a total stranger. But that’s me for you, always the helpful volunteer.
“I imagine you’re getting a lot of painting done here.”
“In theory, yeah,” I say, though the truth is, I’ve worked probably a grand total of three hours since last week. I sip my coffee thoughtfully. I really should get serious about my work. I have been wasting the perfect opportunity.
“I know I’d get a lot of writing done in an inspiring setting such as this,” he says wistfully.
I don’t know how to answer that. It is a big house, but it’s bad enough I slept with this guy. Letting him stay with me would be downright insane.
“What time do you have to be back in New York?” I ask, figuring it’s an ambiguous enough of a question even though that’s obviously not my intention.
“I don’t.”
“What?” Little hairs are standing up on the back of my neck. This is definitely not the answer I expected.
“I don’t have to be back any specific time. I work from my laptop – I do freelance editing. At times I substitute teach but I saved my money so I could take this semester off to concentrate on my writing.”
The whole time we are having this conversation he is sitting up bare-chested propped on the snowy white pillows, sipping his coffee and staring at me. I am having an impossible time meeting his eyes, though it’s kind of hard to tear my gaze away from the rest of him.
“Before I do go, I have one request,” he says. I’m so grateful I almost reply “Anything” but luckily I stop myself before I end up with my wrists attached to my ankles in bondage tape.
Been there, done that, didn’t like it. Though I hasten to add I would have if twenty pounds thinner and younger.
“What’s that?” I ask instead.
“I love walking on the beach this time of year. When it’s cold and grey and deserted. Can I interest you in joining me?”
“Of course! I would love that. We really need to bundle up, though. It’s freezing. Do you have gloves and stuff?” I look at him dubiously.
“As a matter of fact, I do. Out in the car. Shall we shower first or just go out and rough it?”
I stop and consider this for a moment.
“Well, I would like a shower, but that would mean going out into freezing weather right after getting wet. If we went out now, we could take a hot shower when we got back and it would feel so good…”
Oh my god, what was I saying?
He grinned happily.
“That’s my girl! Shall we go, then?”
Doomed. I’m always fucking doomed.
It’s not as cold as it looks on the beach. The sun is hot and is incredible combined with the brisk wind coming off the sea. We are the only ones out today and we feel like we’re the only two people in the world. The sky is doing some crazy Maxfield Parrish type stuff and this whole experience is surreal. We’re holding hands like two school kids and I’m not quite sure how this whole thing is evolving so quickly and easily but there you have it, it is, and we walk for miles, sometimes talking art and music and writing, sometimes stopping to kiss, sometimes just staring at the insane formation of blue purple clouds while he recites poems and I get awesome ideas for paintings.
I really don’t think you experience life until you stand on a deserted beach in winter and share a long, soulful kiss.
But as we walk on I realize how crazy this is, even for me. I have let a total stranger into my life and crazier still, it feels right. I’m physically and intellectually attracted to him and he appears to come with no strings. What could be more perfect?
So when we return to my house after literally spending the entire day on the beach, our faces flushed from the cold and giggling like two little kids over a goofy looking rabbit with a candy wrapper hanging out of its mouth sitting on the front step, it seems perfectly natural that we immediately head upstairs, step out of our clothes without speaking, and walk toward the old-fashioned, claw footed bathtub together. But before I turn the water on, I get inspired.
“Hang on for a minute,” I tell him.
I run back downstairs bare-assed naked and grab a bottle of wine and two glasses and race back up the steps two at a time.
It’s amazing how free I am of my usual assorted neuroses with this guy, especially like how I don’t care what he’s thinking about my nude body – is that cottage cheese or skin? It’s as if I totally don’t care, and yet I do like him a lot which is why it’s so out of character for me. Usually when I like someone, I totally fall to a million insecure little pieces.
“Okay, turn the water on hot,” I tell him, barely able to catch my breath. I throw almond scented bubbles into the tub, pour some crisp Pinot Grigio for both of us, and light some candles. I may be an old chick but no one can argue that I’m not still too cool for words. The sun is already starting to set and we can see its fiery red and orange flickering tongues lighting up the back bay from the bathroom window - it’s so spectacular it’s ridiculous – and well, it is more than kind of unspoken that he’s not going anywhere.
At least not tonight.
It’s a huge tub and we sit facing each other. Because he is young and agile and after one glass of wine on a totally empty stomach I am drunk as hell, he is somehow able to pull me up on his lap and slide inside of me. The combination of the warm soapy fragrant water and his deep thrusts are enough to kill me but then he starts to suck then bite my nipples simultaneously and I forget that I have a rotten absent boyfriend – I forget all of my troubles really – hell, I forget my name – and I have one of the most memorable orgasms of my life. Man, if this is what life is like after forty, I’m digging it in a big way.
But at the same time, I’m still sober enough to be sad. I really love Rob. Yet I know I’m not willing to make the ultimate sacrifice for him because nope, I’m never having his children. And so I have this really ominous feeling our relationship really is over, no matter what he ultimately decides about Marianne.
I mean, I guess I knew it all along, but this is the first time it’s hit me and it’s hitting me hard.
And now he’s cheating on me, I’m cheating on him, and between the two of us, we’ve completely fucked up our future.
At least our immediate future, anyway.
Oh well. I will figure things out later. I always do. It’s my specialty.
In the meantime I’m going back for seconds on young Andrew here. He appears to be hungry for more.

Chapter Four

At around 9:00 p.m. we realize we are both starving. In Ocean City, New Jersey on a weeknight in the middle of winter, we have a choice of two things: Domino’s Pizza or whatever we can throw together in the kitchen.
We opt for the two of us, but at the moment every bone in my forty-one year old frame hurts – in a good way, mind you – from the youthful exuberance of Andrew’s lovemaking. I feel like my body and brain are made of Jell-O and I stand in front of the open refrigerator door totally clueless.
“Hullo, what have we here?” he asks, holding up a carton of eggs and a packet of bacon.
“Works for me,” I say gratefully. “I’ve got cheese and mushrooms. Fancy an omelet?”
Hold on. Fancy an omelet? Oh god, Madonna is back. I need to stick my head in the oven and do a Sylvia Plath.
“I’ll do it,” he says. “I bet you aren’t used to a man who can cook.”
“Not quite,” I say before I can stop myself.
He takes a bowl out of the cabinet and sets it down on the counter.
“Oh? How so?” He turns and looks at me with an eyebrow raised and when I am silent, he returns to the task at hand. I watch as he expertly cracks eggs one by one with nary a bit of shell going astray.
“I thought we weren’t going to talk about our personal lives,” I finally reply.
“I don’t remember our agreeing to that. I admit this relationship just sort of magically happened but I don’t recall signing on to any stipulations and conditions behind it.” This time when he turns around again he stares into my eyes as if seeing me for the first time. And too funny, he has a fearful expression.
“Good lord, you aren’t wanted in fifty states for murdering a husband or three, are you?”
“What? Christ, Andrew. Three husbands? No, of course not.”
“Well that’s a relief, then.” He has the good sense to laugh at my warped humor and I have to say that at this point in my life I appreciate that more than anything.
“I mean, the very idea of three husbands,” I continue. “Actually, if you must know, I did decapitate my boyfriend and then chop the rest of him into little pieces. Open the freezer – I have some fingers and toes in there. We can munch on them while we’re waiting for the eggs to cook.”
“Elizabeth! You wicked tart! Are you trying to give me a coronary?” But of course he’s smiling even broader than before. If he’d taken me seriously, I would have been dismayed beyond belief. And probably sent him home for the unforgivable crime of being humorless.
But good old Andy came through.
“So your boyfriend likes to cook, does he? How’d you let him get away?”
Okay, now I’m pissed.
Oh alright, not that pissed.
“Andy, it’s a long sad story. You don’t really want me to tell you the whole thing, do you? I would have to start at the beginning, and it’s a major feature film.”
“How about if you give me the abridged version? The mini-series, if you like.” He whips the eggs expertly and pours them into a sizzling frying pan. I try not to wince at all the butter he puts in and hope I’m not due to see the doctor any time soon for a cholesterol check.
But before I can launch into my whole sordid tale, my cell phone rings and caller identification says it’s Rob, calling me from Paris. Nothing like a little serendipity.
“Excuse me for a minute,” I say to Andrew, and I walk out of the kitchen and straight upstairs to the bedroom for privacy.
“Hello?” I don’t even say “Hi, Rob!” because I am definitely not in a “Hi, Rob!” kind of head right now.
“Hey, Lizzie. How are you?”
“Surprised to be hearing from you, I guess. Isn’t it like 3:00 a.m. in France?”
“Yeah.”
“And you are awake because…?”
“I can’t sleep. I’m stressing out. My brains feels like it’s going to explode. We need to talk.”
“Now?”
“Why not now? Are you in the middle of doing something else in that godforsaken part of the world?”
“As a matter of fact…” Oh crap, now why did I just say that. And if Rob finally wants to talk, I should let him. I hate the fucking word, but maybe it’s time for some closure so I can get on with my life.
I just wish my eyes aren’t inexplicably filling up with tears. God, I love him so much. How did I let things go so wrong? I should have followed him to Paris and fought for him, damn it, instead of running away to some lame abandoned beach resort full of M&M addicts waiting to die.
“You really can’t speak to me now? It’s important. There’s something I need to tell you.”
My stomach sinks in fear. Okay. Let’s get it over with.
“I can talk,” I say quietly. “What is it?”
“I’m really worried about the restaurant. When are you coming back to New York?”
“When am I coming back to New York? It’s more like when are you coming back to New York!” I practically scream. I’m so angry my eyes feel like they are bleeding.
“Elizabeth, we’ve discussed this. I am still trying to work things out. It’s really complicated. And without you there as my rock, I just don’t know what I am going to do. You have to help me. I’m desperate.”
“Since when…since when have I ever been a rock, Rob? How can you say you love me when you have such a totally wrong, ill-conceived notion of who I am? And how the hell can you break my heart and then expect me to give up my life and run your fucking restaurant? What am I missing here?” I try desperately to keep my voice quiet and calm but it’s the struggle from hell.
“It’s our fucking restaurant!” he shouts.
“Oh? When did my name go on the corporate papers? When did it appear on the Deed to the property? If you remember correctly, you practically had to twist my arm ten times around my body before I agreed to even be manager and…”
Andrew appears in the doorway. I look at him alarmed and put my finger to my lips to keep him from talking.
“Dinner’s ready,” he mouths. Luckily he’s not an idiot like the insensitive clod I’m on the phone with and he graciously backs out of the bedroom and goes downstairs without another word.
“Elizabeth! You know I support you in your dreams of setting the art world on fire but you were the one who insisted on staying at Nana’s and working with me. I’m sorry if I misunderstood. I’m sorry if I misunderstood everything about you in general. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. What else do you want me to say?”
“You’re sorry you don’t love me anymore?” I whimper, because I am sure that’s what he really means to tell me.
“I love you more than life itself. Look, let me explain exactly what is going on here. Will you at least listen?”
“Rob, I do want to hear what you have to say. But…but I’m dead tired. I haven’t eaten all day and you called just as I was about to have dinner and then go to bed. Can’t we continue this conversation tomorrow after we’ve both had some sleep?”
There is a long dramatic pause until he finally answers my question.
“Yeah, of course. I’ll call you tomorrow late afternoon your time. Please. I’m begging you. All I’m asking is that you give me a chance to explain.”
“Deal,” I say, because I don’t want Andrew coming back upstairs and it’s true, I’m so exhausted and hungry I feel like I’m going to pass out.
“Night, baby. And I love you,” he says.
“Love you, too.” I click “end” and stare at the phone thoughtfully. I wish I knew what the hell was going on.
But I don’t so I walk back downstairs to have omelets with Andrew.
The lovely lad has set the table with my landlord’s best china – plates featuring the Indianapolis 500 from 1965 – and fresh glasses of wine.
There is something very decadent about sharing eggs, bacon and alcohol after dark with a young Englishman, let me tell you. Normally I would be crying my eyes out right about now but instead I make my mind a blank and enjoy the moment. And his most excellent looks.
“I assume you do not want to talk about that telephone call,” he says.
“You are correct.”
“The boyfriend, then?”
“Let’s go with your original assumption that I don’t want to talk about it,” I say. “Mmm, this omelet is fantastic. Though I expect cat food would be wonderful right now. I am starving!”
“No, it’s the omelet. It’s my specialty.”
I smile and we finish our meal in silence. He takes the plates, rinses them off, and puts them in the dishwasher without waiting for my help so I reach over him and get the sponge and wipe off the table.
Oh, we are a regular study in domestic bliss. If you didn’t know better, you’d think we were a normal couple.
“Want to watch a little television before bed?” I ask him, even though it’s the last thing in the world I want to do.
“Not really. Say, I’ve been thinking. If you wouldn’t mind my hanging around a bit, I could pay my share of the rent and set up an office in the back bedroom. I mean, I hope I’m not being presumptuous, and I promise to stay out of your way -- unless of course you don’t want me to stay out of your way…” His voice trails off and I can see that he’s unsure of himself and embarrassed. My heart kind of melts for him. A man like Andrew is not comfortable letting his vulnerability show and it’s endearing to see him in a different light as opposed to the confident man I had drinks with the night before.
Oh god, was it just last night that we first me at the Ocean City Public Library? It feels like a month has passed! How very, very strange.
“Andrew, listen. I’m kind of living one day at a time here. I’m like a runaway except that my loved ones all know where I am, not that there’s any chance any of them will show up any time soon. Part of me wants to tell you to go home, that I’m nothing but trouble, that if you stay you are liable to witness a woman sobbing for days at a time. On the other hand, maybe not. If I can just focus on my painting, and if you can set up shop quietly and spend your time writing and reflecting and all that other poet stuff, maybe this could work out. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t lonely, and I’d be lying if I said…”
“…that we aren’t spectacular in bed together,” he winks.
“That, too,” I laugh. “But I meant to say that I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t find you very attractive in more ways than one.”
“So you are saying it’s a go, then? That I can stay on for a bit?”
I take a deep breath and try to think, but I already know the answer.
“Yes. You can stay. But on my terms. I hate to sound like such a bitch, but I really am in a very fragile emotional state right now. If my boyfriend calls me tomorrow and says he’s on a plane back to New York, I may take off and literally rush to his side. In which case you have a very nice house to yourself until the end of the month. On the other hand, even if he doesn’t call, I may decide in a more lucid moment when I’m not all drunk on Pinot Grigio and young British boy toy, that our cohabitation is a simply terrible and dangerous idea and you have to leave immediately.”
“Or, on the other hand, you may fall head over heels in love with me and ask that I never leave,” he says.
“No chance in hell,” I smile sweetly.
Oh crap. I’ve hurt him. His expression is wounded and this surprises me a bit under the circumstances but I’ve never been good at hurting people so I really am taken aback.
“I need to get to know you a little better before that happens,” I reply. Oh great. There goes my Don’t ask, don’t tell policy. Just call me the lovely government of the United States of America.
“Right. There is that,” he agrees.
“Oh well, we’ve shared enough for one day. I’m really beat. Think I’ll go to bed.” I stand on my tiptoes and kiss him.
He looks at me hesitantly. What now?
“Err…would you prefer if I sleep in the back bedroom?” he asks. Oh god, this is really over-the-top polite but he’s got that little hurt kid thing going on again and he is making me feel like his over-protective mother now.
Oh, not quite.
“I’d rather you sleep with me,” I tell him. “I mean, what’s the point of you being here if I can’t enjoy you. If you can’t enjoy me. I mean, we should really be maximizing this experience, shouldn’t we?”
“Ha! I like you, Elizabeth. I like you a lot. Let’s go to bed then, you sexy little wench. I will show you some maximization.”
Oy. Again? I don’t know if my body can take much more.
He gathers me in his arms and carries me up the stairs. Wow, he’s a strong little fellow, isn’t he. But I have to laugh. This is right out of a bodice ripper novel. Oh, who am I kidding. I love it. Did I say I didn’t think my body could take much more?
Sure it can.
“Put your arms above your head,” he whispers after placing me down on the bed. He unties my robe and spreads it out on either side of me.
“Bring your knees up and place your feet together. Yes, that’s right. Good girl. Now present yourself to me.”
Present myself to him? What the hell does he mean by that? It’s kind of funny but I sneak a look at him and he’s not smiling. Maybe he wants me to raise my hips up to meet him? Oh please let that be all he means. I so can’t handle anything weird right now.
I try not to think of Richard, my kinky and coincidentally British though humorless lover of two years ago – the man inadvertently responsible for ending my marriage. With Richard, there would have been whips and chains and nipple clamps and other suchlike atrocities. Richard would have said “Present yourself to me!” and the next thing you know I would have had a butt plug shoved up my ass. So I’m understandably nervous and continue to watch every move he makes through narrowed eyes but as it turns out, with Andy baby there’s just tongue, tongue, and more tongue. Nice, soft, and sweet. Oh god, it’s been so long. I totally give myself into the sensation. The man is a pro and he plays me like a Stradivarius. But just as I’m about to have what will probably be one hell of an orgasm he senses it and stops his other-worldly licking and sucking. What the fuck, Andrew? I open my eyes in protest but he’s already lifting my bottom and pushing a pillow under it. He raises me up further with his hands and slides his cock into me. Okay, I forgive him. This is exquisite. His rhythm is absolutely flawless – whew, what a natural. He knows just when to go slow and when to quicken the pace and when to thrust as deep as he can while rubbing my clit with one free hand and using his other hand to balance himself on the headboard. Jesus, this is the best yet. I want it to go on forever but alas I am a very weak woman with no self-control and when I come I come loud and hard. Andy laughs out loud and with a few more moves comes himself and we both just kind of lay there, giggling and panting for a few seconds until we go silent.
But before I drift off to sleep, I make a mental note to Google him when I wake up tomorrow.
Just in case he’s got some skeletons in his closet, you know? Or some frozen digits in the freezer.
And with that lovely image in my head, I fall into a deep, heavy sleep with strapping young Andrew wrapped around me.

Chapter Five

I wake up early and Andrew is sound asleep so I slip out of bed and go downstairs. Time to investigate. I put up a pot of coffee and pull out my laptop.
“Andrew Kent” yields about one hundred thousand different results on Google – everything from a soccer player in the U.K. to a janitor involved in a domestic dispute in San Jose, California, but I finally find my Andy on page 6 – nestled between Andrew Kent, defender of the Alamo and Andrew Kent, deceased, of Dublin, Ireland. There he is on the faculty website for P.S. 8 Robert Fulton School in Brooklyn, New York. Yep, they have his photo and everything. I search a bit more and find a couple of poems he’s published in an anthology and some magazines – in other words, not that I expected otherwise given where and how I met him, but yeah, he checks out and even better, he is an awesome writer. His bio at the Poetry Society website says “Andrew Kent was born in Porchester, Hampshire, England and educated at Whitgift College in Croydon. He has been awarded a Lannan Literary Award for Poetry and in 2007 received a was writer in residence at the Aldeburgh Poetry Festival. Mr. Kent lives in Brooklyn, New York with his cat, Chaucer.”
So Andrew is definitely a somewhat prominent poet and he is single though I am wondering about Chaucer and who is taking care of him. I decide not to ask, just in case he’s dead. Ugh. It’s not even 8:00 a.m. and I’m thinking about dead kitties. So typically me.
Just for the hell of it, I idly click on Google Images. Uh-oh, what’s this? A photo of Andrew Kent with winner of 2006 Best American Short Stories Award, Lorrie Bender? Wow, she’s really young and pretty. There’s a bunch of photos of the two of them together.
It gets worse.
“Writer Andrew Kent pictured with actress Sienna Umber eating ice cream in Central Park.”
“Singer Jessica Stone and poet Andrew Kent seen strolling hand and hand at the Alexander Calder Exhibit, Museum of Modern Art.”
Okay, now I’m totally nauseous but there is one thing that doesn’t make sense. He substitute teaches and lives in the underbelly of Brooklyn yet hobnobs with the rich and famous?
Very weird.
Now. How to ask him about all this without letting him know that I did something as lame as Google him.
While I’m on line I also surf ESPN for news on James. My son is a premier shooting guard for the Utah Jazz and lives in a multi-million dollar mansion just outside of Salt Lake City. I look at his stats and smile. He’ll be at the All-Star game again this year for sure.
And that’s as much as I know about sports so I switch over to check my email, though if I were to deeply Google my son, there is a likely chance I would find things way too sensational, or tabloid if you will, in nature for me to handle first thing in the morning so it’s a place I do not venture anywhere near. It’s easier on my blood pressure. Well, not my blood pressure going haywire as a direct result of what I read, it’s what happens to me after his father finds out. As has been a thorn in my side for over twenty years, his hysteria has a trickle down effect on me. My ex-husband will learn of James’ latest escapades and I’ll be the one getting the loud aggravated phone call as if who James is and what he does is all my fault. Though naturally when he plays in the All-Star game and wins MYP it’s his son doing that.
I think it’s the rule among parents universally. Take credit for the good stuff and blame the other parent for any character defects.
I remember when we first got the news about James and his lifestyle.
“Where the hell does he get that from? Not from me. Had to be you. He’s your son,” the now ex-husband said.
“He’s your son, too. And we both know that he’s not like me at all. If anything, he’s like your mother,”
“No, he’s not, he’s like your mother.”
“Jesus Christ, you’re right. He is like my mother. And yours. Poor kid. No wonder he’s so fucked up. By the way, he’s also like your sister.”
We really hated each other at that point, I think, though neither one of us would admit it. We’d been together a long time and I guess bought into the theory that we were stuck with each other because we’d stuck it out together for so long. But once the kids left the nest and I had the mid-life crisis from hell which included picking up a pervert on the internet (Richard) and quitting my job as an attorney in Philadelphia where I earned triple figures, it was only logical that my next genius step would be to leave my husband, move to New York and work as a waitress in a restaurant for minimum wage while I pursued my childhood dream to be an artist.
Yeah, that would be logic according to Elizabeth. I don’t recommend anyone imitating me unless they are completely and totally self-destructive.
And in between all that, I met Rob, who owned the restaurant where I worked, somehow ended up as the executive manager of said restaurant, fell in love with my boss, mooned over him for a year while he was in the middle of ending a four year relationship with his girlfriend, and then finally, finally, finally things all fell into place for me.
For a grand total of six months.
Which brings me to Ocean City, New Jersey, in the middle of winter with no set plans for my future and a twenty-nine year old poet formerly from Portchester, England now of Brooklyn, New York asleep in my bed.
I power down my laptop, put it in its case, and slip it into the desk drawer. The morning sky is eerily bright and it occurs to me that I should get to my easel in the enclosed porch where I have set up a makeshift studio and start painting. I’ve licked my wounds enough, the man child upstairs has taken care of the other licking, and for once it’s time to put myself first. But it’s a hard habit to break after four decades and I find my mind wandering upstairs to Andrew. I wonder if he’s awake yet. I should check and make sure he’s okay.
But then I remember Sienna and Lorrie and Jessica and I suddenly feel very old and foolish.
I should just paint, shouldn’t I.
So I start squeezing oils from tubes onto my palette and furiously mix and blend the colors, trying to focus. On top of everything else, Rob is calling me this afternoon to finally have that talk he’s been avoiding for months. I don’t want to deal with it.
It occurs to me I don’t have to. No one is standing here with a gun to my head forcing me to answer the phone when it rings. He’s got a computer – let him reach me by email. Maybe it’ll be easier for him to communicate via the written word, anyway. He won’t have to hear me crying or listen to my hysterical accusations.
I stab the canvas with my brush and throw myself into my work. All of the raw emotion I’m feeling and craziness of the last few months, the last few days, comes bubbling to the surface and I’m a woman possessed. The canvas fills with vivid, disturbing images and it’s almost a catharsis of sorts.
It isn’t until I hear a rumble of thunder and feel a rumble of hunger that I look at the clock and jump in surprise. It’s 2:00 o’clock in the afternoon! Where did the day go? And where is Andrew, that bum. Don’t tell me he’s one of those Gigolo types who, now that he’s established himself as both paying tenant and my boy toy, will sleep until late afternoon and then stay up all night like a vampire.
A streak of white lightening dazzles the sky and I can smell the damp salty air through the jalousie windows I have cracked open for ventilation. It’s truly intoxicating and the hell with it, I’m waking Andy. I rinse my brushes carefully in turpentine, put them on a paper towel to dry, then wash my hands and stand there vacillating, wondering what to do in spite of my resolve. I mean, it is my house. If I want to go into my bedroom, I should be able to, and not worry about waking someone who has spent the last fourteen hours asleep.
I tiptoe up the steps anyway. Just in case.
But a peek into my room reveals an empty bed – even better, a fully made, empty bed. Curious, I walk down the hallway to the back bedroom and there’s Andrew, hunched over his laptop and fully engrossed in his work.
I want to get back downstairs without interrupting him but at that moment, there’s a crack of thunder so loud that I scream and then he screams and then I scream again and we both clutch our chests like we are having simultaneous heart attacks.
“Good lord, woman, are you trying to kill me,” he gasps. “You scared me half to death!”
“I know. I’m so sorry. I thought you were still asleep and…and I needed something in the bedroom, and when I saw you weren’t there, I…I…and then the thunder scared me and then...” My voice just kind of trails off. I have no idea what I mean to say.
“I’ve been up for hours,” he laughs. “I even walked right past you and went into the kitchen and made tea and toast. You didn’t even notice me. You looked so lovely standing at your easel I didn’t want to disturb you. But it’s brilliant how this is working out already, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Absolutely brilliant,” I reply. The small desk lamp next to Andrew’s computer begins to flicker on and off and suddenly we are hit with an unbelievable onslaught of rain. The entire house is shaking and the thunder and lightning sound and make us feel as if we are in the eye of the storm. A check out the bedroom window shows a raging sea with wave heights that are more than a little ominous considering the proximity of the house to the water.
“We should get some candles and a flashlight ready, just in case,” he says. “This is sexy though, isn’t it?”
“Very,” I gulp. Actually, there are candles in my bedroom and bathroom. Whether we have a flashlight or not I have no idea but I’m guessing if I hunt around in the laundry room where there are all kinds of tools, I will probably find one but I’m not real anxious to go into the basement right now.
Another vicious bolt of lightning illuminates the sky and with that we lose all power. I fly into Andy’s arms like a scared little baby.
“Oh my god,” I gasp.
“Relax. It’s only rain,” he says, stroking my hair and kissing the top of my head at the same time. Man this feels good. He’s right, it is very sensual. The house is unbelievably dark for two o’clock in the afternoon and between the sound of the wind howling and the water falling relentlessly, I feel like I’m in a science fiction movie.
An R-rated one.
Make that X-rated.
“Andrew, you are a very bad boy,” I laugh. He has my blouse completely unbuttoned and I am, as usual, braless.
“Making love during a storm…ah…it is just so dangerous,” he says, pressing me up against the wall. He unzips my jeans, pushes them down to my ankles, and grinds himself against me.
“How does that feel?” he whispers.
“How do you think it feels,” I whisper back.
“Bloody marvelous,” he hisses. He steps out of his sweat pants and somehow lifts me onto his cock while he continues to pin himself against me. And then he actually lifts me up so that my legs are wrapped around his waist and he’s still inside of me and I think I could die of lust at that very second and not care.
The man must work out. For a skinny thing, he’s got strong arms and I do not know how the hell he manages it but he continues to fuck me like that until I am the one in pain.
“Bed,” I gasp.
“Okay,” he laughs and pulls out of me. I fall to my knees and stare at him from the floor and even though I can’t feel one single bone in my body, I get up on my knees and take his dripping dick into my mouth and drink from it like it’s the fucking fountain of youth.
Because I’m starting to think that maybe it is.
He moans and pushes me away.
“To bed with you,” he says, helping me to my feet. Wow. He really is a gentleman. Not that Rob isn’t, but I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be treated like I’m sexy and appealing. It’s too bad. No one should ever be treated any other way.
The sexual Olympics continue in the darkened bedroom with the only sounds our moans and the driving rain and wind. We make ourselves a cocoon out of the blanket and snuggle happily. Eventually we drift off but it seems like only minutes later that I’m startled awake by my cell phone. I grab it from the night stand before it wakes Andy and shut off the ringer. Rob can go fuck himself.
But now I’m awake and very, very hungry. Andrew is in a deep sleep – like most men, sex puts him under. With me, a good orgasm sends me right to the refrigerator, craving things like guacamole and creamy vanilla pudding.
Don’t even attempt to do a psychological profile on that one, okay?
I sigh inwardly because I know there’s no way I can stay in that bed without cannibalizing myself so I grab my robe and head downstairs. Andrew doesn’t even roll over, the sound of his breathing is steady.
Houston, we have a problem. For once in my life, food has been an afterthought and there is literally nothing in the house for dinner. A case of good Pinot Grigio, yes, something edible to go with the wine, no. It’s early enough for the one supermarket on the island not to have closed for the evening but it’s still really pouring out there. But oh god, if I don’t go out, it means starvation or worse, Domino’s.
Okay, let me be honest. If it were just me here, I’d probably call for pizza and suffer in silence. Or maybe I’d groan out loud in agony while eating, but whatever, it’s still what I’d do. But with Andy here, I feel the need to impress for some reason. I was never a slouch in the kitchen but my time with Rob has pretty much turned me into a master chef.
Not to mention the fact that I’ve always found good food the most sensual thing next to sex itself.
So I bundle up in a parka, grab my car keys, and brave the rain.
Ocean City is only five blocks wide in some spots, meaning, five blocks between the Atlantic Ocean and the bay so the streets are already flooded. I drive cautiously – okay, like a little old lady because really, I suck as a driver, half because I’m so neurotic and half because getting older has fucked with my vision at night. The world would probably be a much safer place if I stuck to a bicycle but oh well, I wasn’t about to attempt that in the rain and how would I get the groceries home in my dorky little wicker bike basket? I finally make it to the store after over twenty minutes of negotiating what I am positive must be a monsoon. It’s normally a five minute jaunt, if that. My heart is in my mouth and I’m clammy as hell after my trip and worse, I’m worried in a big way that they might have closed early due to the inclement weather but it’s all lit up and I see a ton of activity so at least this drive from hell was not for naught.
I race for the doors but I get soaked anyway and I feel crazed pushing my shopping cart up and down aisles. Okay, I know from the eggs and bacon last night that Andrew is definitely not a vegetarian – and I unfortunately learned from Google he also likes ice cream -- so I basically start grabbing whatever appeals to me. Winter root vegetables for roasting, a pork tenderloin, dried cherries, boneless chicken, olives, and naturally chocolate hazelnut gelato because I have to one-up the ice cream gal -- anyway, before I know it I’ve probably spent $200.00 on all kinds of stuff but I feel happier than I’ve felt in weeks.
“Oh, hello there!”
I look up into the probing eyes of Dottie, leader of the M&M gang. Oh lord, she’s with one of the Hope to Die guys. He must be her husband. No wonder he stands outside for hours in the freezing cold every day.
“Hi.” I try to make my “hi” sound non-committal and almost snobby so she doesn’t pursue a conversation but you know I’m never going to be that lucky.
“I don’t think we’ve officially met. I’m Dottie. I know you are Elizabeth, right? You’re staying at Tom Hunter’s house. I saw you at the poetry reading the other night.”
I give her a tight smile. Meanwhile, she’s peering into my shopping cart like a detective investigating a homicide.
“That’s a lot of food for one person,” she remarks.
“I like to eat.”
“Me, too,” she says, patting her wide belly through her quilted fake down coat. “So what did you think of that poet guy, anyway? Wasn’t he just horrible? I must apologize for his foul language. Usually we screen our guests better than that but I guess he slipped in through the cracks somehow. We won’t be making any more mistakes like that, I can assure you. Wasn’t he just about the most blasphemous person ever?”
You know, if this wasn’t so horrific it would be hilarious and I would laugh out loud. But unfortunately Dottie is the new America and because of people like her there are times I feel like I’m a woman without a country. I’m starting to understand why Rob is staying in France.
Wait. Did I say France? That’s even funnier and hardly the place where they embrace someone from the United States with open arms.
Bad example. So I end up laughing out loud anyway which Dottie takes as collusion with her Andrew sentiments.
“You should come to our service Sunday morning,” she says.
“She doesn’t want to go to your church, Dot. Leave the gal alone,” says her husband. Poor guy, he really does look like he wants to throw himself into the ocean.
“I really do need to get home before my ice cream melts,” I say weakly.
“Well, it was nice talking with you, Elizabeth. And don’t forget what I said about Sunday. We’re having a pancake supper following Pastor Bob’s sermon!”
Pastor Bob? Behave, Elizabeth. Zip your lip and whatever you do, do not laugh or the next thing you know you’ll be in the town square with your arms and legs locked in a stockade.
I wait in a ridiculously long line but Dottie is correct --there is a God -- by the time I get out of there, the rain has stopped. I’ve been gone almost two hours and the candy bar I purchased while checking out has made me even hungrier if that’s humanly possible. It feels like midnight by the time I pull into the driveway, and thankfully the electricity is back on at the house. I see Andrew’s silhouette through the drapes in the living room.
Juggling two bags at once with my keys in my mouth, I use my foot to knock on the door. It takes Andy all of two seconds to fling it open with a look of such obvious relief on his face he pretty much shocks me.
“Elizabeth! When I woke up and you were gone, I assumed you’d done what you’d threatened earlier…”
“Huh?” What the hell is he talking about?
“Erm, rushed to your boyfriend’s side?”
“Ha! God, I had no idea what you meant by that.” I push past him with my groceries and head for the kitchen. “But rest assured if I were rushing anywhere, I wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye and giving you the name and address of the landlord! Hey, go out to my car and give me a hand with the rest of the bags, will you? I was a trooper and braved the storm so we’d actually have something nutritious to eat for the next few days.”
“You are an angel! I would have gone to the market either for you or with you – you should have woken me, woman.” The tone of his voice is chiding but he’s smiling so that’s cool. The last thing in the world I need right now is someone smothering me but I’m pretty sure he realizes that. He’s a smart guy, young Andrew.
He brings the remaining groceries into the kitchen and seems to approve of my purchases because he’s grinning broadly and holding up various items giving me an “Mmm” every five seconds.
“I’m thinking of doing chicken filets with goat cheese and rosemary in a wild mushroom sauce – it won’t take long to get together or cook which is good because I could literally eat the wallpaper right now I’m so hungry. How does that sound to you?”
“It sounds brilliant! So. You can cook, too. It would seem you are the perfect woman.”
“Ha ha, of course I am, Andy. Did you even for one moment think otherwise?” Oh god, where is this coming from? Give me a compliment and I become the queen of confidence? Good grief, just please don’t let me start talking like Madonna again.
“Can I help you with anything? Be your prep guy or sous chef?”
“Nah, I’m fine. I’ll tell you what you can do, though. How about opening a bottle of wine? I think the corkscrew is still upstairs in the bathroom.”
“That I can do. And gladly. Jesus, I’m glad you’re back here safe and sound. I really was distraught waking up to an empty house.” He turns and walks out of the room but I find his remark strangely flattering and at the same time, disturbing. It also makes me a little more than curious. There’s definitely things about Andrew Kent which I’m never going to find on Google, that’s for sure. The question is, do I care enough to dig deep into his personality or just let it be what it is.
For now I’m just going to concentrate on chicken.
Andrew pours me a glass of wine while I cook and sits at the kitchen table, watching me with an odd expression on his face.
“What?” I ask him.
“Nothing.”
“Okay, then. Why don’t you go into the other room and watch some television and I’ll let you know when dinner is ready.”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
“Because I like being with you and there’s nothing sexier than watching a woman who knows what she is doing in the kitchen.”
Have I mentioned his English accent is just about killing me? If only I could shake this older woman stigma thing I have with him whenever we are anywhere but beneath the covers I might actually be enjoying this experience. Okay, I am enjoying it but I just wish it were under different circumstances. I look over at him fondly.
“Okay, then. You can set the table. This should be finished fairly quickly…in fact it’s just about done now. Actually, give me the plates so I can make a proper presentation.” It smells so good in here and I’m so fucking ravenous I’m tempted to start eating out of the pan without him. But I refrain and carefully spoon the chicken over the herbed goat cheese and drizzle the sauce on top and around the plate. It looks like edible art and I’m proud of my creation, especially considering I prepared it totally exhausted and traumatized from my drive in the rain, suffering from malnutrition, and half cocked from wine.
“My dear, what is in this gravy? I think I’ve died and gone to heaven,” he swoons.
“It’s a simple reduction of balsamic vinegar, cream and wild mushrooms,” I reply.
“Will you marry me?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so. Can’t blame a bloke for trying, though.”
We sit there eating in silence but I notice my wine glass is never empty even though I know I’m drinking from it and by the time we’re finished, I’m feeling no pain.
“Hey, Andy, I’ve got ice cream for dessert,” I say in a sing song voice.
He raises an eyebrow at me like what the hell is she talking about.
“What? You like ice cream, don’t you? C’mon, you can tell me.”
“Yes, of course I like it but it’s odd how you are talking to me like you are a little girl. Actually I’m not fond of sweets while I’m drinking wine so I think I’ll take a pass. But thanks for the thought.” He is still looking at me like I’m insane so I figure I’d better come clean.
“Okay, okay, I’m drunk so I may as well tell you while I have false courage. I googled you this morning and saw a pic of you and some famous actress or was that a famous singer in Central Park eating ice cream.”
“Oh, her,” he says. He shrugs and drains his wineglass.
“I think I’m going to get some writing in before bedtime.” He refills his glass and stands up. “In case you’re asleep when I’m finished, let me collect my goodnight kiss now.”
Well, at least there’s that. I brush his lips quickly and then look down. I cannot believe I behaved so badly and want to somehow apologize but by the time I raise my head he’s gone.

Chapter Six

It isn’t until Andrew goes upstairs that I realize my cell phone has been off since the afternoon. I turn it back on and gasp in dismay at the display of seven missed calls. Five are from Rob, one is from Glenn, my ex-husband, and the other from my younger son, Jon. Oh, this can’t be good. But no one left me a voice mail message so it can’t be too terrible…no wait, maybe it is terrible and they need to talk to me personally. Not Rob, I could care less about him right now, but why would my totally non-communicative ex and young son be calling me five minutes apart? Shit. I take what I hope is the easy way out. I dial up Jon.
He answers on the second ring.
‘Hi, Mom. How’s Ocean City?”
“Freezing and rainy. But I’m getting a lot of painting done which is why I’m here,” I lie. Well, sort of. “What’s up with you?”
“Well, we had kind of a situation here today but it’s passed luckily. I took over your old job of calming Dad down.”
“Why would you have to calm…oh…it’s James, isn’t it.”
“Yep. He really did it this time. Dad almost had a stroke.”
“Oy. What did he do, she asked apprehensively?" I practically race to the bottle of wine with the phone cradled under my chin. This is news I am quite sure I don’t want to be even close to sober for, though I’m pretty well past that point anyway.
“I guess you don’t read Perez Hilton,” he sighs.
“Who?”
“Yeah, I figured you wouldn’t know him. I wouldn’t know him either, except for the fact that Dad’s phone has been ringing off the hook since the article appeared this morning and when he went to the website and saw…it was definitely not cool, Mom.”
“Okay. Start from the beginning. Who is Perez whatever and what website?”
Jon pauses for what I hope is merely dramatic effect and nothing more.
“It’s Perez Hilton dot com. He runs a gossip website that gets like a million hits a minute and he’s got a special feature called Gay, Gay, Gay where he outs famous celebrities who are…um, gay.”
“Jesus Christ. And this guy found out about James and wrote about him? Hey, that’s libel and slander. I learned all about that in law school. I think James has…”
“Mom? Perez is gay himself. And Jon was out clubbing in Los Angeles – he was in town playing the LA Kings – and I guess he couldn’t refrain from kissing his boyfriend in front of the paparazzi after having pizza at Wolfgang Puck.”
“Oh my god. And this photo, I guess, is on this Perez guy’s website?”
“Yep. With like a million comments under it. Err…it’s also the top sports story today.”
“Daddy must be having seizures.”
“You could say that, yeah. But I’ve calmed him down. And the press hasn’t been that awful – in fact, a lot of the newscasters are supportive – most likely because they are gay themselves. And it’s not like James was totally closeted. There have been other articles and insinuations, you know that. But Perez Hilton does have boatloads of readers basically one step above trailer park…”
“Hey, if he’s tabloid he’s way below anyone living in a trailer,” I say.
In the meantime, I fetch my laptop and type in www.perezhilton.com. Holy crap! What is this thing? There are photos of pantyless starlets, pop singers with hand drawn hypodermic needles hanging from their arms and white splotches dotted under their nostrils. And flashing ads from the evil Wal-Mart and American Apparel…argh…there’s James, kissing who…oh my god, is that one of the actors from General Hospital? Wait, that’s Dr. Harvey! Dr. Harvey is gay? I didn’t know that. The only reason I even recognize him is that the staff at Nana’s has a television in the back and watch the soap operas while they prep for the dinner crowd.
Call me twisted but this whole thing makes me smile. I’m not upset about my son – he has a look of pure bliss on his face. Dr. Harvey must give good tongue. I’m far more appalled at this website in general, with its use of words like “shizz” and “douche” and calling women dirty hoes. Didn’t a famous disc jockey lose his job over that? And deservedly so? I idly click on “advertise with Perez”. Holy fuck. He gets $5,000.00 for a small advertisement.
So let me get this straight. This fat ugly “douche” makes a buttload of money posting this crap, and judging by the amount of people commenting and the corporations flashing their neon logos all over the place, he really does have millions of readers?
God bless America.
I know one thing. I’m not reading any reader remarks under the photo of James and Dr. Harvey because I might have to kill someone and I don’t want it to be myself. No wonder my ex freaked out. I feel dirty just being on that website so enough of this, I shut the laptop and sigh. It’s getting late and since Jon has assured me everything is okay, I’m going to bed.
And by my calculations, it’s the middle of the night in Paris now, anyway.
“Mom? You still there?”
“Yeah, Jon. I just made the mistake of checking that site. Ugh, is this what passes for entertainment these days? If so, I guess I’ve lost touch with the rest of the world and I have to say I’m glad.”
“Hey, there’s always been a market for people reading Enquirer and Star and stuff like that. It’s up to people like us to set things straight. Anyway, it’s been great talking to you – maybe I’ll take a drive down there next week and visit.”
“No! I mean, oh god, it’s awful here this time of year, trust me. The streets were totally flooded following a simple rainfall tonight. If anything, maybe I’ll take a ride up to Philly and see you. I’d love to see your latest paintings.”
“Aw, I’d really like that, Mom. Okay, sleep tight, don’t let the bed bugs bite,” he says, mimicking what I used to tell him as a child.
My heart melts a little and in my current inebriated emotional state, I almost start to cry.
“Night, Jon. Love you.”
“Love you, too, Mom. And don’t worry about anything, okay?”
“Okay!”
Jon and I hit “disconnect” simultaneously.
Don’t worry about anything. I should make that my new credo.
Too bad it’s much easier said than done.
II’m suddenly wide awake so I plop down on the sofa, pick up the remote and turn on the television, deliberately putting on the Game Show Network so I won’t have to listen to any more stories about my son. Holy cow, they are showing reruns of The Match Game from 1973. I can’t help it, I get sucked in for a few minutes. What a weird, warped dose of pop culture past. It’s actually kind of entertaining in a bizarre sort of way until I realize every single panel member, including emcee Gene Rayburn, is deceased. Ew.
Such thoughts are swirling around in my head. Dead game show celebrities -- when did each one die, I wonder? -- words like shizz and douche, gay, gay, gay, and oh my gosh, good old Dr. Harvey from General Hospital is loving up my son the NBA All-Star. My boyfriend is in Paris and there is a poet upstairs who runs away all cold when I bring up his past relationships but was obviously distressed when earlier in the evening he thought that I had run back to my old boyfriend.
Ugh, and I came here for rest and relaxation?
I’ll take some more Gene Rayburn, please. With a little Charles Nelson Reilly and Bert Convy on the side.
“Bruce said, I really wish my mother-in-law would stop barging in our house. Last night she burst in while my wife and I were “blanking” on the couch!” Gene says.
“Fucking!” I cry out, helping myself to more wine. “Say fucking!”
But no, this is a different era, and the only one who even hints at that in her answer is Bret Somers, who says “Making whoopee.”
Everyone else chickened out and/or cheated.
“Eating s’mores!” shouts Peggy Cass.
Yeah, like any contestant, even the returning champion, would actually match that. And talk about transference, Peggy…
Okay, I’ve had enough. The last couple of days finally hit me hard and I am suddenly so tired I could sleep standing up. Crap. I hope Andrew is still at work writing or even better, sound asleep in bed. Not that it hasn’t been great, but sex twenty-seven times in two days is plenty for me and what I’m really craving is falling into a coma for the next eight to ten hours.
I creep down the hallway cautiously so as not to disturb Andrew, whether he be working or sleeping, and note in dismay that he’s not in my room. This means I have to get undressed fast and under the covers and at least feign sleep before he realizes I’m upstairs because knowing him, he’s ready for another go at me. Ah, sweet youth.
It occurs to me that I could say no.
Note to self: Learn how to do that already, will you?
Note to self: Learn how to do that already, will you?
As it turns out, I fall asleep right away and I have no idea what time Andrew comes to bed because the next thing I know the alarm clock says 7:00 a.m. Andy is spooning me and snoring. The sun is just rising over the ocean and what the hell, I get the insane idea to go for a run on the beach.
Insane because I never went running in my life. Figuratively yes, literally no. I’m not sure if I even have the right pair of shoes for this – I just hope wearing Converse high tops won’t cause me to have a torn Achilles tendon or anything,
But first I have to somehow manage to extract myself from the sleeping Andrew. I carefully wiggle out of his embrace and am almost home free, out of bed and leaning up against the dresser, tying the laces on sneakers when from behind me there’s a rusting and a “Good morning” followed by a loud yawn.
I spin around guiltily and graceful gazelle that I am, almost go crashing into the wall. I recover nicely, though, by pitching back into the bureau instead. Lovely. I try to hide behind myself but it doesn’t work.
“Ouch that hurt. Oh, hi, Andy. Good morning to you, too.”
“You alright?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Remind me of this incident later, though, when I come to you all hysterical that I have purple bruising and am probably dying of an incurable disease, okay?”
He laughs and stretches his arms up over his head and whether he’s doing it on purpose or it’s my imagination or interpretation, gives me a Come hither look. “So where are you off to at this ungodly hour?”
“A run on the beach,” I say brightly as if it is something I do all the time.
“In those trainers?” he asks with an incredulous stare at my feet.
“Err..trainers?”
“Your sneakers. Sorry. Every once in a while the Brit in me comes out. That’s what we call running shoes.”
“Well, if you must know, I was going to take them off and run barefoot.”
I was? Good plan, though.
“In this weather? You’ll get frostbite. Hey, here’s an idea. Why don’t I get dressed and go with you and we’ll have a proper walk on the beach – that would be walk, not run for fuck’s sake -- like two normal people. What do you say to that, fair Elizabeth?” He doesn’t wait for me to reply, he’s already up and out of bed stepping into his jeans.
“I like that idea, Andy. Thanks.” Actually, I do like that idea. Running. What was I thinking? With the weather this brutally cold, it would be months before anyone stumbled upon my rotting corpse on the beach.
It’s a sunny crisp day and the salt air both stings and refreshes. It really is remarkably beautiful in the early morning hours, and we get that sense again that we are the only two people on the planet. Naturally, I have to screw things up by talking.
“Andy, I’m really sorry about last night.”
“What do you mean?” He bends down to examine a tiny conch shell. “Here,” he says, handing it to me. “Isn’t it pretty?”
It is. You don’t see many conch shells in Ocean City, New Jersey. Tampon applicators and empty beer cans, yes, perfectly formed seashells, no.
And I have no explanation for those tampon applicators but they’ve been washing up in all their pink plastic grossness on beaches up and down the east coast.
So Andy has given me an out to end the conversation before it goes somewhere neither of us wants it to but no, no, I have to keep babbling.
“I’m sorry about the ice cream remark and about googling you and bringing it up…can I blame it on the wine?” I give him my best wide eyed little girl apologetic look and he smiles.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll tell you about Sienna if you like. Actually, there’s nothing to tell. I won a prestigious grant, as you probably already know from Google,” he winks, “and let the money and the so-called fame go to my head, if you can call fame in a dying literary genre anything monumental. I went through an embarrassing amount of women and an even more embarrassing amount of money. After waking up daily with one two many hangovers and one too many vapid, self-absorbed models and actresses in my bed, I squandered the rest of the money on a year off in Scotland where I wrote for hours a day and reflected on what I want in this life. And as it turns out, I had an epiphany. It’s really quite simple. I want to write, I need to write, and I don’t really require any more money than is necessary to feed, cloth and shelter myself so I will devote my life to my art and teaching my art to young students who would normally not have the benefit of my vast knowledge,” he laughs. “But I could have picked an easier and cheaper place to do that than New York, I suppose. It’s just that there is such an active writing community in that city. It makes me feel alive, you know?”
“I do know. It’s how I feel about my painting. It’s why I gave up everything to move there.” I get a sudden stab of homesickness for everything from my apartment to the quirky little Indian restaurant on Houston Street in the Village. What the fuck am I doing here? But just as I’m about to mouth my sentiments, it’s as if Andrew reads my mind.
“There’s also a lot to be said for this, though. He waves his arms around with a delighted smile as if he means to magically catch the wind and cool ocean spray in his outstretched palms.
“Very true.”
We stroll on for a bit more and my brain starts to feel a bit fuzzy. Oh crap, caffeine withdrawal. We haven’t had coffee and we’ve been up and about over an hour. I need a cup badly. And it just so happens that we’re at a point on the beach where if we exit, we’ll be right at that alleged hip little café with the pumpkin pancakes.
“I don’t know about you but I could really use some coffee. There’s a little restaurant just down the street. You interested?”
“Definitely, though what I could really go for is some proper tea.”
“I did see different teas on the menu,” I said.
“Brilliant. Let’s go.”
Their bright red t-shirts are visible through the window. Oh no. My hand freezes on the doorknob.
“What’s wrong?” Andrew asks, gently pushing my hand from the knob and opening the door himself.
Oh, you’ll find out. I follow him into the small foyer entranceway where there is a black and white “Please seat yourself” sign.
“Nothing’s wrong. Let’s sit in that far corner over there.”
“But it’s near the kitchen! Let’s sit by the window instead. Besides, I want to gaze upon your long dark curls and beautiful face in the sunlight.”
I’m so flattered by that cheesy remark I let him lead me to the table of his choice, even though it’s directly across from the M&M gang. Oh god. They’re staring at us. Every single one of them is wide-eyed with their lipsticked by Avon mouths hanging open in perfect pink rosebud colored o’s.
“Good morning, ladies,” Andrew says to them with a little wave of his hand.
They sit there frozen like statues, eyes bulging out of their heads and jaws somewhere around the floor. It’s totally hilarious.
Andrew leans forward on his elbows. “What’s with them?” he whispers loudly to me. I start laughing, I can’t help it.
The waitress takes our order – coffee for me, Andrew gets his tea, and as she walks away the M&M gang still hasn’t moved. Are they all dead? Did the sight of Andrew and me together send them all simultaneously to the pearly gates? What’s going on here? If I walk over and touch one will she go face forward into her waffles?
Finally they snap out of it and start whispering furiously. Dottie’s face is all red. What does that mean? I can’t look any more, it’s worse than watching a burning building or a train wreck.
“How terribly rude. What is their problem?” Andrew asks me.
“You’re blasphemous,” I tell him.
“What?” He is honestly shocked. Clearly, he’s spent too much time in Brooklyn. I guess he didn’t have a true pulse on this country until just now experiencing Ocean City in the dead of winter. Oddly enough, during the summer months it’s inhabited by wealthy east coasters and the island bustles with gourmet restaurants and organic free-trade coffee houses featuring wireless internet. The Dotties of the world generally rent their homes out during July and August and go to their vacation homes in the Pocono mountains where their husbands wear plaid hats with earflaps even on blazing summer days and hunt and fish on the lake while they stay home in their cabins munching on Prozac and watching the Home Shopping Channel.
I bet that’s where they got their red shirts.
“What do you mean I’m blasphemous? What are you talking about,” he whispers. Andrew has manners; I’d probably be shouting that.
“I ran into Dottie in the supermarket the other night. She brought up the poetry reading and apologized for asking you to be our guest. Apparently she felt you were, well, blasphemous. And I’m guessing she didn’t love the purple penis poem, either,” I laugh.
“Oh, how bloody marvelous. Now my sonnet on the tragedy of unrequited love is reduced to being labeled the purple penis poem.”
Hey, he’s the one who wrote that phrase, not me, but this is not the time to bring that up. And anyway, I loved his sonnet. It was poignant and gut wrenching. But okay, I did snort like a little kid when he read the words purple penis out loud at the Ocean City Public Library the other night.
“Let’s just ignore those women, okay? Unless they start praying out loud again. They did that last time I was here,” I say.
“They wouldn’t! Blimey, they are bloody nutters, aren’t they?”
“Pretty much. And yeah, as far as doing a very vocal group prayer, they would. We’re going to be lucky if we’re not subject to an exorcism in the next few minutes.”
“So now we find a flaw in our perfect island paradise,” he says.
“Well, only if we let them ruin it for us,” I reply.
“No way. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
We smile happily at each other, finish our drinks and beat it out of there before the chanting starts.
It’s early enough for me to still enjoy some good morning light for painting when we get home and yet I’m a little hurt when Andy says “Upstairs to work for this lad” before he even has his coat off. He gives me a chaste peck on the cheek and sprints upstairs. I mean, it’s been over twelve hours since we last had sex, right?
What am I doing? Why am I eating myself up over this infantile stuff? I need to get to work and completely immerse myself in it.
And I do manage to paint a good couple hours or so until I’m interrupted by the telephone. Oh great, it’s Rob. Despite my resolve I decide it’s best to get this over with so I pick up.
“Hi,” I say as nonchalantly as possible.
“She’s alive. Where have you been? I must have left you eight seven voice mail and text messages. Don’t you check your phone?”
“Rob, we had a terrible storm here last night. Power was knocked out and I was stuck out in the car coming home from the supermarket in flooded streets. Don’t even talk to me about yesterday.”
“Jesus, Lizzie. This is why you need to be back in New York. The hell with Nana’s – you’re in a dangerous place right now and I don’t like it.”
“The same could be said for you,” I remark dryly. Crap. I sound like such a bitch. How did it come to this? I love this man so much. He was so terrific and supportive and everything was going so great…
Or was it. Maybe I’m completely delusional. Rob told me from the very beginning he wanted children and I never admitted to him how I really felt. I was so love struck back then I probably would have gone for it immediately during the very beginning of our relationship but with time came a reality check and common sense prevailed.
Why don’t I just tell him now and let the cards fall where they may.
“Listen, I’ve got this crazy idea,” he says. “Why don’t you come to Paris? I can book you a flight now – how soon can you be ready to leave?”
“What?” I answer dumbly. I’m blindsided, I really am. Wait a second…
“Rob? Let me get this straight. You want me to join you and your mistress in Paris? What do you want, to see us together in person so you can make your choice or ooh, I know, you really want a ménage-a-trios.”
“Why are you acting like this? Do you hate me that much? I told you this is a complicated situation. Marianne may never play piano again, Lizzie. She’s close to a nervous breakdown. And she isn’t my mistress. I love you. Please know that – I realize it’s hard for you to believe right now but to hear you sound so cold and bitter is killing me. Come to Paris. It will be incredible.” He sounds so sad and sincere I’m ready to pack my bags and jump in my car this second. Except for one final detail.
“So assuming I say yes and you book my flight, where will I be staying?” I ask him.
“Park Hyatt Paris Vendome,” he says. “You see, I’ve already thought this all out. It’s the closest hotel to Marianne’s flat,” he adds.
“That should make it convenient for you,” I can’t help but say.
“Well, it will make it easier for me to visit and it’s a five star hotel,” he says.
“Wait a second. Easier for you to visit? Visit who? Me or Marianne?”
“You!”
“Me? You’ll be visiting me? I’m going all the way to Paris so that you can “visit” me and stay with Marianne?”
“Elizabeth…”
“Elizabeth nothing. Think about what you’ve just asked me to do. Who am I, Mother Theresa?”
Rob laughs and I don’t know if I should laugh, too or hang up on him. This whole thing is surreal and maybe I’m thick but I just don’t get it. I feel like I’m in one of those he loves me, he loves me not dandelion games.
“Lizzie? I love you. Come to Paris. Today is Friday. Can you be on a flight Monday morning? Does that give you enough time to wrap your brain around all of this?”
“I’m paid up until the end of the month here,” I say weakly.
“That’s almost four weeks!” Rob replies. “How can you…”
Luckily he doesn’t finish that sentence, probably because he realizes I’m all too aware he’s been gone for two months now and I’m never going to let him get away with that one.
“How about this. How about if I let you know on Monday if I will come to Paris. Give me the weekend to think things through. All that I ask is that you don’t call me. I really want to clear my head and make this decision myself without any pressure from you, okay?”
“But…”
“My way or no way,” I tell him.
“Fair enough. But I don’t feel right, not talking to you every day. I was a basket case yesterday when I couldn’t reach you.”
Yeah, well, you should have thought of that before you left me, but of course I don’t say that.
“My way or no way,” I repeat, feeling very much like the lawyer I once was.
“Okay. Look, our connection sounds like it’s breaking up. So I’ll call you, what, ten o’clock in the morning your time on Monday?”
“Yeah, ten o’clock “my time” sounds good,” I say, trying to keep the sarcasm from my voice.
“Bye for now. Love you,”
Yeah, yeah.
“Love you, too, Rob,” I say, and click off the phone.
Oh man, now what do I do?
At the moment, it’s going to be take a shower. I feel slimy.

Chapter Seven

I put my paints away and quietly head upstairs so as not to disturb Andrew. I even go straight to the bathroom and undress in there so I make as little bit of commotion as possible. At least I know I am a considerate person, even if no one else in this world is.
The steaming water feels incredible. I stand under the spray of water as if I’m sterilizing myself from cooties after my conversation with Rob. Yikes, what is he asking me to do? Why do I have the ominous feeling that if I decide to go through with it, I will end up traveling all the way to Paris just to have my heart broken?
I lather my hair excessively and give myself a most enjoyable vigorous scalp massage while I try to think. What should I do? There is some serious soul searching to be done right now, that’s for sure. Too bad I’m not in the mood for it.
“Hey you,” Andrew says, stepping into the shower with me. “Fancy a little company?”
So much for serious soul searching.
“It’s a little late for me to say not really,” I laugh as he starts to enthusiastically soap my tits. I don’t have the heart to tell him I’ve already washed myself. Besides, it feels awesome and allows me to escape reality, which frankly, I totally need to do at the moment.
We take turns with the soap, yelping like two school kids and then Andrew whispers “Stand at the rear of the shower with your back to me, and put your hands up over your head and against the wall to steady yourself.”
Ooh, sounds good to me. I do what he says.
I feel his hard cock climbing half way up my back as he lifts my wet hair up and covers my neck with soft little kisses. I moan and spread my legs, allowing him to easily enter me from behind. He thrusts himself in deeply and roughly and then pulls all the way out and stops.
“Beg me to fuck you,” he says.
“I’m begging you to fuck me,” I moan.
“Tell me how much you want me inside of you.”
“I want…oh…” I gasp as he puts just the tip in and teases me with thrusts that are barely there…and yet I feel every movement, no matter how faint.
I’m completely pressed up against the tiles, the hot water cascading down my face as he alternatives between going deep inside of me and pulling out and making evil little circles by rubbing his dick on my clit. It’s driving me completely insane and he’s loving it. He keeps repeating this dance until finally he uses his fingers to make the circles while fucking me hard and fast, quickening the pace and slamming our two slippery hot bodies together until we both erupt simultaneously and I have to say, I don’t know that I’ve ever had sex that good in my life and up until now, I thought I’d experienced that with Rob. But this…this is fucking unreal. I’m covered from head to toe in gooseflesh, my ears are ringing, and my nipples, well, my nipples could literally take an eye out.
We climb out of the tub still smiling though of course the first words out of Andrew’s mouth are “Blimey, I need a nap,” but I am wide awake and already planning dinner.
“You don’t want to snuggle with me?” he asks with a pout, but by the time I have my answer ready he’s already snoring. Ah, men. Can’t live with them, can’t live with….nah, can’t live with them, period.
I throw on jeans and a t-shirt and start prepping tonight’s menu. We’re having pork tenderloin in a sauce of dried cherries and cognac with coconut sticky rice and walnut string beans on the side.
Young Andrew is so lucky to have me it’s ridiculous but at least he appears to know it. And as much as it’s killing me, in between slicing and dicing I refrain from checking him out any further on Google. I mean, what did people do before the internet? They took the time to get to know each other in real life, that’s what they did.
It starts getting dark at 4:00 p.m. during the winter months so I’m very conscious of a police car which keeps passing by the house with its swirling roof light flashing red and blue yet there is no blasting of any sirens. I still have a paranoid sixties’ mentality even though I am one hundred per cent innocent of any crimes that I know of so I keep peering out the blinds, wondering what the hell is going on and if it concerns me. It appears that this police officer keeps driving down my street, which is merely a thin sandy stretch of road separating my home and six others from the beach…and it’s not my imagination, he deliberately slows all the way down almost to the point of stopping right outside my front door before taking off and repeating the whole exercise all over again.
Am I about to be busted for cooking a pork tenderloin in cognac?
Wait a second. I know I haven’t done anything wrong, but what about the poet sleeping upstairs in my bed? Good grief, maybe he is a criminal!
Once again, I fight the urge to pull out my laptop but good sense prevails so I stop myself from doing anything stupid. Andrew Kent is a good guy. If he was wanted by the law, this cop…and it appears to be only one guy…wouldn’t keep playing mind games by repeatedly going past my house with his flashers on. If anything, he would have back-up and either do this totally stealthily or worse, descend on us with a megaphone ordering us to come out with our hands up and a S.W.A.T. team standing up on the sandy dunes with their submachine guns cocked and ready to fire if we so much as sneeze.
So what is this all about? Maybe I should poke my head outside and let him know I’m not a dangerous intruder squatting in good old Tom Hunter’s house.
I’m considering my options when Andy comes bopping down the steps bare-assed naked.
“Erm, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I only have one change of clean clothing here and I really need to throw my jeans and sweats in the washer…I have to do a shopping trip tomorrow and pick up some new stuff but I swear to you, these clothes I have now just walked right off my body. Which way to the laundry room?”
At that moment the police car stops totally in front of the house, making a strobe like psychedelic effect of red and blue neon light on our white walls.
“What the bloody hell?” Andrew gasps, covering his privates with a dirty t-shirt while hopping out of view behind an artificial fig tree in the corner.
Oh no, please don’t let the police officer have seen even the shadow of a naked man in here.
Hold on. Being naked in your own home isn’t against the law. Why is that guy stalking the house like this? Fuck it, I’m going out and ask him.
“Andy, the washer and dryer are right down the steps at the back of the kitchen. You’ll see a door which looks like a pantry but it’s really the way to the basement. Go ahead – I’m going outside to have a few words with Dick Tracey out there. He’s been harassing me for the past half hour.”
“Are you serious? Hang on, I’m getting dressed. We’ll go out and face him together.”
I’m grateful for this though there’s a part of me that’s saying What, I can’t do this alone because I’m a woman? I need you to protect me against the big bad cooper? And then I realize I’m having a stereotypical feminist reaction without looking at the bottom line. The truth is, I am kind of scared of this cop and my luck he’s a latent serial killer who went postal tonight – maybe he’s married to one of the M&M gang -- and he’s doing the bidding of that little leprechaun in his ear who goads him on every time he sees a woman to “kill her…eat her…burn her bones in the Ocean City Incinerator…”
Anyway, Andy and I open the door and step outside to see just what is going on and the strangest thing happens. As soon as we get about a yard or so away from his car, he takes off with screeching tires.
“What was that?” I look at Andy in total surprise.
“I don’t know, love, but I do know one thing. We are putting a telephone call in to the Ocean City Police Department and reporting this incident.”
“Agreed. Let me take care of it since I’m the one leasing this house.”
“Fine with me. Okay then, now that I have had my coronary for the evening, I believe I will go downstairs and do my laundry. You don’t by chance have anything at all I can put on in the meantime, do you? Ugh, I reek,” he says, pulling his t-shirt over his head and stepping out of his sweats.
“What? And miss the chance of having you here naked even during dinner while I am clothed? Ooh, it’s just so kinky and S&M. Therefore, no, I do not have anything for you to wear, Andrew. Deal with it.”
Oh great, what in hell made me just say that? Now he’s going to think I’m into sado-masochism.
“Elizabeth! Don’t tell me you are into doms and subs?” he says with a wicked grin and a glint in his eye which I’m not especially liking. But can I call them or can I call them?
“Nope,” I smile.
“The way you just said “Nope” could be construed as an S, you know.”
“Andrew, if anything, I am a masochist but that has nothing to do with sex. Now go do your wash. Dinner will be ready soon and I’ll see if I can find something for you to wear but I have to be honest, I’m not real hopeful unless you want to wear my robe.”
“That Japanese kimono thing?”
“Yeah.”
“No thanks.”
“No, thank you, Andrew. Now see, if I were really a dom, I’d have made you wear that.”
“I think you’re protesting this entire S&M thing all a little bit too much but I’m freezing standing here arguing with you. Hey, what are you cooking – it smells heavenly in here.”
“It’s a surprise,” I say, looking away from him. It’s very weird having a conversation with a naked man…especially a naked man who is freezing to death if you get my drift.
So he walks down the steps and yells “Bloody hell it’s Siberia down here,” and I run upstairs to find him clothing but the best I can come up with is a bright yellow Kiss Me I’m An Artist t-shirt Rob bought me as a gag gift last year and a pair of scarlet satin running shorts which I sometimes put on after a shower instead of pajamas.
Don’t hate me, Andrew.
“You’re joking,” he says when I hand him his new outfit.
“Andy, you are welcome to go upstairs and look in my closet and dresser drawers and take whatever you like but trust me, I literally have nothing else that will fit you. You’re like, what, seven feet tall and I’m barely five feet five inches.”
“I’m six two,” he says defensively. “Oh well, I shan’t argue with you. This is better than the kimono, though I shall probably be needing that to wear as an overcoat on top of this costume. Do we have any heat in here tonight?”
Too funny. The thermostat says seventy-two and it’s warm as toast. But I guess walking around naked and spending time in a damp cellar nude would turn anyone into a Nancy boy.
“Would you like a cup of tea before we eat?” I ask instead.
“A hot brandy would be better. And I distinctly smell that right now, by the way. Dinner is going to be one of wonder, bliss, and delight, I can predict that already.”
“Your olfactory senses are a little off,” I laugh. “That’s cognac you’re smelling. When I first moved in here a few weeks ago, my first act was to fully stock up on wine and cognac. I’ve been drinking the wine but this is the first night for the hard stuff. Would you like a shot?”
“I’d love one.”
I open the cabinet and find two little glasses adorned with black and white checker flags so it’s apparent that Tom Hunter is quite the NASCAR fan (why am I not surprised) and I pour us each a few fingers.
“Cheers,” Andy says, clinking my glass in a toast.
“Cheers, you cute little tart,” I smile, taking a swig. It goes down like a golden liquid fireball and we both react simultaneously with a pleased Wow!
Dinner is in fact a magnificent feast to behold and we don’t even bother to uncork a bottle of wine, we are killing the cognac and it is really knocking us both for a loop. Which is good because otherwise all I’d be thinking about is Andy in that tight yellow Kiss Me shirt and red satin shorts, which are leaving very little to the imagination considering that they are at least five sizes too small for him.
We finish eating and realize, when we go to stand up, just how smashed we are.
“Leave the dinner plates for later,” he whispers huskily in my ear and flicking my lobe with his tongue.
“Oh yeah,” I agree.
It’s only after I’m curled around him drifting off to a warm and fuzzy sleep that I remember we never made the telephone call to the Ocean City Police Department.
Or put his clothes in the dryer.

Chapter Eight

“What the hell?” Andrew sits up and points but we pretty much jump out of bed and rush to the window at the same exact time when we see it.
We have just awakened to the unsettling sight of a thick rising plume of black smoke directly outside our house.
He grimaces and puts on the outfit from my closet he wore at dinner last night, I grab my robe, and we go racing down the stairs, throw open the front door with me clutching my cell phone ready to call 911, and gasp.
What awaits us in the driveway is one of the most frightening things I’ve ever experienced in my life. It makes my old lover Richard and his nipple clamps with the dangling skulls seem like an innocent toddler jumping in a tub of plastic balls at IKEA.
The M&M gang are burning a stack of Andrew’s books. With Bic lighters, yet.
But as shocked as we are, nothing matches their faces when they see Andrew in his yellow Kiss Me I’m an Artist shirt and flaming red satin running shorts which, at the moment, are leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination.
“The wages of sin is death!” shouts Dottie.
“Then it is you who will be cast into everlasting torment!” Andrew shouts back. “Elizabeth! Call the police!”
“Don’t bother,” Dottie snarls. “Sue Ann’s husband is the Chief of the Ocean City Police Department.”
“Oh, was he our visitor last night?” I ask indignantly. “Perhaps your Mayor and other elected officials would like to know how he squandered taxpayer money harassing us.”
“Not to mention the misguided waste of his petrol,” Andrew adds with a scowl.
“How dare you use that word in front of God fearing women!” Sue Ann hisses. “Especially with your p...p…petrol half falling out of your shorts!”
“My petrol” That would be gas, you stupid git!”
And now, for the second time in two days, all six women are staring at Andrew with their mouths wide open.
They have no idea what he just said, all they heard was “gas” and “git” and probably think he called them farting pussies. But hey ho, as Andrew would say. What’s this? Dottie doesn’t seem to be able to tear her eyes away from Andrew’s “petrol” – in fact, if you ask me, she’s wishing she had those x-ray glasses they used to advertise in the back of comic books forty years ago.
Andy, in the meantime, has stamped out the remains of their bonfire and is now, much to Dottie’s dismay, delicately holding the skeletal remains of one of his anthologies strategically in front of his private parts.
And then a very strange thing happens. Andrew starts to cry. Despite his British reserve, he makes no effort to get himself under control nor does he turn to go back into the house. He just stands there sobbing, holding the pieces of his book in his hands.
“Satisfied, ladies?” I ask them, my eyes filling as well. “Do me a favor and go home to your families. Your work here is done. And while you are stuffing your plump little piggy faces at dinner tonight, why not give a thought to all of the homeless people and children starving in this country right now. Perhaps you can find it in your filthy black hearts to have compassion for them and devote your attention to those who need you instead of those who might not agree with you. And by the way, this little stunt you pulled today? I do believe it might fall under The Federal Hate Crimes Act. Have I mentioned that I’m an attorney? I fully intend to report this to the FBI so bake some cookies, gals, the men in black will be coming to call.”
Actually, burning books does not fall under the Federal Hate Crimes Act but they don’t have to know that. Although the argument could be made, after seeing Andrew fall to pieces just now, that it surely should.
It’s enough to make the M&M gang go running down the street in a panic, though.
“Th-th-th-th-th-that’s all, folks,” I call after them.
Andy laughs in spite of himself and the two of us walk back into the house together, my hand on his shoulder to comfort him.
“Think of the missed opportunity. You could have called your sonnet Purple Petrol,” I smile back.
He kisses me and pulls me into his arms.
“Hey,” he whispers. “Thank you for that. And telling them you are a solicitor – that was brilliant! Too bad it isn’t true.”
“Actually, it is true,” I tell him.
“What? Oh stop it, Elizabeth. I’m over my hysterical sobbing, you don’t have to keep up the act.”
“Oh god, well, whether you want to believe it or not, yes, I am an attorney. Licensed to practice in the States of Pennsylvania and New Jersey.”
“You’re joking. No wait, You aren’t joking, are you. Can I kiss your ring,” he asks, bending down on one knee.
“Oh get up before you get a splinter in your petrol,” I laugh. “And how about going down and putting your clothes in the dryer so you can get dressed like a normal person and we can head out to the store for some new jeans and stuff?”
“Good plan,” he agrees, turning on his heel.
“Though I am going to miss you in that outfit,” I call out after him.
Two minutes later he huffs and puffs up the stairs.
“Oh look you get to see it one final time,” he says, twirling around like a supermodel on crack cocaine.
“I’d rather see you without it,” I reply with narrowed eyes.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Race you upstairs or do you want to have a go on the kitchen table?” he asks.
“I’ll take upstairs though the table sounds like fun.”
“Then let’s do the table,” he says, lunging for me.
I laugh and push him off.
“Those things always sound better in theory. But given the choice between a cold hard surface and a nice warm bed, I think I’ll take the bed.”
“Where’s your adventurous spirit, Elizabeth?”
I lost it two years ago with a lunatic named Richard yielding a remote controlled vibrator and bondage tape, Andrew.
“I’m adventurous, Andy. Obviously. Otherwise you would not be here right now, would you.” I smile sweetly and blow him a kiss. “Besides, it’s not your ass on that cold table, it’ll be mine.”
“Not necessarily. Why don’t you give me a chance to show you just what I have in mind?”
“Okey doke,” I grin. I untie my robe and toss it on the sofa.
“I love how uninhibited you are,” he says, holding me tight and rubbing his hard cock against me through the thin fabric of the running shorts.
If you had told me two years ago that anyone would call