“Let’s go in.” He unbuckles his seat belt and opens the door.
We step into darkness, the front door opened with a key Stewart produces from his pocket. He walks through, leaving me in the foyer, lights flipping on as he moves, warm lights illuminating marble floors, a chef’s kitchen, a fireplace built into the far wall. My sense of unease grows until he finally reappears, standing before me and spreading his arms proudly. “So? What do you think?”
I step toward him, glancing around. “I’m a little confused. Are you moving?” I know he’s not. He can’t. The ten-minute commute would drive him crazy – thousands wasted in those precious minutes spent on something as trivial as transportation.
“It’s for you.” His smile falters slightly at my expression. “Don’t you like it?”
“But I already have a house.” With Paul. The words that don’t need to be said.
“You rent a house. In a section of town that has the crime rate of Compton.” His tone irritates me.
“I like where I live.” And whom I live with. Paul would move, but only to make me happy. He wouldn’t want to live in this manicured neighborhood of picket fences and paved drives. Twenty minutes from the water, from our lives as we know it. “I’m right by work now.”
“You’d be closer to me here. And this is nicer, ten times nicer than where you live.” He is right, though he has never been to my house. For all he knows, it has twelve-foot ceilings and five bathrooms.
I try to breathe, try to stay calm. “Have you closed on this?”
“No. It’s closing in ten days. Sooner if you’d like.”
No. I would not like. “Stewart, this is a very kind gesture, and I really appreciate the thought...”
“But you don’t want to move.” His face is unreadable, and I step forward, wrapping my hands around his neck.
“No. I don’t want to move. Can you pull out of the sale?”
He sighs, his hands sliding around my waist, slipping under the top of my jeans and he squeezes the skin there. “It’s gonna be hard.” He pulls me forward, pressing the length of my body against him, my breath catching as he lifts up with his hands, pulling me tight to his pelvis.
“How hard?” I breathe.
His mouth curves beneath my lips and he leans forward, taking a deep taste of my mouth before pulling off. “Why don’t you get on your knees and find out?”
I think it hurt his feelings, my refusal of his gift. But it was too much. Not the gift of the house—I’m not too proud to accept a million dollar piece of real estate. But the life change. I love my time with Stewart. But the everyday with Paul? Waking up next to his warmth, in the house that creaks under our feet and has hosted our sex in every counter, bathroom, and floorboard? I love that part of my life. And all of it would change if we were to move into a house of Stewart’s. The entire dynamic of our lives.
Sex smooths over his hurt. Sex heals his ego, and he earns every ounce of it back. Making me scream his name, my body bent over, gripping the granite countertop, his hard cock claiming me from behind. On my back in the master, my legs spread before him, his hands lingering over my skin as he fucked me to a second, then—legs flipped over and my body on its side—third orgasm. We finished on the back deck, the night air cool on our hot skin, his breath labored as he kissed the length of my skin, his hands following his mouth, making a final exploration of my body, pushing me down to my knees.
We christen the hell outta the house, despite my lack of future inside it. Then we turn out the lights and Stewart locks the door with one last, regretful look inside. “You sure you don’t want to sleep on it? Nicole will be so disappointed, she thought you’d love it.”
“Then you can buy it for her,” I tease. “But no.”
He turns the key, snagging my arm as I turn, and presses me against the door, taking one more possessive, full-body taste, his mouth aggressive as his hands take a long survey of my body. When he finally releases me, I stay against the door, looking up into his face, partially in shadow, his looks no less devastating in the dark. “Thanks, baby. For thinking of me.”
“I love you. I want you to be taken care of.”
I smile. “I am. I don’t need a house for that.” I stick out my tongue playfully, and the serious moment is broken. He tugs at my hand and we return to his car. And then to his condo. Which we christen also—just for the hell of it.
A normal person would ask themselves who they prefer. If both men were standing on a cliff, and I had to push one of them off, who would it be?
But I’m not normal, and neither are they. Eventually, one of them will tire of this relationship, will want more. Will want a full-time girlfriend or mother to his children. And then I will ask myself if that is what I want. If I can be happy with one man. And if the answer is yes, then I will go that path. It seems strange but, despite their differences, there is a bit of each other in these men. And even if I leave one, I will always have part of him in the other.
Paul knows that one day that question will come, and he avoids it, will never bring that question to my attention. Stewart doesn’t have time to think about it.
VENICE BEACH, CA
DIDDY MOW: the worst kind of wipeout.
One that causes broken bones, missing teeth,
or loss of life
It’s one of those barely warm days. The kind that warns you to get out and enjoy the water, before it is teeth-chattering cold, with breezes that feel like the open door to a fridge. I closed the windows to the house this morning. Crawled back into bed and laid on Paul’s warm body. Let him wrap his arms around me and warm my skin.
We waited till noon, when the sun was out long enough to take the chill off the day, and then ran out, the initial shock of cold water goosebumping our exposed skin. Now, an hour later, our muscles are warm and we are contemplating the incoming waves.
I love the anonymity of being out here. The sand and water don’t care if you are a spoiled rich kid or a foster child. It doesn’t yield to society’s expectations or discriminate. And there is little you can buy that will improve your ride of a wave, or lower your risk of death. On the sand, in the water, we are all equal in the wave’s eyes. All opponents that will either conquer the surf or succumb to it.
I rode a surfboard before I ever did a bike. The waxed feel of epoxy underneath my soles is as familiar as sand. I am not Paul. I don’t ride on the edge of death, don’t tackle the monsters that rise above and crush down on innocent souls. I ride the waves I know I can handle, and don’t bite off more than I can easily chew. And this, this gradual curve that approaches, is a wave I can handle.
I watch it coming, feel the tug as it pulls from behind me, the subtle awakening of the surrounding water as we all prepare for its arrival. I glance around, Paul nodding, sitting up and gesturing for me to go, no other surfers around. A collision on a wave is dangerous, the hard impact of boards brutal at a time when the smallest mistake can mean danger.
I count the seconds, watching the curve of ocean, feeling the pull of current, and then lean forward, lying flat against the board, and paddle. Quick, strong strokes, the rush of excitement entering my muscles as I pick up speed. It is coming. I am ready.