Caught Looking, page 17
She was right. Joe and I were roommates. That’s all. We’d never experienced even the tiniest spark of sexual intrigue between us. Not even when drunk. The thought of him seeing me naked made me want to hide under my heavy down duvet for a month. I could just imagine what he would think of me, with my Medusa curls, dark features, bee-stung lips, bad-girl hips.
Joe liked the starlets, slim-waisted girls with ironed blonde hair and the type of iris-blue eyes that only come from a colored contact lens kit. A wannabe screenwriter, he didn’t buy into my belief that writers can look like shit and still be successful. He spent hours at the gym, creating the most sellable physique, as if his tight abs would make his lackluster screenplays any better.
Nina was my best friend from high school. And she was fucking him. She didn’t care if I saw her without her clothes on, because I’d been seeing her naked for years—in department store dressing rooms as we tried on outfits for prom (hers a slinky bombshell number, mine long-sleeved and solid black), in swimming pool changing rooms as we slid into our suits (me in a safe, cover-all one-piece, Nina in a leopard-print bikini), and in slumber party bedrooms as we put on night clothes and gossiped about boys. (And yes, she was in a sheer baby-doll, while I was in plaid flannels. And yes, she was the one doing the gossiping while I listened carefully, storing away every sordid detail.)
She had no fear of being exposed—hell, she reveled in it—and now, the second week after she’d moved into my apartment, she was driving this fact home every single day. When I came in from the grocery store, there she’d be: naked. When I stumbled down the hallway in the morning in desperate need of coffee, there she’d be: naked.
Joe liked it. What guy wouldn’t want his current femme fatale to show her goodies whenever possible? He was a man, after all, and I could tell exactly how much he enjoyed her exhibitionist qualities from the glow in his pale green eyes whenever he caught her parading around the kitchen. He chuckled and patted her ass possessively when he discovered her cooking in a little lace apron, high-heeled stripper shoes, and nothing else. When I was present, he made polite yet faux attempts to get her back into her clothes—“Come on, Nina, we have company”—as if I were a guest in my own fucking house, but we all knew that watching her in the buff made him a very happy—as well as very horny—man.
Besides, all of this was my own damn fault, so I couldn’t possibly complain. I’d invited Nina to come stay with me for a minivacation, and she’d hit it off with Joe that very first night. We’d all gone out for drinks at the Snake Pit on Melrose, and I’d watched Nina slip closer and closer to Joe in the red vinyl booth as the evening progressed. In between strolls down memory lane, she’d teased him with her body, running her fingertips along the delicate line of her neck, or setting one hand on his. Just for a moment. Just long enough.
“Mel was always a wallflower,” Nina told him at one point when she was flashing back to our high school days. “You should have seen her at the dances, pressed flat against the wall, staring.”
“Taking notes,” Joe grinned, nodding. “Melanie’s always writing stuff down.” He didn’t mean offense by the comment; I could tell. He was simply adding to the conversation.
“She just watched.” Nina met my eyes. I wondered what she saw there.
“But I’ll bet you were dancing,” Joe said to Nina, both appreciatively and correctly. “I’ll bet you were the belle of the ball.” His hand slipped under the table, and I was sure it had come to rest on her inner thigh.
Ultimately, she’d practically been in his lap, and nausea had swirled over me as I watched the two kiss. One of his big hands found the back of her head and pulled her forward. The heat between them made me ache. When they parted, her cranberry-hued lipstick had smeared his mouth, and she used her thumb to rub the stain away, touching his face with a sense of ownership.
I didn’t want Joe—believe me when I say that I didn’t. Burly former football players have never done anything for me. But I wanted what Nina had, the confidence that shone through even when she was dressed simply, in a formfitting white T-shirt and stovepipe indigo jeans. The power that emanated from her as she gripped her bottle of Heineken and took a swig. Even in L.A., the land of the beautiful, Nina stood out, the same way she had in high school—at the pool or at the prom. I faded into the background then, as I faded at the Snake Pit. A wallflower in a garden of championship roses.
Nina and Joe stayed to close the bar. I don’t think they even noticed when I put my money on the table and left the Pit, heading home on my own in the darkness. Much later, I heard them trying to be quiet as they stumbled back into the apartment, and then heard them forgetting about trying to be quiet, in his room, fucking against the wall. I listened, because I couldn’t help myself, as she moaned his name: “God, Joe. Oh, my fucking god—”
He wasn’t as audible as she was. I pressed my ear harder against the cold wall, devouring every sound. He was breathing heavily, nearly panting, and repeating her name, but she was doing most of the talking. Telling him what she wanted. Giving him naughty little commands. “Do it like this. Come on, Joe. Harder—”
I thought of her arched over the bed, with Joe in the rear. Thought of what harder meant. She wanted him to slam into her. She wanted to really feel it. I didn’t have to close my eyes to envision the scene. A movie played out on the wall before me with hardly any assistance at all. I’d seen Nina naked often enough to know exactly what she looked like now, cast in the most erotic positions as Joe, big hulking stud that he was, took care of her.
They started near the bed. I could hear the mattress springs squeaking, and I visualized Joe fucking her from the rear, her jeans down, panties to the side. They were in a hurry, and a bit hazy from the alcohol, and they went at it like animals. I could hear him crooning to her—“Nina, pretty Nina”—and my high school chum taking charge, as she always did.
“Don’t come. Not yet. Let’s do it like this—”
There was the sound of confusion, and I realized that one of them had knocked something over in their rush. It wouldn’t have been Nina. Even drunk, she was graceful. Was she performing a striptease? Of course she was. Joe must have been mesmerized, watching as she tossed her shirt across the room, then her bra; then peeled her jeans all the way off, before hooking her thumbs under the ribbonlike band of her teeny-tiny thong and slipping it down her slender thighs.
“Against the wall,” she told him. “Fuck me right there—”
All of those hours at the gym paid off for Joe. He had stamina. He could lift her clear off the ground, press her up against the wall, and fuck her nonstop until she creamed. And he did. I mimicked her position on the other side, my whole body sealed to the plaster, becoming one third of their nonconsensual ménage à trois, reveling in the sensation of being a participant, even an invisible one.
Joe thrust into her, and I contracted on an invisible cock. Joe said, “Look at me,” and I opened my eyes wide, as if he were speaking to me. When Nina made noise, it was as if I could feel her moans. As if I were the one making those noises. I saw two visions in my head—Joe fucking Nina against the wall, and Nina slow dancing with partner after partner in the dimly lit gymnasium back in high school.
She was right—about what she told Joe at the bar. All I ever did was watch. But I wasn’t watching now. I was listening. Somehow it was even better. At least, at first it was.
“Oh, yes, Joe,” she purred. “Just like that. Now touch my clit. Use your hand on it. Rub it, Joe. Rub my clit faster. Faster—”
He must have been doing everything that she asked, because she started to go hoarse, her voice gone, her words fading to groans. I bit my lip and closed my eyes tight, feeling the climax build deep within me. Feeling as if I were the one being fucked. Nina found it in herself to scream as she came, and I thrust one palm against my mouth, bit into the tender skin there to keep myself from echoing her wild, untamed noise.
After making Nina come the first time, Joe seemed to find his own sense of power. Suddenly, he was speaking. “You like that?”
“Mmm-hmmm.”
“Bad girl—” Joe said. “Bossing me around like that. Telling me what to do.”
“You think I’m a bad girl?”
“I know you are.”
“So what are you going to do about it?”
He didn’t answer verbally. Instead, I heard him telling her to get into the proper position.
“Position?”
“You heard me, Nina. You know what I mean.”
There was a low giggle, sexy as hell, and then I heard her say, “Like this?”
“You think I’m kidding. You think I’m being funny—”
And seconds later, I heard him spanking her, could tell immediately what those sexy sounds were, the erotic slapping sounds of skin on skin, and once more I could see the movie in my mind—petite blonde Nina upended over Joe’s sturdy lap, his firm hand on her ass, connecting hard. Was he punishing her for turning his world upside down? Or did he understand somehow that this scene wasn’t solely for him and Nina? It was for me, too. Because Nina knew all of my little fantasies. She knew that being spanked was the ultimate turn-on for me, knew that watching—watching people together—floored me like nothing else. Best friends share secrets. But did she think she was giving me a gift here? Or was she showing off yet again?
Without a thought as to what might happen if I got caught, I moved away from the wall, slid silently out of my bedroom, and padded quietly down the hall. As I’d expected, the door to Joe’s room was open. Only a sliver, but enough. I walked toward the open doorway as softly as I could, but I probably needn’t have bothered. They were busy, consumed by their own actions. They didn’t notice when I made my way right outside his bedroom door, positioning myself so that I could see Nina, ass upward, and Joe, spanking her hard.
The fact that the door was ajar wasn’t too surprising. Nina was always a proud exhibitionist. At parties, she made sure to be seen kissing the cutest guy center stage, letting him put his hand up her top or down her skirt, closing her eyes as she became the pure definition of ecstasy. She didn’t think being on display made her look like a slut—she thought it made her look wanted. In demand.
Once, when we were on a double date together at a drive-in, she actually made love in the backseat with her lucky man of the moment. I held my breath as I stared at the screen through the front window, not seeing the movie at all, captivated instead by the sultry noises coming from the backseat. First the wet sounds of Nina delivering a world-class blow job, slurping sounds punctuated by the moans of her man. Then the undeniable noises of her slipping onto his lap and pumping her body until she reached her own personal Nirvana. My date stared straight forward, too, realizing from the start that he was going nowhere with me. Not that he would have wanted to. I was in head-to-toe black, hair in my face, as always. Nina was in a sunburst sundress, low in the back, low in the front.
There was nothing Nina ever found too revealing.
Good, I thought as I watched Joe’s hand make sweet contact with her sublime ass. Spank her harder. Spank her for me.
Joe and I had been roommates for nearly a year, and I was aware when he brought women home, those one-dimensional paper dolls who all left the same sort of lilting messages on our answering machine afterward. “Joe? It’s Angela?” Always with an upturn at the end. A question as if they weren’t quite sure who they were or what they wanted from him. But I’d never heard him involved in anything like this before, never thought to go spy on him when he was in bed with one of his candy girls. Truthfully, I’d never given what he did in bed all that much thought. This was different. Nina’s climax was so powerful I could practically taste her pleasure, and it was with a dark, thrilling wave of guilt that I retreated back down the hall to my own futon bed and stroked myself to a much quieter orgasm of my own, picturing the scene in an endless, X-rated loop.
In the morning, Nina strolled into my bedroom wearing one of Joe’s old oversized football jerseys and a Cheshire grin.
“Thanks,” she said, smiling coyly at me.
“For—?”
“The invitation.”
I was silent, hearing a response in my head but not able to voice the words. I’d invited her to stay with me, not to screw my roommate. But that sounded bitter, didn’t it? Was I always bitter around Nina? When she wasn’t close by, I had my own form of confidence, didn’t I? I stood behind my work. My stories spoke for me. Didn’t matter that my closet was a sea of black. That my shoes looked like men’s shoes. That dressing up to me meant putting on black slacks rather than black jeans. When Nina wasn’t there, I was witty and sly.
Nina looked around my room, her large eyes carefully appraising my desk, my computer, the art on my walls. She didn’t say a word, but I could hear her judging, and I felt a competitive urge swell within me. We had been best friends since junior high school, but rivals, as well. The feeling was one that I thought we’d overcome after college, jobs, real life. It was one of the reasons I’d invited her to stay—to show her that I didn’t care anymore. Didn’t care that she was prettier, sleeker, more exciting.
What a fucking lie.
There it was. Hitting me hard in the gut. I didn’t want Joe, so what did it matter that she was sleeping with him? I couldn’t answer that. And why had she come? Maybe Nina was my friend because being near me made her look even more luscious. Compared to my drab outfits and downcast eyes, she was a vision of radiance. But why was I her friend? Because she showed me what life would be like if I took a risk? Because she had the guts to, to—
Without a pause, she whipped off the shirt and headed naked to the bathroom to take a shower, giving me a glimpse of her perfect bubble butt and the subtle plum-hued handprints that still decorated it.
Only a week, I told myself. Then she’ll be gone.
But she wasn’t. In she moved. And naked she remained.
She did the crossword puzzle in the dining room, naked with her feet tucked up under her. She showered with the door open. She washed the dishes in her birthday suit. If she could have gone to work naked, I’m sure she would have. But for the first month and a half, she didn’t have a job, and therefore, she had no need of clothes.
Paranoid, I decided that she was behaving like this only to mess with me. Perhaps she was fucking Joe—but she was head-fucking me. I mean, wouldn’t she get cold at some point? Want to slip on some fuzzy kneesocks, a comfy sweatshirt? No. She turned up the heat, and continued to revel in her altogether.
And I hated her for it.
The funny thing is that even back then I knew what I should have done. I should have taken my own clothes off, should have stripped down on that first day and done naked yoga at her side. Nina wouldn’t have been able to stop me. It was my apartment, too, as well as Joe’s. What could they have done about it?
Instead, I grew distant and shadowy. I lurked around the rooms, sidling into the kitchen when I knew they were in the living room. Rushing to get out of the apartment in the morning. Drinking my coffee at King’s Road Cafe rather than in my own kitchen. I felt storm-cloud gray compared to Nina’s golden beams of light, felt weighted down and heavy, listening every evening to their X-rated activities through the thin walls.
“From behind, Joe,” Nina would tell him, her voice so urgent. “Take me from behind tonight.”
And I’d be in there with them, my head against the wall, sickly drinking in every seductive moment, no longer retreating to my bed to get off, but touching myself right there. Standing. A wallflower for real. One that only bloomed at night.
He spanked her at the end of every session. He reddened her ass until she cried, and the thought of her tears made me come harder than I ever had.
As the weeks went on, I began wearing more, as if to compensate for Nina’s lack of garments. I added a zippered hoodie to my standard at-home wardrobe of T-shirts and sweats, slid a blue-and-green-plaid flannel robe on top of that, looked as if I were heading out to the Arctic when I was only walking down the hall.
I would have worn clothes in the shower, if I could have. Would have put on galoshes, thick kneesocks, gloves, shin guards, my skin disappearing under layer upon layer of protective gear. Until one morning I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I had on a black-and-gray-striped wool hat pulled low over my forehead as I was brushing my teeth, and I met my reflection and shook my head. What had happened to me? Where the hell was I?
I moved out the next day. And it was like moving from a cold winter in North Dakota to the island tropics. I rented a sun-filled apartment near Venice Beach and shed my clothes as if they were on fire.
But it took years for me to shed the rest of my inhibitions.
Only over time have my clothes grown smaller to fit my actual body. Only after many forays out to the beach have I traded in my safe one-pieces and long-sleeved cover-ups for bright bikinis.
Wallflowers are made, not born. That’s what I’ve learned. And maybe flower isn’t the right term, after all. Maybe wall bud is more correct. All the girls pressed tightly to the wall have the potential to bloom someday. They can step forward, turn their heads up to the sun, feel the heat rush over them.
That’s why I pack light when I go to visit Nina and Joe. They got married, if you can believe it. A vacation romance turned into the real thing. Got married and quit the L.A. scene. Moved to Oregon, where he fixes cars and she works nights in a local café. And when they meet me at the airport, I can’t help but grin as he lifts my suitcase.
“Not much here,” Joe says. “You’re traveling light.”
When he says the words, he’s staring at me, and I can tell that he appreciates the way I look. I’ve lost the last of the puppy fat that hounded me through high school and college, learned to appreciate yoga as well, streamlining my figure as well as my attitude. Just dropping my extra heavy garments made me look as if I’d shed twelve pounds.
