Confessions of an Ex-Girlfriend (27 page)

This felt suspiciously like a bad sign, though I couldn't—or wouldn't—put my finger on why. Instead I closed the distance between us by grabbing his hand as the credits rolled up.

And when he flashed me that killer smile, all my fears faded away.

“What did you think?” I asked, gazing up at him.

“Ecstasy. Sheer filmmaking ecstasy. Freely never disappoints. I mean, how he manages to convey the beautiful, yet painfully nihilistic quality of human relationships, it's just…pure genius!”

Shoving that warning voice deep into the basement of my brain, I tried to look suitably pensive and responded with the ever-ambiguous “hmm.”

Fortunately I was saved from expressing my true feelings, as Max seemed to have fallen in love with the sound of his own voice, and went on and on about the “genius” of Bart Freely as we strolled away from the theater together. He waxed poetic on everything from the loneliness of the human condition to the sad state of Hollywood, which had no place for such a diverse (yeah, right) and unique (to whom, men?) filmmaker as Bart Freely.

Finally we arrived at what I discovered was to be our next destination for the evening. A bar on East Seventy-First Street which seemed to be called simply Bar, either because the owner couldn't afford to fix the half-torn-down sign, or he was attempting to be clever.

“You up for something to eat? Maybe a few drinks?” Max asked hopefully.

Apparently Bar also had food. “Sure,” I replied, somewhat relieved he hadn't made any presumptions and led me straight to his apartment.

Once we were seated, shades of our first date came back to me. As I looked at Max seated across from me once more, I remembered why I was attracted to him in the first place: a) he was hot b) he was intellectual and most of all c) he was a writer—a suc
cessful writer. And he looked it, I thought, studying him as he scanned the menu thoughtfully.

“Why don't we start off with a couple of drinks?” he suggested, “Then, if we want, we can have a couple appetizers. Unless, you're hungry for dinner…?” he continued, eyeing me speculatively over the top of his menu.

Like I would really admit I was hungry enough for a four-course meal with him looking at me like that—as if food was so beside the point for us intellectual types. Suddenly I wondered why I never seemed to get dinner when I was out on a date. “That's sounds good,” I replied.

“Well, I know what I'm having,” he said, shutting the menu with a smile. “My beloved Bombay martini.” Then he half squinted, as if trying to pull out a memory. “And what was that you were drinking last time? Some kind of tequila drink?”

Suddenly his parting words on our first date came back to me, and an image of my father, four drinks lined up in front of him and a grin on his weary face, flashed before me.

“You know, I think I'll go with a glass of Merlot tonight.” After all, I didn't want him to think I had some sort of…problem.

He seemed somewhat disappointed in this selection, though he cheerfully ordered for both of us once the waiter showed up.

“So how's the book coming?” he asked once we were alone again.

“Fine, fine,” I replied, but inwardly cringed when I realized I had barely looked at it since Max's call on Sunday night. It was as if I suddenly redirected my efforts from the moment I had heard his voice on my machine. “And you? Have you finished the article for
Rolling Stone?
”

“Oh, yeah. It was just a book review. Nothing I couldn't handle,” he replied with a shrug.

I ignored the fact that this simple task had previously been the excuse for why he had been too busy to call me for over a week. “That's cool. Good book?”

“Nothing special. I was rather glad to get back to my own writing,” he said, a gleam in his eye.

As our drinks arrived and we talked more about writing, I real
ized I was performing a dance I had performed once before, two years earlier. It was as if I weren't talking to Max, but to Derrick. The nuances were the same—two writers struggling to show each other what their true passions were and maybe not hearing each other at all, judging by what had happened between Derrick and me. But I didn't want to feel that gap, didn't want to see it. And so I pushed it away, focusing on the moment instead, on the way Max got animated every time he felt the conversation was feeding whatever point he was making. And he always had some brilliant point or other. I was becoming enamored in spite of my doubts. How I could I help it, with the Merlot warming up my veins and taking a heavier toll on my senses than I expected, probably because we never did order any food and it had been a long time since I'd ingested anything solid enough to absorb alcohol. I wasn't drunk, not by a long shot. I'd barely even touched the second glass Max insisted I order, probably out of some vague desire to keep myself a safe distance from the ominous memory of Deirdre's phone message. I can only assume it was my vulnerable, post-Derrick haze that had me positively glowing with a wealth of warm feelings toward Max as he called for the check and ushered me out the door a few hours later.

Whatever strange emotions I was feeling, not even the cool night air that blasted me in the face once we hit the streets could drive it away. In fact, I found myself nodding eagerly in response to his suggestion that we go back to his place. Just for a quick look, he said. Apparently Max had a killer one-bedroom with a wood-burning fireplace, all for $1,500 a month. It simply had to be seen to be believed.

Yeah, right.

We walked there arm in arm, my head resting on his shoulder as if we'd been together for two years rather than two nights. I couldn't help but relax into the warmth of him. He felt so solid. So male. And I suddenly realized how much I missed a good, solid male.

Then I saw the apartment.

With one flick of the switch, the room glowed with warmth and
color. And I found myself standing in the kind of expansive living space a downtown dweller like myself could only dream of.

“It's wonderful,” I breathed, turning to look at Max.

His smile was smug, as if he himself had laid every brick in the fireplace that sat cozily on the far wall. “Let me give you a tour.”

He proceeded to lead me through a kitchen. Not a line of appliances against a wall or stuffed into a alcove that had once been a closet. But a full-blown, actual eat-in kitchen, complete with table and chairs and—even rarer—a window. I swallowed hard, speechless as he took my hand and pulled me toward the pièce de résistance.

The bedroom.

Vaulted ceilings, a wall of windows and a bed so beautifully made up in blues in grays, I might have suspected he was a bit light in the loafers—except for the purely predatory look I saw in his eyes when I turned to look at him once more, my mouth agape.

I wanted to sleep with him. With all of it—the wood-burning fireplace, the eat-in kitchen, the twenty-foot ceilings. I was in a state of pure, unadulterated lust.

“Can I get you something to drink?” he asked, breaking the tension and allowing me to get a grip on my senses. “I think I might even have a bottle of Merlot, since that seems to be your poison of choice this evening.”

“Great,” I said, meekly following him back through the kitchen in an effort to keep myself from crawling into the cozy little bed and begging Max to make love to me until my name was added to the lease.

“Have a seat in the living room,” he said. “There are some CDs in the rack by the fireplace. Pick something out.”

I did as he asked, enjoying the fact that he put me in charge of the music selection. I needed something to grab on to, to help me gain control. But as I began to browse through Max's CDs, I found myself spiraling further into the unknown. I didn't recognize anything in his collection. All he seemed to own were obscure British imports of bands I never heard of, and classical recordings, which I knew virtually nothing about.

Finally I spied a Billie Holiday CD and grabbed it. Why not? It
was romantic in some ways. So what if it was the blues? It somehow seemed…appropriate, I realized as the first strains of “Lady Sings the Blues,” wafted silkily from the speakers. Yes, I thought as I seated myself carefully on the sofa, I was ready for whatever Max had on his mind. And I was pretty sure I knew what that was.

 

Confession: Reader, I slept with him.

 

When Max returned with two glasses in hand, I had managed to transform myself into the kind of cool and courageous chick who felt perfectly at ease in a hot guy's apartment. I had even kicked off my slides and slid down deep into his sofa, though my insides quivered a bit at the sight of him standing before me, his look speculative once more.

“Billie Holiday. Nice choice,” he said, handing me a glass and seating himself right beside me.

I had barely taken a sip before Max took the glass from my hand and pulled me into his arms for a kiss so sexy yet so tender it was oddly…heartbreaking.

I did the only thing I could. I brought things up a notch. I couldn't help myself. The tenderness was too much to bear, and the only way I could fight it was by ravishing his mouth, nipping savagely at his lips. His eyes widened in surprise, then he responded in kind, and soon enough, my bra was on the floor next to my T-shirt and Max was easing me into a reclining position.

“I need to feel you,” I said, yanking his T-shirt up and pressing myself against him. I was blind in that moment, though I noted vaguely once he was bare-chested that he was a little on the skinny side, but toned, athletic. Solid. It was all I needed.

Apparently Max needed more. “Let's go into the bedroom,” he breathed in my ear, and I answered by coaxing his tongue into my mouth and sucking hard. He groaned and got up, pulling me with him, past that beautiful brick-covered wall, through the spacious kitchen and into that plush, inviting bed.

I suddenly couldn't remember the last time I had smelled a man's scent against cool, crisp sheets. All I knew was that it felt incredibly good to lie in Max's bed. With a quick kiss, he left me there tem
porarily while he shucked his jeans. I felt a momentary panic at the sight of his narrow hips and his—oh God—Fruit Of The Looms. He suddenly looked so foreign to me, unfamiliar. This body, hairless, gaunt and suddenly strange to my eyes, was one I did not know. It was as if my muddled brain were expecting someone else, someone familiar…someone like…Derrick.

I closed my eyes against the thought, waiting for the weight of Max, the feel of his tongue in my mouth once more, his hands roaming over me. It did feel good, after all. I will not lie. I was attracted to Max Van Gelder in a way that went beyond his surprisingly narrow body and somewhat clumsy hands. Allowing him to slide both my jeans and panties down my legs, I decided to let things run their course.

And when things had reached some sort of fevered pitch for Max—I was aroused myself, though something had been muted inside me—I watched stoically while he slid off those Fruit Of The Looms and fumbled in the nightstand for a condom. I had all those giggly little thoughts about the ridiculous look of a man's cock covered in latex—not that it was a bad cock, somewhere above my lifetime average and maybe even slightly larger than Derrick's—take that, you bastard!—and waited patiently while he poked and prodded at me, attempting to find the place nature had put in the same spot on every woman yet most men couldn't find on the first try.

Suddenly he was inside me, staring at someplace on the pillow beneath my head, a look of relief on his features. He began to move, slowly at first, as if the action caused him more pain than pleasure. Initially I felt a little strange myself, staring up at this man I barely knew as he pounded away at me in some heightened state of pleasure I was not yet privy to. And my feelings must have shown on my face, for he suddenly closed his eyes.

I watched him for a few moments, studying his features and wondering how they had suddenly turned so vulnerable-looking they made me want to cry. But I didn't cry. Hell, I was having sex. So I did what every single girl must when she found herself pleasantly engaged with a man she found attractive and willing, if not perfectly suited. I shut my eyes. And enjoyed myself.

For the friction had started to warm me, the feel of him between my thighs began to excite me. I will admit, I did for a moment imagine it was Derrick above me, sweating and grunting and acting like his efforts would somehow save the world. And though the memory thrilled me, it was only a momentary thrill, followed by a seething anger that I could banish only by focusing on the friction once more.
C'mon,
my brain screamed. “Harder,” I heard myself cry, just like one of those women in the porno flick Derrick brought over once, hoping to spice things up between us.

And with one ear-shattering groan from Max, it was over. Oh, not for me. No, no, no, don't go thinking I got so lucky. The only reason
I
knew it was over was that foreign and now very sweaty body was limp on top of mine, which was still tingling hopefully, unaware that there was nothing to hope for anymore.

Suddenly he lifted his head, a goofy grin on his face as he looked down at me. “Wow. That was amazing.”

I smiled back, deciding to swallow my disappointment and face the moment bravely. Besides, when I looked up into those satiated features, I saw the old Max again. The one I found so attractive, in that intellectual New York guy kind of way. I even liked him again. More than seemed warranted, judging by the outcome of this particular sexual encounter.

Then came the fatal question. “Did you, uh…?”

“Oh, yes,” I said instantly, batting away the voices that immediately began protesting in my head. I don't know why I lied. Maybe I wanted to believe it was true, that I had found some kind of satisfaction with this man who was so perfectly right for me, yet suddenly so impossible to…to love.

He smiled, his relief evident. “I was a little worried there. I didn't, uh, last very long….” Then he chuckled. “Guess it's been a while.”