Engaging Men (38 page)

And making me feel like a madwoman. I curled my legs around him, closing my eyes as the first waves of pleasure rode through me. This was hot. Why hadn’t we thought of it before? I wondered, but soon I stopped wondering about everything as a haze of heat drove my mind blank.

Well, not blank exactly. Because suddenly, behind my closed eyes, another Latino man appeared. Not one of my salsa partners, but Jose, the happy little adulterer, of all people. And it wasn’t Michelle’s cleavage he had his face plunged into, it was mine.

“Stop,” I whispered, opening my eyes. “Stop!” I said, alarmed at the sight of Kirk’s flushed features.

He stopped, looking pretty alarmed himself. “Are you okay?”

“No…”

“Did I hurt you?” he said, staring into my eyes, which I quickly averted. When I saw him hard and hovering there between us, I jumped on the first excuse I could find. “You’re not—uh, that is, we forgot the condom.”

“Oh. Right. No wonder it felt so good. God, I could get used to this…”

Get used to what? Impregnating me? “Maybe you ought to get one.” Then, remembering the illicit thought this somewhat illicit position had invoked, I added, “And maybe we should finish this…in the bed.”

Of course, he didn’t argue—no man as rock hard as Kirk was in that moment ever puts up a fight with a half-naked woman who has her legs wrapped around him. He stepped back, helped me off the sink and we padded into the bedroom as I tossed off my top, which was starting to cut into me because of the haphazard way it was twisted up over my breasts.

“That better?” he said, once I was lying comfortably on my back, Kirk hovering over me like he was ready to press himself into me once more. But he didn’t press into me—not right away. Maybe he saw some of the hesitation in my eyes, because suddenly he was back to foreplay again.

Not that I minded, I thought with a sigh as his mouth moved over my breasts, down my stomach, across my hips, then lower.

And the first touch of his tongue on Avenue A, my eyes flew open again.

“What are you doing?” I asked, leaning up on my elbows.

“I thought you liked that,” he said.

“I did. I mean, I do.” When he continued to stare at me, I said, “But you don’t, or do you?” I asked, hopefully.

“I can deal with it.”

Oh, brother.

“Besides, I think you…you might need it tonight. To relax,” he said.

What girl could argue with that?

I fell back against the pillows, carefully keeping my eyes wide-open this time, as he began again. His touch was so tentative at first, I worried over it. He hates it, he hates it, he hates it, I thought, until I felt the first long stroke, then another and another.

“That’s it,” I said encouragingly, glancing down at his head.

Which was the wrong thing to say, apparently. Because he started going at it in earnest. A little too earnest. I felt like I was in car wash with the windows down.

“Kirk, sweetie, I need you up here,” I said, gazing down at him.

I could tell he was relieved, judging by the way he scrambled up my body once more. And he was about to make contact again—this time with his most prized possession—when I gently clamped my legs shut. “Condom?”

“Right, right,” he said, as if annoyed. Kirk annoyed with condoms? Up until now, he’d been such a strong advocate, I thought he’d owned stock in Trojan.

But he suited up as I requested, and soon enough he was back between my legs, taking me, finally, to the place I needed to go.

He was so beautiful, I thought, leaning up to kiss his closed lids before touching my lips to that well-shaped mouth. He even kissed me back, tangling his tongue in mine so gently I thought my heart would break from the rush of pure feeling that suddenly flooded me. But it wasn’t joy I was feeling, or even desire—rather, a sadness so powerful it clogged my throat and filled my eyes. So I closed them, this time against the pain that surged through, and found my mind suspiciously blank, my body going numb. I opened them again to find Kirk’s clear gray gaze on mine, and I realized it was just us in bed this time. Just us. So I focused on the feel of him, reveled in the smell of him, even brought my mouth to his once more as I felt his fervor rise. And though I did not quite reach the heights of pleasure that he did, I realized it was enough.

It had to be.

There’s something soothing about sex. Or maybe numbing. Because all my former anxieties fled in the face of Kirk’s and my newly reinvigorated sex life. Suddenly he wanted to do it everywhere—public bathrooms, Lee and Laurie (in the supply room—no one saw). And I was okay with it—all my crazy fantasies had fled now that Kirk seemed to be enacting every one of his at every opportunity. He even sidled his hands up my skirt at the Quad Cinema one Saturday night, when we found ourselves in a half-empty theater watching a French movie. Talk about a dramatic climax. I was surprised at myself, really. I mean,

I hated missing any part of a movie (and clearly I missed something, because the credits were rolling up before I even understood what was happening). Movies were the only thing I was ever on time for. I even found myself rushing Kirk to the theater whenever we went, for fear of missing the previews.

If I was numb during that period, I needed to be.The numbness helped when the phone never rang with agents and casting directors dying to make my acquaintance. No one but Viveca Withers, who was my new best friend, now that I had given Rena her name and number to contact once my contract was ready, and when she informed that the contract had arrived, I found myself agreeing to meet with her the following Monday to discuss it. Even this bit of news turned Kirk on, because when I solemnly informed him of my big meeting with Viveca while we were lying in bed that night, he proceeded to make love to me as if I were in training for an upcoming role in a porn flick. And I might as well have been, as I found myself relying on my actor’s training when it came to expressing my pleasure. I was starting to think that maybe that’s what monogamy was all about. A commitment to carry on, no matter how you were feeling inside. After all, the show must go on, right?

But if I was ready to pursue a monogamous—and, I feared, a monotonous—life full force, Justin seemed suddenly ready to pursue anything in a skirt. Or rather, the skirts were pursuing him, from the look of things. First, there were the huskily spoken phone messages on our answering machine. Then I came home from Lee and Laurie one night to find a cute little blonde, sitting cheerfully on my sofa (yes, I had by now completely come to see sofa #3 as my own). I can’t explain to you the rush of anger the sight of this perky little stranger in my apartment brought out. An anger I quickly squashed when Justin stepped out of the bedroom (fully dressed, thank God), guitar in hand. “Hey, Ange, you remember Jenna from the Back Fence?”

“Hey, Angela,” Jenna said, waving merrily at me. I think I may have bared my teeth at her, in some vague attempt at a smile. Jenna was the somewhat buxom bartender at the Back Fence. Apparently Justin had gotten to know her on all those nights he’d spent there contemplating getting up onstage.

“I was just gonna play her a few of the songs I worked into my act,” he said, sitting beside Jenna and laying the guitar across his legs.

Songs he’d worked into his act?
I
hadn’t even heard them yet.

But suddenly I didn’t want to hear them, especially since Jenna had leaned back on the couch to listen in a way that left her shirt gaping and her tight little midriff bare.

“I gotta work on a monologue,” I said, marching straight to my bedroom and closing the door with a little more force than was absolutely necessary.

Of course, I didn’t even crack my scene book, once I had thrown myself down on the bed, arms folded like a recalcitrant child. Show Jenna his songs. Yeah, right. I was sure the bartender at the Back Fence was going to open some big doors for Justin on the road to superstardom. Oh, she was going to open something for him all right, but I didn’t think it would get him more than a…a venereal disease.

I shivered at the thought. Then wondered why I cared so much about Justin’s little conquests. Maybe because I had never, ever seen Justin on the make before. For as long as I’d known him, he’d always had some girlfriend or other kept at some careful distance.

Now I was faced with Justin single, up close and personal. And it bothered me. More than I wanted to admit.

So when I climbed the stairs to our apartment a few days later to find him in a cozy little conversation with Tanya Burke from four-B, in the doorway of her apartment, which was conveniently located opposite ours, I found myself inexplicably annoyed. Especially since I couldn’t tell, from the way Tanya had practically draped herself over Justin, whether he was coming or going.

I decided to help him with that little decision. “Um, Justin, when you get a minute, I could use a hand changing that light-bulb in the hall?”

“Sure thing, Ange,” he said, stepping away from Tanya, who

was suddenly looking a bit miffed herself. “Hey, thanks for everything, Tanya. I mean it.”

“No problem Justin,” Tanya said, her smile wide as she looked up at him once again. “Come by anytime. Day or night.

Slut, I thought, unlocking the door, stomping down the hall and tossing my bag on the couch with barely contained fury.

I whirled around to find Justin right behind me, grabbing a chair from the dining area and testing it for sturdiness.

“What the hell are you doing?” I asked.

He looked up at me, bewildered.“ I’m getting a chair to stand on so I can change the bulb.”

“No, no, no,” I said, irritated. “I mean, with her,” I continued, gesturing with violence toward the door. “Tanya is, like, the building slut Justin. You and I used to make fun of her. Remember? Not a month ago you were joking how she should install a revolving door on her apartment because all those locks and chains were slowing down her man intake.”

His eyes widened. “You think Tanya and I—” Then he laughed. “Come on, Ange, you know me better than that.”

“Do I?” I asked, looking into those green eyes and trying to find something of the Justin I once knew and adored.

He sighed. “I ran into her in the hall and she asked me about Lauren, and next thing you know, I’m telling her the whole damn story over a glass of wine in her apartment. You know, she’s got quite a few good vintages on her wine rack. I was impressed…”

“I’ll bet you were.”

“Ange, she was just being a friend. She knew Lauren and I were together a long time, she just wanted to make sure I was okay…”

“Yeah, you looked brokenhearted out there in the hall with her.”

“What do you know about it?” he said with sudden anger. “You haven’t exactly been around to talk to. Always running over to Smirk’s apartment every chance you can get. How the hell would you know what I’m going through?”

I felt a twinge of guilt. Until I remembered I had avoided coming home the past couple of nights so as not to find Jenna— or any other woman for that matter, I conceded—on my sofa.

“I didn’t think you wanted me around now that you had your…your harem to come home to!”

“Harem?” He laughed. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Jenna? Hello? Was she not sprawled all over our sofa the other night, looking like she wanted to do a lap dance the minute you put that guitar down?”

“Jenna’s just a friend. She’s helping me with my act…”

“She’s a fucking bartender, Justin! I don’t know, somehow I don’t think cozying up to a woman known for her ability to keep the head off a beer is going to help you on the road to superstardom you allegedly crave.”

“Oh, you don’t think so, huh?” he said, “Well, I’ll have you know that bartender you think so highly of has gotten me a solo gig at the Back Fence!”

“Really?” I said hopefully. “Justin, that’s fantastic. Oh, my God, when is it?”

“Friday night,” he said smugly.

“77215 Friday?”

“You got it.”

“Justin, that’s two days from now! Have you gotten all your material together?”

“Of course. I’ve been working on it every night since I got back from Florida. Not that you would know that.”

“But what about getting the word out? Justin, two days is not enough time to do a mailing to agents or even round up your friends!” I said, quickly going through a mental list of people I could rally to support Justin and coming up short of a healthy crowd.

“I’ll send an e-mail,” he said with a shrug.

“Last I checked, you can’t e-mail agents at the last minute.”

“I’ll invite CJ. to come,” he said, naming his record-industry friend who lived all the way up in Westchester. “Besides, talent scouts drop in at the Back Fence all the time.”

“Aren’t you leaving a little too much up to chance? I mean, when is the next time you’re going to be able to get a solo gig like this? You need to be prepared, you need to get the right people there—”

“God, Ange, you worry too much. It’ll be fine.”

But since it is in my nature to worry, I worried. Why would I stop now that my roommate and best friend was hurling himself further and further toward a life of obscurity and, judging by the breathy female voice I was treated to later that night when I picked up the phone, promiscuity? I did the only thing I could do: sent an e-mail to everyone I could think of, pleading with them to come to Justin’s show on Friday. Then, so as not to watch Justin as he lounged on the couch chatting merrily to whatever new female he had somehow unwittingly managed to entice (because it was becoming apparent that Justin really did seem to be unaware of how charming he was, despite all the females flocking after him ever since Lauren had left the picture), I went to Kirk’s.

And, as usual, partook in some mind-numbing sex. This time, on the kitchen table. And the living room carpet. And, finally, the desk in his bedroom. And just when I thought I had managed to bang out (literally) whatever anxieties I had where Justin was concerned, I discovered I had someone else to worry about. Myself.

Because as I rested my head on Kirk’s shoulder to catch my breath, my eye caught sight of one of the downloads that had scattered to the floor from where they had been neatly stacked on the desk, before our little ink blotter encounter…