Shades Of Submission: Fifty By Fifty Part 11

"Ultimately, the other teachers noticed there was something wrong with me, as did my parents. Then the whole thing unraveled. Everyone found out the PTA, the whole school, the newspapers. It became a media circus. The whole thing was a torpid mess, especially because she got pregnant."

I have to refrain from clapping my hand to my mouth.

"Yes, the baby was mine. She aborted it without telling me. Something died in me that day, something . . . " He shakes his head. "I don't know. It was something. My parents forbade me to see her ever again. She was asked to leave the school, and no other school would take her either. It was a bad, bad period for both of us. I was depressed. I think I must have contemplated taking my own life more than once."

Now the shock is starting to hit me. His story is more dreadful that I'd a.s.sumed. An awful stab of pain spears my stomach.

"G.o.d, no," I whisper. "I'm so sorry, Chris."

I'm sorry now that I asked to dredge up his painful memories like these. I'm sorry for ever being curious.

He continues, "My parents were convinced that I would get over it and come to my senses. They sent me for therapy. But they didn't understand that it wasn't a fling, and that sixteen-year-olds can love as deeply and painfully as everyone else. We tend to forget how we are at that age. But it was very, very real, no matter how the PTA wanted to rubbish it."

"What happened?" I say, dreading the answer.

"She went away. I think she moved out of the country to South Korea to teach English, or some place. A few months later, there was a newspaper report that she went missing in an off sh.o.r.e boating accident. There were rumors of suicide, but her body was never found. A few months later, they declared her dead."

My hand really flies to my mouth this time.

"Oh my G.o.d, Chris, that's awful."

His eyes are hollow as he gazes at me. "Yeah, it is. That's why I promised myself that never again would I love so deeply and pa.s.sionately that I would lose all sense of myself. I'd only end up hurting people and hurting myself."

"It wasn't your fault, Chris. Her death wasn't your fault."

"I kept telling myself that. My shrinks kept telling me that. It was a full year before I could quit going for counseling. But somehow I knew, deep inside, if I've never loved her, if I'd never made that first step . . . none of it would have happened, and she would have been happy teaching English . . . and being alive."

I'm sorry I asked him to tell me his story. I'm sorry that I now have a kernel of understanding of his inexplicable desire for me. It's not tawdry or sick, but it's terribly complex. I'm not exactly a ghost of a dead woman that he once loved with mind, body and soul . . . but I almost am. This should disturb me, and yet it does not because it's neither healthy nor unhealthy . . . and yet it's there, like the origins of a phobia explained in Freudian form.

Oh G.o.d.

And he does have a phobia. A very awful phobia that I have drawn into a web of entanglement that I have allowed myself to be entrapped within.

He's afraid of love. Of falling in love.

Of losing himself in another person.

I see that now soberly. He will never love me, and that's why he's the way he is with his friends with benefits and one night stands (oh yes, I know about those too from the whispered office chatter). Ours would be purely a physical relations.h.i.+p one that I swore I would never embark upon. It just might as well be doomed.

My heart wrenches.

Oh poor, poor Chris. It's not his fault he had been hurt like this. It's not his fault he's this way now.

And yet, there's the other end of the equation me. What is fair to me and what will be fair to him? Do any of us deserve what happened to us in the past, and like the pa.s.sengers of an airplane heading towards a thundercloud that would wreck them completely our future if we can see it?

CHRIS.

I don't know if I did the right thing in telling Beth about Selena. But I figured she had a right to know after what happened with my mother. Still . . . she seems rather perturbed by the whole story. I don't blame her. It is a disturbing story.

I know I still have psychological scars from the experience, but I don't think about them anymore or make a big deal out of them. Everyone has scars. We just have to deal with them in our different ways.

Some deal better than others but that's the way life is.

The sky above Grant Park starts to fill with clouds, and the breeze picks up with a hint of summer rain on its scent.

"Wanna go to a movie?" I say, to change track.

She smiles wanly. "OK."

We walk down Michigan Avenue to the AMC cinemas near the Magnificent Mile. We choose an R-rated thriller that has been out for three weeks already, and we sit right at the back the only ones on our row. There are only about twelve people in the whole theatre, and the closest couple to us is five rows away.

Beth still seems pensive and thoughtful after our little exchange.

I clasp her hand in mine. "You OK? I didn't mean to upset you."

"No, you didn't upset me. I'm OK."

"You seem quiet like all of a sudden."

"You just gave me a lot to think about."

I squeeze her hand, not knowing what to say to that. I've bared more of myself to this woman than every other one since Selena . . . and my mother, of course. I don't know what else to do to convince her to carry on with our arrangement. I've even explained to her in detail why it cannot be more than it is . . . and will be.

I've done all that I can. Brutal honesty without compromising who I am. I have never lied to her about what we can have together. I have never lied to Lisa and the others either. Surely they can see that.

Please, Beth, let what we have now be enough for you.

The movie starts, and we're still clasping hands like high school sweethearts. It's real dark in the theatre except for the flickering screen.

The warmth of Beth's hand in my palm seeps through my flesh, invigorating me. I lean over to nuzzle her neck, and soon, we are kissing . . . and my p.e.n.i.s is hard again. It's amazing how much she arouses me.

"I have to tell you something," I whisper.

"What?"

"Better yet, I'll show you."

I guide her hand to my crotch and place it there, where my considerable bulge tents my jeans.

"You see how hot you get me?" I say.

Her hand is still for a moment, cupping my jeans. And then she starts to stroke and ma.s.sage my bulge. I hear her soft little laugh.

"Oh what the h.e.l.l," she murmurs, "I'm not going to think about too much stuff anymore today."

I feel it too a palpable release of tension between us, like a taut guitar string suddenly going slack.

"Thank G.o.d," I say, "because I'm h.o.r.n.y for you."

"You're always h.o.r.n.y."

"Not always, but plenty of the time. And it's for you."

She hesitates before saying, "Chris, there's something I need to ask you."

Oh no, not again.

f.u.c.k.

I shouldn't have told her the truth about Selena.

"Of course. Anything."

"You're not thinking of her when you're with me, are you?"

Beth's voice sounds so fearful that a wedge kicks into my chest. Oh s.h.i.+t. She doesn't think that, does she? Because it's not true. It's completely untrue. I have locked Selena away already in a special compartment of my soul.

Physically, and where my body's responses are concerned, I live in the present now.

"No, no, no, no!" I say so vehemently that the nearest couples to us turn their heads. "When I'm with you, I think only of you. Look," I press her hand down harder upon my erection, "this is because of you, and only of you."

She seems to relent.

"OK," she says.

"No. Not OK. I need you. I want you." I start to kiss her again a probing, concentrated kiss that holds so much fervor that I surprise even myself.

She responds more vigorously than before, and her stroking of my bulge increases. Indeed, her skin is hot flushed, presumably, from s.e.xual arousal. I deepen my kisses. Put a lot of tongue and pa.s.sion into them, and soon, my hands are roaming all over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, waist and jeans. Our bodies are turning towards each other, and only an armrest separates us.

I slip my hand beneath her blouse and feel for her nipples. They are as hard as little marbles.

Ohh.

"Oh baby, you make me wild," I whisper.

I desperately want her to touch my c.o.c.k without a barrier between us, and so I unzip myself. I am wearing briefs. With minor manipulation, my hard rod rises above its nest of tangled cloth and zipper.

"All yours to play with," I whisper in her ear. "Use me. No charges incurred."

This seems to lighten the mood because I can hear her soft laugh.

"Yeah," she whispers, "I may as well make full use of you while I have the chance . . . " She lets this trail.

I'm too caught up with my own pa.s.sion to attribute further meaning to that.

I was expecting her to give me a hand job like she did the first time we were together, but she rearranges herself and bends her head over my lap. I'm a little taken aback. She has never done this before.

"Are you sure?" I say in a low voice.

Five rows in front of us, the male counterpart of a couple looks back.

"Hey a.s.shole, I've had enough of you already," he hisses. "Why don't you just shut yer yap?"

f.u.c.k you too, I think.

Beth says, drawing me back to the matter at attention, "Yes, I'm sure. I want to try it."

I'm sure as h.e.l.l surprised, but pleased at the same time. Just a few days ago, she was this shy, retiring virgin. And now h.e.l.l. I must be more of an influence than I thought.

In a good way, I hope.

She lowers her mouth onto my upright organ. It is dark, and I can only see the reddish tint of the flickering screen light reflected on her hair. Her warm, wet mouth encircles my turgid flesh. Her tongue flickers out and licks my shaft. Sultry, catlike licks.

Oh G.o.d!

A marvelous corona of pleasure immediately a.s.sails my c.o.c.k, and I groan out loud.

The couple in front turns again.

"Ssssss.h.!.+"

I'm too lost in the swirling sensations that cascade throughout my groin to care.

I know that this is probably Beth's first time, and so I just let her be. I don't guide her or try to restrain her (as if!). She experiments with tasting my flesh, dipping the tip of her tongue onto my head and the little aperture at its apex. I squirm and grip the armrests.

She decides that this is my erotic spot (it is), and concentrates firmly on making me lose control.

"I may come into your mouth if you don't let up," I warn teasingly.

In response, she bites gently down on my head. I almost lose it then and there.

"Hey a.s.shole," the man's voice cuts through the cinema. Couples everywhere swivel their heads in the dark to look. "If you don't cut it out this instant, I'm coming over to break your legs, I swear."

"OK, OK, we're leaving," I say loudly.

We rush back to my penthouse even before the movie ends. There, on my king-sized bed, I lay myself on top of Beth and make love to her with all the heat and pa.s.sion I can muster, especially after our emotional catharsis today.

Our sweaty bodies merge, entwine, curl around one another's and merge again. We try different positions to find out which ones she likes best (she seems to feel more uninhibited when she is on all fours). I go down on her again and tongue her s.e.x until she's screaming and clawing at the sheets.

Our climaxes seem to flow into each other's, over and over and over. We sleep. And when we wake up in the early morning, we f.u.c.k like animals again.