You could say I’m desperate for a good fucking. That’s what's causing me to lie there in the most vulnerable state I’ve ever allowed myself to be in in front of anyone. Nearly naked, with one hand fingering my pussy willing to subject myself to all manner of sexual objectification.
Michael’s eyes travel my body back up to my face.
He looks at my parted lips. I wonder what part of me he wants first.
He opens his mouth.
“I have a lot of work to do tonight, Jocelyn,” he says and my heart starts to beat faster and louder. “I don’t think I’m going to be able to do anything tonight.”
What’s going through me right now is probably what you’re wondering? Ever been rejected for sex before? From a man? It’s almost unheard of for women to be told no. What does that make me feel like?
Shameful. Discarded. Unwanted. Ugly.
You name it.
“But you go on without me,” Michael says coldly. “Looks like you’re doing just fine on your own.”
And with that he turns toward the dresser, takes the coat of his suit off, grabs his slippers and puts them on and turns back to the door.
All without a second glance in my direction. I’m lying there like some unwanted sex doll.
Fuck. This was all a waste. My entire marriage is a waste. My life is a waste.
But before you go telling me to cheer up, babe, let me just clue you in on why I even did all this. Why I went to La Perla. Why I basically tried to initiate this whole intimate encounter.
Had Michael succumbed, it would have been the first time in our marriage that we had actually had sex. That our relationship would have been consummated.
See, it wasn’t bad enough that I was forced into this marriage. What’s worse is that for the last six months, ever since we’ve been married, I don’t think Michael Anders has touched me once in private. Never a kiss unless it's in front of the camera. Never a stare of desire when we’re alone.
Some couples have their whole relationships based around sex.
Ours revolves around a lie.
Michael stops at the edge of the door right before walking out. Without turning to me, he speaks to me.
“By the way,” he says coldly. “Lance has gone and gotten himself fired from the job I arranged for him at the White House. So he’s coming over to stay the summer with us. I think I want to use him for the re-election campaign.”
I’ve never met Lance. Michael has mentioned him maybe once. When we were getting married and signing the papers. And today. So I guess that’s twice.
“I trust that you’ll act appropriately around him,” Michael says. “We can’t have any surprises like what you tried to pull tonight happening while he’s here.”
And almost as an afterthought, as he leaves, he adds, “I’ll be having dinner in my office. Don’t wait up.”
And with that he’s gone.
Leaving me near naked and horny in my gilded cage.
Remember when I told you I wasn’t stuck up about being told I was beautiful? You probably didn't believe me all the way. Well, this is why I don’t let my beauty go to my head.
Lance
Coming home isn’t supposed to be such a fucking miserable experience, but that’s what you get when you’re fired after fucking the President’s
daughter and risking WW III. I’m lucky I’m not in a fucking Guantanamo cell right now, so I guess it’s not that fair of me to complain.
But still, can you fucking blame me? I’ve never been close with my father, and I haven’t even met my new stepmother. Especially after having to read in the newspaper that my father fucking remarried. He couldn’t even pick up the fucking phone to let me know. So, yeah, I’m fucking sorry if I’m not overly excited with the prospect of being around two people who are only family on paper till November comes around. I mean, they’re probably only husband and wife on paper as well. My father isn’t exactly someone who cares about women, if you know what I mean. Knowing him as I do, he probably arranged the whole fucking thing as another power move. For ol’ Michael Anders, everyone around him is nothing more than a fucking pawn to be moved across a chessboard. I actually feel sorry for the poor woman he pulled into that fucking arrangement.
“You can drop me off here,” I tell the cab driver as the silhouette of the townhouse I grew up in emerges at the end of street. I give him a folded fifty-dollar bill and leave the car, carrying just a backpack over my shoulder. I never liked to move around carrying bulky suitcases. Besides, this is fucking New York City. What I don’t have, I can just fucking get.