I am fucking Sarah. The same moves, the same feelings. Why does my brain take me to this place again? Shouldn't dreams be happy? Shouldn't they reveal us what we truly want? And I can't possibly want – this.
Sarah is staring at the ceiling. She doesn't say a word.
I am moving faster, not because I'm getting closer, but because I want to get closer. I want to finish. This is humiliating.
I know she doesn't like it, and I surely don't enjoy it. And yet we do it. I normally initiate it. Probably because I know she wants me to. She expects it as a duty, as a sign that everything is normal. So, here it is. I dish it out. It normally happens on a weekly basis: I can't get away with less. It would give her a reason to throw it in my face: See? You can't even give me that…
So, I push. I go back and forth.
I know it's a dream, and I can't help but live it. I see myself going through the motions, and I feel it's really happening: one moment I know it's not real – I don't know if I should pray for a different dream or for a quick finish or to wake up – and another I am filled with all the feelings that the situation provides. Mostly panic. Will I finish? And, once I finish, will she start telling me about everything I've ever done wrong? Mostly panic, but also something else. Probably disgust because Sarah has ruined everything, even sex. When I look at myself in the mirror, when I can bear it, I don't see a person I love. I despise myself. I do everything for her, I repeat as I move my hips, thrusting my dick inside her, and yet I can't make her happy. No, everything I do is wrong, imperfect, incomplete.
Oh God, why don't I wake up?
'Daddy – '
I hear Chloe's voice in the other room, but I can't wake up. Not fully, at least. The dream is over, but I'm still blind and the noises from the living room comes to me muffled.
'Daddy, it's time for school!'
She shakes me.
I feel her tiny hands. Her warm breath on my face.
'What time is it?' I say.
I sound drunk, but I haven't had a drop. I just don't want to wake up.
Doctor Connor says it's a sign of depression: 'Depressed people don't want to be awake. You're effectively like the addict who can't face the world. You use sleep and dreams instead of narcotics to lose consciousness.'
'It's cheaper. And more respectable,' I quip.
She's not a Freudian therapist. I'd rather I didn't have to face her: it's hard to talk about these things, especially with a woman.
'It's eight thirty,' Chloe says.
'Fuck… Sorry.'
'I've had breakfast: rice bubbles and milk. Aaaand,' she adds with some pride, 'I've brushed my teeth.'
I'd rather she was a normal girl, who sleeps in on school days, who doesn't brush her teeth.
She's also wearing her uniform, and she's done her hair.
Jesus, she's only six!
I had promised to myself that I would keep a brave face – a happy face –, that I would keep the routine stable for her sake. She's not guilty of anything. She's just a casualty of war.
If I get out of bed now, forget the shower, forfeit breakfast, get dressed quickly, I can drop off Chloe and get to work, if not on time, at least not at a time that would need an explanation.
Except my dick is hard. Courtesy of Sarah's intrusion into my dream.
I breathe slowly. I rub my face trying to buy me some time.
'Have you gone to the toilet?' I ask.
'Yup.'
'Brushed your teeth?'
Chloe looks at me funny: 'I told you already I did.'
'Yes, yes. Ok, I tell you what: can you please go to the study and grab my bag while I get dresses?'
'Done,' she giggles.
Too efficient. Too fucking efficient!
'Ok, why don't you give me some privacy, so I can get dresses?'
'Alright,' she says, and she trots out of the room.
Jesus, my dick is so hard it hurts. I have to tilt my bum, so everything fit (albeit very awkwardly and very uncomfortably) in my underpants. I don't have the best smell and I haven't shaven since Friday. Today it's Tuesday.
We walk through the gates of Saint Ignatius as the school song is already blaring through the speakers.
'Run!' I tell her.
'Big kiss!' she begs.
I give her a kiss on her cheek.
'And a hug.'
'You'll be late,' I say.
'I – want – a – hug!' she demands, half-jokingly.
I give her a hug.
'Alright, now go. I'll pick you up this evening.'
It's 'my week.' I have her until Sunday. One thing I had promised to myself was that I would make every day special for her, so that she will forever remember our weeks together.
Well, I'll be damned, but every time it's my week I pick her up at the last possible minute. I defrost some lasagna, and I let her eat in front of the TV.
I assure Doctor Connor that I love my daughter very much.
'I believe you,' she says.
She stares into my eyes as she says it, and I lower them quickly. I worry about what she might see.
Doctor Connor says I'm a good dad. I just haven't processed my divorce fully.
'Change is a difficult process, but you will come out a stronger person, a better person.'
It's been six months.
I watch Chloe, along with the other kids, march into their classroom, following Miss Pulver.
Some parents hang around. Mostly mothers. The dads are hard at work in some corner office with city views.
Alice, the mother of one of Chloe's classmates, notices me and waves.
I wave and walk towards her.
'How fast they grow…' she says.
Alice is a single mother. Her husband died in Afghanistan, or Iraq, or one of those countries. He was a paramedic bringing aids. Someone – I'm not sure which side – dropped a bombed and reduced this fucking hero to a pile of mince. This is the trouble with these men (my competition): all too perfect. If they're not running a fund and driving their Teslas (which, in its own way, says they're wealthy, they had to compromise and go into the cut-throat world of finance, they could drive a car three or four time the price, but they have a heart and would rather save the planet!), they are dead leaving behind an even more impossible standard to aspire to.
'Do you want me to prescribe you something?' Doctor Connor asks.
I'm sure she probably goes on ski holidays or on safari every year courtesy of the pharmaceutical behemoth whose pockets she lines. That's why she wants me on some pills. Another doctor would tell me to take them, but Doctor Connor is kind and considerate. That's her way.
'Do you want me to prescribe you something? She asks again, like she asked two seconds ago, and like she asked last session, and every other time I sat in her office.
'What for?' I ask, trying not to sound too defensive.
She smiles.
'It's the rage. It worries me.'
Mental note: do not tell Doctor Connor that you hate every other man you encounter because your ex-wife is probably screwing one at this very moment, and because she is probably enjoying the act (which you couldn't bring her to), and because she chose him instead of you after realising how inferior you are to every other penis-carrying human (which you do everything to reinforce).
'How fast they grow,' says Alice.
I nod.
'I remember reading this book when Greg died,' she says. 'It helped me a lot. If you're here tomorrow, I will bring it, if you want.'
I like Alice. She's kind, and she can find the right thing to say without searching too hard. That's how she is.
It's a glorious day outside, and, for a moment, the fact sinks in. The fresh leaves on the trees, the sun that warms up the cool morning air, the peace of the schoolyard.
'Thank you,' I say.
'Ok. I'll see you tomorrow, then.'
Everybody knows I'm divorced. I'm the divorced dad in a neighbourhood where divorce is rare: it's not a religious thing, but, these days, divorce seems like something the middle class does. People with money don't divorce, it seems: they figure it out, they go to therapy, they give each other passes. I don't know. I just feel like the only divorced person for miles, and I stick out. I might as well be green, or have five eyes on my forehead.
It was Sarah's choice to live here. She was aspirational. That's what I told my parents and my friends. I said it with pride, as if I was saying she's ambitious. I still say it, but now I imply that's she's deluded.
Neither one of us comes from money, and neither she nor I have particularly well-paying jobs. But we're stuck here. No, that's not true: we could move whenever we want. In fact, it would be better. But we can't move because Sarah doesn't want to. So, I pay the majority of the mortgage (I mean, fuck me: how did I ever sign up for that?) that she lives in, and I pay for the tuition at Saint Ignatius. It was a stretch before, when we all lived under one roof, and it's just impossible now when I also have to pay the rent for my two-bedroom apartment.
'How can you do that to Chloe? She has her friends her. It's all she knows.'
That's Sarah's argument whenever I bring it up.
Even the mediator never took sides, when I tried to broach the subject at the time. So, I'm left with being the bad guy.
'Isn't it reasonable to ask?' I tell Doctor Connor.
'It's not for me to say.'
Fuck! I don't know why I keep going to these sessions, apart from the fact that they're free.
I walk out of the gate, and I bump into a woman. I've met her before. Her kid is not in the same class as Chloe, but I'm pretty sure I've seen her around to some school evens, and we've spoken before.
'Hi!' she says.
'Hi!' I reply.
She wears a jacket and a short skirt, in a mixture of professional and alluring. She must be a lawyer or a real estate. Although the cut is a bit too nice for the former.
'I heard about you and Sarah.'
'Well, yeah,' I say. 'But it's been six months, so…'
She makes a face. Concern, pity? I can't tell.
'It's still hard, right?'
I want to ask her if she's divorced too, if she knows anything about what it's like, but the blinding, laser-like beams the massive diamond ring on her finger shoots out already tells me that, no, she's not divorced, you moron.
She's actually very good looking. Even if a man was ever stupid enough to break up with her, she would find another in no time.
'Yes,' I say. I mean, yeah: it's hard, but I don't want to talk about it.
'You also have a child together…' she continues.
'Yes,' I repeat. 'But Chloe's great, you know…'
She considers this.
'If you ever…' she makes a step forward.
If I ever, what?
I look at her face, but, all of a sudden, the idea of her body becomes vivid in my mind. I wonder what she's really like under her clothes: she looks quite buxom, and she's curvy, not skinny or shapeless, but, if whatever fat is on her body, it hangs well.
She's standing close to me. It looks natural, but still…
I can smell her perfume, musky, strong.
'If you ever need to talk.'
'I have a therapist,' I say. Like an idiot.
'Or unwind.'
Years of married life trained me, like Pavlov's dog, or whatever poor, servile animal you want to think of. I shall not have impure thoughts (except when I want off in the middle of the night watching porn on my phone, locked in the bathroom, hoping nobody is awake). I shall certainly not look at women as sexual objects. And, most definitely, I shall not unwind with other women. I mean: one thing is to imagine, to fantasise. Another is to actually do.
But it's been six months!
Isn't she married?
But it's her choice!
And she's a mother at your daughter's school. Don't you think about that?
But I'm so horny!
I know she's waiting for an answer. Possibly not another stupid one.
I have to make a mental effort to not slide into my usual affable school dad with no sex, like an ugly, middle-aged Ken doll.
'Yeah.'
She smiles a quiet smile, like it is impossible that any man would answer her differently.
'Where's your place?'
'Not far,' I say very, very eagerly.
'I have work, but I can't spare some time. You good with time?'
'Yup.'
'Alright. I'll drive.'
She's parked her car, a Tesla (surprise, surprise!), just across the street.
She sits behind the wheel, and she adjusts her skirt. She notices I'm staring at her legs. She smiles again, and she pulls up the skirt. Slowly, slowly.
I stare.
I see the top of her stockings, where the darker bend holds the flesh, and the skin is revealed.
'You'll have to wait,' she says and pulls her skirt down.
We walk up the stairs.
I'm in front. I open the door.
It's like a bomb has gone off in the middle of a toy store: dolls, tiaras, teddy bears, bags are scattered everywhere. There's a pile of dirty dishes in the sink.
I turn towards the woman. I want to ask for a minute to clean up.
'It doesn't matter. I get it,' she says without me saying anything.
She pushes through and walks in. She surveys the scene for a second.
'Where's the bedroom?'
It's not Versailles, so it can only be through the only door you can see, I think. But, instead, I say:
'There.'
'Come on.'
I now follow her into my bedroom.
'Pull down the curtains, please,' she says.
I obey.
My heart is pounding in my chest. I haven't slept with anyone but Sarah in years. It occurs to me I don't even know her name.
She takes off her jacket. The silk blouse is a little tight in the right spots. She looks very inviting. The woman breathes deeply, impatiently: she doesn't have all day.
I simply don't have time to be nervous and do my Woody Allen routine to be charming and let her reassure me. I take off my jumper (a jumper for crying out loud!) and my flannel shirt (yeah…). I walk up to her, and I cup her breasts. They're big and soft. I can feel her warmth radiating from her skin under the clothes.
She smiles.
I put my lips on hers.
She opens her mouth, and her tongue parts my lips and slides into my mouth.
I can taste her breath, sweet and gentle, mixed with the scent of spearmint from a toothpaste or a mouthwash.
She presses her breasts and stomach against me.
I'm hard. I take a step back and take off my pants, that, all of a sudden, feel very tight. I'm in my underpants and the top of my dick is peeking through.
'Well, let's see it,' she says.
She kneels down and slowly pulls down my pants. She gives it a lick, then she wraps the fingers of her right hands around the shaft and starts to stroke it gently, while she gives my balls little sucking kisses.
I inhale some air, and I sense my breath is shaky. I listen to the jingling of her bracelets as her hand moves up and down. I look down, and I meet her eyes. She's looking up towards me, without stopping what she's doing.
'Shall we move to the bed?' I ask, wondering what she might like to do.
She stands up and takes off her blouse. The skirt drops to the floor. The woman kicks off her shoes and is left in her coordinated lingerie. Her bra and her panties are dark purple, embroidered with laces and small grey pearls.
This is how she goes to work? I ask myself.
Her breasts are large, and her body is curvy in that beautiful way tall women can be curvy without looking chunky or heavy. She's just a mixture of power and sexiness. She's in a stranger's house, but she looks in total control. She's self-assured: she knows she's desirable, and, I'm sure, nobody has ever said no to her, whether at work or… in the bedroom.
She pulls down her panties and is left in her stockings. Her vulva is covered by a well-manicured tuft of dark hair. You can barely guess the slit underneath it.
She doesn't take off her bra, nor her stockings. Then she lies down on the bed and opens her legs.
I crawl up to her, and I lodge my face between her tights. I part her labia and give the clit a little suck.
I hear her hold her breath, surprised, which encourages me to continue.
I've always liked the smell of a woman's crotch. Hers is earthier than most, but not unpleasant, and it gives you the idea that it doesn't come from poor hygiene. She definitely takes care of herself.
I run my tongue around the clit, which quickly emerges from tis hood. I hold the woman's buttocks in my hands, sinking my fingers into the flesh.
The woman puts her hands on my head and push me in a little.
I start licking her labia, parting them, looking for the opening. Then, I return to the clit and work on it a little longer.
Her breathing is now deeper. Now and then, she groans a little.
I don't want her to come too soon, but I'm enjoying what I'm doing and don't feel ready to change position. I suck on the clit, then lick it over and over, round and round. Then I move her a little, opening her legs a bit more, putting two fingers against the opening of her vaginal canal, which unlocks readily. She's wet, and I slide my fingers in, slowly but without stopping, and then I start moving my hand back and forth.
'Come on,' she says.
I lie on top of her.
She looks into my eyes, then she reaches down with a hand and grabs my dick. She puts it inside her and closes her eyes.
'Ah,' she moans.
Then, she grabs my ass. Hard. With the pressure of her fingernails, which digs into my skin, she forces me to push in. She lifts the nails slightly, and I push out. The, quickly, she sinks them in again. I push in, then out. Slowly at first.
I hear the rhythm of her breathing in my ear. It's a deep and heavy moan.
I pick up speed and fuck her. Now and then, I move back to take out almost the whole shaft, then put it back in in one sure drive.
'Ah!' she moans each time.
But I can't wait. I need to pick up the pace, go faster. I know I can't hold it in any longer. With one hand, I hold the big mane of dark hair behind her head, and with the other I embrace her behind her shoulders.
She knows I'm close. She tightens her grip, and for a moment it's hard to move inside her, but she's so well lubricated that we cannot stop. She increases the pressure for a moment, then she explodes in a low growl:
'Oow!'
I'm right behind her, and I get out quickly. I wank myself almost savagely and jerk off my load onto her tummy. I roll next to her, hearing the rumbling of my breathing in my ears. My stomach is going up and down, and my fingers tremble with every pump of my heart.
But the woman is already on her feet. She looks around. She gets a Kleenex from a box and wipes herself.
'Did you like it?' I asked.
She gives me a smile. Condescending.
I don't dare to ask.
'I thought you were angrier,' she says.
If that's an explanation, I don't get it.
'Didn't your wife leave you?' she asks.
Yah. I'm the talk of the town. You might have heard.
'Whatever,' she says and shakes her shoulders.
I'm now standing up, next to her, while she gets dressed.
'We can try again,' I say.
She doesn't say anything.
'I'm angry,' I say. 'Ask my therapist.'
'Alright,' the woman says eventually. 'See you around.'
I guess. We always see each other when we drop – our kids! Oh, God, this might get awkward… And wasn't she married?