The first person who discovered fire. The first scientist who split the atom. The first man who set foot on the moon. They must have known that their world was changing that day. They were changing that day.
I have now tasted the elation that those people must have felt. I walk on clouds. I play with Chloe and promise myself that, whether my sexual appetites are fed or not, I should park my moods to the side and spend quality time with my daughter more regularly, I should smile to strangers, eat better, exercise, read classic novels, apply myself and learn a foreign language… There's no limit to where this feeling can take me.
I see the world under a different light, and, when I walk into Doctor Connor's office this week, I have a pleased smile.
'How are you?' she asks.
'Great.'
She pauses. She's looking for some irony behind my grin.
'What's changed? Last week you said you weren't improving…'
'You know, I think I'm turning a corner,' I say.
I sink into the chair and meet her gaze with confidence. Let her scribble whatever diagnosis she might be considering: good or bad, I don't really care.
I feel in charge of my own destiny, and, as silly as it sounds to my ears, I accept myself. I finally accept myself for who I am. Whether Doctor Connor can see what I see, and whether she has a problem with any of it, I don't really care. Her opinion won't change a thing.
'So, what triggered this?' she asks again.
She puts on a confident smile. She's challenging me: she's saying, 'I know you want to say I didn't help you at all, but I know better…'
Each one is the hero of their own history, I suppose, and Doctor Connor must see herself as this saviour of poor wretches like me. I roll my eyes at her. I fucked and got fucked, truly and deeply, and it was absolutely wonderful.
'I decided to spend more time with Chloe, and I see myself as a dad now. I probably never truly accepted this until recently. I used to see myself as a guy who incidentally had kids, but not a father first and foremost.'
You see, I'm not lying. This is how I truly feel. I just skipped the part where I have great, great sex with an unbelievably hot and available and liberated woman. Which might be the prime mover that explains why I decided to spend more time with Chloe.
'That's excellent,' she says. 'But…'
I laugh out loud. I allow myself to laugh at her to her face. 'But…' Of course, she has to find a problem. She cannot accept that I'm better, that I'm over whatever weight I was carrying.
'What?' she asks.
'Nothing. Please go on.'
She raises an eyebrow. She always does that when she wants to say more that her professional decorum permits. It's her tell, I suppose. Then, she brings the end of her pen to her mouth and taps on her pursed lips with it. One, two, three times. She's pondering, or she wants me to think she's pondering and putting those well-educated grey cells, as certified and celebrated by the various framed diplomas hanging on the wall behind her for her patients to gawk at, to good use.
'But,' she continues (I will never know if she's edited what she was going to say because of my cackle), 'I wonder if you shouldn't also focus on all aspects of your life, not reduce yourself to your relationship with Chloe.'
I don't want to give her the satisfaction of taking the bait, or losing my temper a bit, of wanting to argue or justify myself. I won't make a sarcastic remark (which she probably expects).
'You know,' I say very, very calmly, 'I haven't considered this point. It makes sense though.'
'What I'm trying to say…' here she trails off. She was waiting for her patient to snap back and become defensive; she was prepared for a side attack, and she had nothing of substance to follow up her initial statement with. She basically has no idea how to talk to someone who's not fighting her.
Ah! Take this, Doc.
'Yes?' I ask.
'You're probably right,' she says finally. 'I hope this is permanent. You may be able to build on this.' Then, she changes the topic: 'Tell me how your week is going. How are things with Sarah?'
1-0, Doctor Connor, I think. Let's change the subject, if you think this might allow you to look brilliant and superior. But her cure now feels like a poison I'm immune to. Let her jab me. I won't react.
The session goes well, and I agree to seeing her next week. Just for the fun of it. Just to prove that being probed and scrutinised won't phase me in the least.
One day, I take Chloe to school.
'You're Chloe's dad!' a voice calls out.
I look up. It's one of Cynthia's friends from the other day. The Asian one. She's holding a girl in school uniform by the hand.
'I've been meaning to organise a playdate with the kids and Chloe.' she says with an overenthusiastic tone, 'What do you think?'
I look down at Chloe.
'What do you think?' I ask her.
She shrugs her shoulders.
'It's going to be so great:' the woman continues, 'I can organise plenty of activities for the kids.'
'Sure,' I answer.
'That's so good, isn't it, pumpkin?' she asks to her daughter.
'Yeah,' the girl says casually. 'Can I go now?'
'You two run away and play before the bell rings. Have fun!' the woman calls out.
Chloe gives me a big kiss, and I tell her I love her.
Both kids disappear, and the woman writes her address on a piece of paper she takes out of her Louis bag.
'How's Saturday?' she says with her hyperexcited tone that's supposed to show how into everything she is, how much of a contribution to any situation she can make, and how wonderful in general her life is. 'We've just got the pool retiled. The kids will love it. I hope you don't have other plans, what do you think?'
I read the note. The woman's name is Yvonne, which indicates that the social aspirations started at least with her parents, and she lives in a street I vaguely know. I'm pretty sure there's not a single apartment complex. In fact, I'm pretty sure they're all large mansions with ocean views.
'Yeah. I think it's fine,' I say unable to match her enthusiasm but trying to stay buoyant.
The social aspect of the school life is my least favourite aspect of being a parent. By far. The raffle tickets, the school committees, the big birthday parties where you're stuck with some investment banker who quizzes you on 'your field' to figure out how much money you make, how you can afford whatever nice thing you have in life, and how inferior you are to him (it's important not simply to ascertain inferiority, but to establish the degree by which everyone else is inferior to these guys). There's an endless list of events that I am forced to participate to where I cannot make a wrong move lest I get Sophie judged, talked about, or ostracised by the other families. It's bad enough that Sarah and I are newly divorced, and that I'm not in a high paying job.
So, yes: if you get invited to something, you say yes, even though you'd rather gauge your right eye out and eat it for breakfast; you agonise over what to wear (this goes for both me and Chloe), what to bring, and what to talk about.
You have to be friendly, but not too open; you have to dress casually, but not too casually; you have to… I don't know, the list of things I can easily fuck up is long.
I'm sure that dining with the King of England or the Pope is not as stressful as this.
We get to the weekend, and we get to Yvonne's door. The house is even bigger than I had anticipated. It has a modern façade with hard, simple lines, and a bright-white exterior, broken here and there by large glass windows.
I have a bag with our swim costumes across my shoulder, and I hold a bottle of wine and some chocolates in my hands. Chloe carries a brand-new puzzle of the Little Mermaid.
Yvonne opens the door, flanked by her husband. She's wearing a loose yellow top and a long, flowy red skirt, like some flamenco dancer. Her husband is in a pink polo shirt and khaki shorts. Now and then, I notice, he likes to shake his wrist and make the metal links of his Rolex clink.
'Kids!' she calls out. 'Your friend is here.'
We shake hands and we're led in.
The interior is even more impressive than the outside. It's a large open space, very sparsely decorated. The rarified, air-conditioned oxygen we breathe here, the smell of pachouli and something sweet, like vanilla or cinnamon. Every piece of decor is a conscious choice: the large Prussian-blue sofa, the art-piece in a corner, the endless wooden table and the large bouquet of white roses in the middle. The whole room is flooded with bright sunny light that comes in from a large window that takes the entire back wall. Behind it, a manicured grass lawn and a pool.
'Come in,' she chirps.
Kalvin, her husband, is in the fintech space. You're in a space only if you bring in insane levels of money. I've never heard anyone saying that they're in the 'waitressing space' or the 'garbage-collection space'.
He's from Singapore. He studied in the States, where, along with a friend who was in the medical space, he patented some diagnostic tool to identify a certain type of cancer twelve months before traditional tests. He has been smart enough to bundle it with a web-based application to cross-reference all the findings of the various labs that have subscribed to the technology to improve the results over time. He has been even smarter because he's exited the venture ('Even though it was great fun, and I was very proud of my first start-up.') with a good payout which he had used to create a variety of business, all of incredible success. He's recently taking an interest in financial markets, from the perspective of internet-of-things, neural networks, artificial intelligence, and a few more buzz words I have quickly and with immense satisfaction decided to forget.
He said this in the first five minutes of knowing me.
'So, what about your field?' he asks, as expected.
'Don't grill our guest,' his wife begs.
'What? Oh, right! Yvonne reminds me not to talk shop all the time, but you never know where the next great idea comes from…'
'I'm sure you don't,' I say.
Meanwhile, their kids have appeared.
There's a boy, a little younger than Chloe. And there's the girl I saw at the school, and I notice she's a good head taller than Chloe.
'What year is she?'
'Arabella is in Year Three.'
I look at Chloe, and I realise Chloe has no idea who this girl is, and the girl similarly has no recognition of my daughter. I don't know… Kids make friends easily. I hope.
We're given the obligatory tour of the house. Yvonne tells me how she worked with the designer and the interior decorator to get her vision just right, how she wants their home to be a sanctuary, peaceful. Everything is spotlessly clean, which is a miracle, given the fact that they have two kids. The miracle is quickly explained because they have a bunch of cleaners every morning to keep the sanctuary in order.
'Now, why don't you guys go have a swim, while I make cupcakes,' Yvonne asks.
Kalvin is sent to keep an eye on them.
'Why don't you give me a hand?' Yvonne asks me.
Of course, why not?
Kalvin strips down to his shorts to reveal the body of someone who can afford to take two or three hours out of the day and hit the gym. The kids slip into their costumes and run outside.
'Close the door! I don't want the heat to get in,' Yvonne says.
On the large kitchen isle bench, I notice various jars and containers neatly lined up.
'I have such a sweet tooth, and the kids take after me,' she explains. 'I can't help myself, and I always find myself whipping up a cake or some chocolate profiteroles. I think it also gives the kids the sense that they live a warm, nourishing environment, don't you think?'
I concur.
'I also thought that cupcakes… Yum! Right? The kids will love it after a good swim. I want to make a few different flavours: it makes the work a lot more interesting too.'
I nod, not finding anything to say on the topic, but thinking very hard about some topic of conversation.
'You see,' she winks, 'I'm such good friends with Cyn…'
I freeze.
'I admire her so much, and I – I guess I look up to her, you know.'
I gawk.
'Soooo…' I begin.
The issue here is that I cannot people at the school think that Chloe is the daughter of a demented sex maniac. I don't want any of this to reflect poorly on my daughter. I can't even begin to comprehend why Cynthia would expose our little, innocent, very discreet secret.
'What do you think?' she asks, almost without acknowledging me, but busying herself with the bag of flour, the scales, the carton of egg. 'Fifteen minutes should do it?'
'Do – it?'
She fastens an apron around her waist.
'Now,' she continues, 'you don't worry about anything. I've prepared everything. You notice,' here she gestures towards the ingredients for the cupcakes laid out on the bench and laughs at herself (ah ah ah!), 'I like to be organised. It makes things easy; don't you think?'
Yes, I suppose that good organisation can help.
She turns towards the bench and pours some flour into a bowl.
In front of us, across the room, behind the window, Kelvin is sunbaking on a pool chair, and the kids are splashing about in the pool.
'My secret ingredient,' Yvonne explains, 'is olive oil. It's a great addition to the baking. All you need is a few drops. Help yourself.'
She indicates a green bottle marked 'Extra Vergin.'
'You want a hand with the recipe?' I ask, tentatively.
Yvonne ignores me.
'Come. Here. Behind me,' she says.
I move closer.
She opens the folds of her skirt and exposes her bare bottom to me. She turns towards me.
'See? It's all ready.'
She pushes her ass out, and I notice something plasticky, something pink, a little nib protruding from her pussy. Yvonne reaches for her phone and opens an app.
'Fifteen minutes should do it, I think.'
She pushes a virtual button on the phone, which I gather controls the vibrator she has in her pussy.
'Mmmh,' she mumbles. 'Just right.'
'A vibrator?' I ask, as if I was asking a tour guide for some banal information.
'Help yourself,' she says again looking at the bottle of olive oil.
I hesitate.
'Don't worry,' she says, turning to face me for a moment. 'It's all ready for you. Nice and clean.'
Yvonne is quite pretty. Petite, with graceful features. Normally, I wouldn't say no, but there's the question of Cynthia. Not that Cynthia can claim some exclusivity on me (she herself is married). And then, there's the question of Yvonne's husband, their two children, and my own child a few metres away, right behind the glass.
Yvonne reaches for the bottle.
'Come on. Give me one hand,' she says patiently.
I offer one hand, and she pour a bit of oil on it. Then, she explains:
'It doesn't get sticky. It's quite wonderful.'
Yvonne's face is a little flushed, and I can hear her hold her breath now and then. She's gently undulating her body. She swings back and forth. It's almost imperceptible, but the vibrator's action is warming her up.
I unzip my pants and, without lowering them, I obediently take out my dick. I rub the oil on it and, seeing that her vagina is occupied, I understand I am to put it against Yvonne's asshole. I push it against the small opening, which opens readily on command.
Yvonne pushes her ass towards me, and I slide right in.
'Mmmh,' she moans.
'Let me know if it's too much.'
She giggles:
'You'll find that I enjoy taking on big tasks. And I never complain.'
'Nevertheless…' I say.
She now cracks an egg and lets the yolk fall into the bowl with the flour.
'I hope you don't mind if I multitask,' she says. 'I'm so used to juggling all these responsibilities that I wouldn't know what to do if I'm not busy.'
Sure. No problem.
Yvonne gets busy with the recipe.
I'm still unsure about this situation, so I barely move. I'm hard. I'm in. But I don't move.
'Come on, you piece of shit!' she whispers.
Fine! I thrust forward a bit.
'Yeah,' she says under her breath. 'Just fuck me like a whore.'
I nearly blush hearing this woman, so clearly proper and capable of great self-control use this language.
I push again.
'Mmmh.'
Now, I'm getting so excited, it's hard to focus on the fact that we might get caught, and that I would be in a ton of trouble. I cannot really rationalise that maybe (maybe!) I should have declined her offer.
'You like to fuck a little whore in her dirty ass, don't you, you motherfucker? You want to stick your fat cock in my tiny holes… Ooh! Please, that's it…' she says quietly.
'That's – that's right…' I say, still a little unconvinced.
Yvonne stops for a minute and turns towards me:
'You're so sweet, but you don't have to say anything, if you don't want to. I just like to say certain things, you know?'
'Oh!'
'Now… Where were we?' she asks. She checks her phone. 'Only ten minutes. Do you think that will suffice?'
I guess I'll have to make that work…
I grab her ass and give a bigger push.
'Ooh! Thank you. That's perfect… If you keep fucking me like this, I'm gonna piss all over the floor!' she says, and she goes back to her ingredients.
Her asshole is tight, but I can tell that she has had plenty of practice with this entry. I suppose it hasn't been with Kelvin. No, I'm quite certain that Kelvin doesn't operate in this space.
His loss.
I get into the rhythm and hold my breath a little. I enjoy how her anus tightens around my dick, and how, sometimes, it lets go.
Under her breath, Yvonne is a river of obscenities.
'Is this how you like it, you cocksucker? You like to fuck a bitch up the ass like a pig? Then, I will give it to you because I'm a filthy pig. I'm a whore and I like... Yeah, like that! I will make you come into my asshole. I will stick my finger in and lick all your warm come up… Ahhh! Mmmh! Come on, faster, faster! I need your cock so bad, don't make me wait. I'm getting so wet… Ooh! I'm dripping… Yeah, that's it. Harder… Oh, my… fucking… God!'
Yvonne holds onto the edge of the table and lowers her head. I guess she's come because she raises her head again, shakes her hair, and starts pouring the batter onto different ramekins. I am vaguely conscious of the fact that she's creating four different batches of cupcakes with different flavours.
'Yeah, yeah, yeah…' she says panting a little and moving up and down on my shaft.
Yvonne reaches for her phone ('Only a couple of minutes,' she announces) and swipes upwards, probably increasing the intensity of the vibrator to its maximum. She yelps:
'Ow!'
I fuck her. Back and forth, back and forth.
'I think I can come again,' she says, almost to herself.
I plant my fingers into her flesh, and I can tell I'm about to come.
Yvonne lowers her head again and keeps talking louder and louder.
'Give it to me, you fucking pig… Asshole… Mo… ther… yeah, that's it… fuck… er… One more! One more! Go, go! Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me! Don't… stop… mmmhhh…'
I put a hand on her mouth right when she's about to scream. She bits my hand, jokingly, but a little to hard. I thrust hard, as payback, and I come.
My knees almost give, and my head spins.
Then, in no time, Yvonne has fastened the back of her skirt; I'm zipping my pants and washing my hands in the kitchen sink.
'Cyn said you were alright,' she comments, when I join her at the bench.
'Can I… help?' I say, idiotically, looking at the raw cupcakes in their trays.
Yvonne is licking the tip of her fingers.
'Why don't you put them in the oven? My hands are dirty.'