Pleasure My Lustful Heart: A Romance Novella (4 page)

Back at my apartment, it occurred to me would be a good night to unwind. It had been a demanding day, filled with thoughts and conflicts that confused me. I couldn’t deal with this day any longer, and decided I’d take my usual after-work hot shower, put on my robe and surrender myself to my television set. I’d thaw out a frozen dinner and lose myself in an old movie. I went into the bedroom and took off my clothes. I looked at myself in the full length mirror on the back of the closet door, standing there naked. Long dark hair — not bad at all.  Figure pretty decent. Enticing curve of the ass.  Great breasts, probably my best feature. Face, so-so. Never liked my nose.

The whole package was maybe a B-plus. A female that males didn’t run after, just one
they settled for.  But one hadn’t settled for me in a long time. It had been well over a year since my half-hearted fling with a young associate in a local law firm. He was no prize, himself, with an ego a mile wide, and just a little overweight. He made no secret of his hunger for sex, but I couldn’t get excited about him as a bed partner.  When I’d finally had enough of his sex-bragging, I dumped him, and found it was much easier being the dumper than the dumpee. I don’t think I broke his heart. He just wanted another notch on his gun.

But now I was in a lonely, arid desert again. No man in my life. No sudden surge of hormones. No emotional fireworks. As I surveyed myself in the mirror, I remembered back to my first sexual encounter with Lucien in that cluttered little apartment of his, how we both stood there naked in the middle of the room, smiling at each other. If he were to walk in here right now, would I have sex with him?
Are you kidding?

Hey, what about
Gregg Monsell? “Don’t be ridiculous,” I said out loud.

I put on my blue terry robe, no pajamas underneath. It felt sexier that way. 

It was 8:45, and I was hungry. For a fleeting moment I almost wished I’d stayed around for Gregg’s braciola dinner. But my self-respect was more important than a big dinner and a bottle of burgundy. At least, that’s what I told myself. I popped a frozen chicken dinner into the oven, and settled down to watch “Casablanca” for the umpteenth time. “Here’s looking at you, kid.” “You wore blue. The Germans wore gray.” “You played it for her. You can play it for me.”  That’s what I need, I thought — a man like Bogart. Strong and masculine, yet sensitive.

Then of course there’s Claude Rains. “Round up the usual suspects.” But I don’t have any suspects, usual or otherwise.

That was about to change.

Just when Ingrid Bergman and Paul
Henreid walked into Bogart’s Casablanca café, I heard the buzz of the intercom. I turned the sound down on the television, and answered the buzz.

It was Lucien. “I’m downstairs,” he said.

CHAPTER 5

My God, I thought, he’s actually here. I should have answered his phone message right away, told him I didn’t want to see him.
Now or ever.

“What are you doing here?” I said. “Why did you come?”

“I had to see you, Kit. Just had to.” He whined like a child. Had he never grown up at all? “I drove from Birmingham, straight through. I’m standing in your foyer downstairs.”

“Well, you drove all this way for nothing. I have no reason to see you,” I said. “How could you ever think that I would? Have you forgotten what happened between us?”

“I know, I know,” he said.  “And I’ve regretted it ever since. All I want is to see you again, just for a few minutes.”

“No,” I said.

“Kit, you should know that there are two other people in this foyer listening to my side of this conversation. Let me come up, just to see you, and then I’ll leave. I promise.”

What could I do? It was bad enough that he had walked into my life again, out of the past. I couldn’t have him broadcasting my personal affairs in the
foyer, to my neighbors. I buzzed him in. “Take the elevator to the third floor and turn left. I’m in 3E.” He started to say something else, but I stopped him. “Don’t say another word. Just get on the elevator. Be quiet. Do it right now.”

As soon as
I'd buzzed him in, I regretted telling him to come up now. I had no time to dress before he’d knock at my door. There I was, in my blue bathrobe and absolutely nothing else, waiting for the arrival of a strange lover I hadn’t seen in over four years — the boy who ran away, leaving me with an old car and a sense of disenchantment that troubled me for years, and still came creeping back to me on quiet, lonely nights.

No big deal, I tried to convince myself. We’ll talk for five minutes, and then I’ll push him out the door. If he thinks we’re going to fall into each other’s arms, he’s living in a fantasy world
.

And there he was.
Two gentle knocks at the door. I opened it, and we stood silently, looking at each other, me inside and him still out in the hall. He was even more gaunt than I remembered him. His hair was long, as before, but now scruffy and definitely unattractive. Bad taste had prompted him to grow a short, unkempt goatee, which accentuated his prominent chin. He wore a faded brown tee shirt, well-worn jeans, and sneakers that might have been white at one time.  He still looks like a college student, I thought, and a grubby one, at that.

He was older now, less vibrant. His eyes were dull, his cheeks pale and just the least bit sunken. If there’s a special look people get when they’re troubled, Lucien had it.
I told myself, that’s his problem, not mine.

I said nothing, just stepped aside so he could enter, then closed the door behind him. I motioned him into a chair, and sat facing him on the sofa.

Finally, he said, “I was afraid you wouldn’t let me come up.”

“After that show you put on for my neighbors
downstairs, I didn’t really have a choice, did I? I suppose they’re gossiping about it already.”

“Don’t worry about that,” he said. “There wasn’t anybody but me in the
in the foyer. I just said there were others.”

“”Am I supposed to be angry or grateful?” I said, though the scale had already tilted toward angry.  “What is it you want, Lucien? And before you answer, I’ll tell you there’s nothing left between you and me but regret and hard feelings.  So start from there.”

“I’m here because I did an awful thing.  Just awful. I betrayed you. I gave you my word, and then I ran away. It’s been eating at me every day and every night. I had to come and tell you that I’m sorry, that I was scared, because I was a dumb kid.  And I didn’t realize then how much I loved you — how much I still —“

“Oh please don’t say it. I don’t want to hear about your feelings. I’m past caring about you, Lucien. After our episode I decided I’d just worry about myself.  I’ve moved on. Haven’t you moved on? It’s been a while, now.”

“I tried,” he said.  “But I haven’t been able to get past how I feel. I never finished my degree. I went out to San Francisco, thought I needed a change of scenery. I had six jobs out there in two years.  In the end I came back because I was broke. I’m living with my mother again, and she's not happy about it. She's given up on me.”

“So you stopped by to knock on my door,” I said. “And if it was so important for you to see me, how come it took this long? Not that it matters any more.”

He stood and walked to the window. It was dark now, and the lights of the nearby apartment buildings made patterns in the blackness. “I wrote to you. Many times. You never answered.  I thought you hated me. Did you hate me, Kit? Do you still hate me?”

“I never hated you. I pitied you. The world was too much for you. At first I used to think about you,
feel sorry for you. Then it all faded away, and I didn’t think about you any more. I never read your letters.”

What I said stung him, and he stood quietly looking out the window. “I remember when we first met,” he said. “I think about it often. It was
awesome, I dream about it sometimes.”

“I don’t.”

“But we were wild about each other. We were committed to each other.”

“No, Lucien. I was committed, not you. Remember?”

“Of course. Yes, I remember.” His voice had grown sad. He sounded like a little boy, confessing to a misdeed he knew he couldn’t undo. He was filled with guilt, and it was overflowing. I actually caught myself feeling bad about him. “So,” he said, turning to me and forcing a smile, “you’re in the family business now. It’s strange you’re in the business world.”

“And why is that?”

“You were so set against the establishment. We both were.”

“I outgrew it. I’m a part of the establishment now. Anyway, my father needs me. I like what I do. No apologies.”

“That’s good,” he said. “I wish I could say I like what I do. But the truth is I don’t do anything. There’s no family business, and I wouldn’t be much good at it, anyway.”

“You’re smart. You were a good student.” Why should I care about his past and his future, I thought? He was just looking for sympathy. But I did care, in spite of myself. An aura of
vulnerability had always been a part of his appeal. He was someone you wanted to care for. He was needy. A sad-eyed puppy dog.

“My history is a disappointment. To my
mother, and especially to me.” Lucien returned to his chair and sat. “I never meant to say that to you.  But it’s true, and I can’t pretend it isn’t.  You won’t believe what my life’s been like. I can’t believe it myself.” He began to tell me about his odd existence from the time he left college. I wanted to usher him out the door. But I also wanted to hear his story.

He told me about driving across the country to the west coast, stopping to work a few days, sometimes weeks, as a day laborer, harvesting lettuce and beans and tomatoes, when he needed money for food and
gas and a place to sleep. It took him four months to make the trip.  When he finally got to San Francisco, he had no friends there, no plan. He took whatever menial jobs he could find,

“The work I did was demeaning, but the jobs were easy to find,” he said. “Anybody could get hired.  Beside
s, I couldn’t apply for anything better because I didn’t own a suit, or a decent pair of shoes. You know who became my buddies? A Japanese ex-convict who spoke maybe 25 words of English. A chef who drank a fifth of Four Roses whiskey every day. And a waitress who worked nights as a street whore.”

It was fascinating, like watching an auto accident. You’re horrified to watch, but reluctant to look away for fear you’ll miss something.  His story stretched on for an hour, then two. Eleven o’clock came and went, and he was still talking.

It was all so pathetic. “Why did you do it?” I said. “Why did you put yourself through all this?”

“For a long time, I wasn’t sure,” he said. “I guess I was doing penance for running out on you. And I was trying to prove I could get along on my own.  But I failed at that, Kit. I can’t make it alone.” He looked at me longingly, his eyes filling up with tears. “The truth is, I can’t make it without you. I love you, and I need you. And I hope there’s still something left in your heart for me. I’m here to ask if we can get back together again,
love each other.”

“That’s not possible.” I couldn’t bear to look at him, and I turned away.

“Are you involved with someone else?” he said.

“Yes,” I lied,
then thought better of it. This was a time for truth. “No, nothing serious. That’s not the point. It’s over between us. I told you on the phone.”

“I’ll finish my engineering degree at Penn State, so we can have every weekend together.  Or I’ll go to Mexico with you.  Whatever you want. Let’s be together again. You remember how wonderful it was. I know you do.”

“No. It’s over. I don’t know how else to say it. It’s over.”

“Maybe you don’t believe I can do this — make our love work again, make you happy,” he said. “I can do it, if you’ll only
—   Look, let’s do a trial period. Will you be with me just some of the time, until you know for sure — “

I went to him and put my hand on his shoulder. “It’s late, Lucien. And it’s time for you to go. I’m not mad at you. I never was. I wish you well.”

“There must be a way we can make it work.“

“There isn’t.  I’m sorry you’re still having a hard time, but there’s nothing I can do.” I led him to the door and opened it. “Good night.” He leaned forward to kiss me on the cheek, but I pulled away.

“Can I come to see you tomorrow?”

“That would not be a good idea,” I said.

“Then I’ll call you.”

“Please don’t.”

“You don’t understand. I have to. I just have to." This wasn't love. The way he said it, slowly, word by word, it was a threat.

I shut my door. I don’t just pity him, I thought. I’m afraid of him. What is he going to do now?

CHAPTER 6

The meeting with Lucien took its toll on me. I couldn’t turn off the picture of him in my mind’s eye.  He was a strange creature when I knew him at Tulane. Now he was beyond strange. He was a certifiable loony — sad and desperate. I got into bed, but couldn’t sleep. I finally switched on the lamp and took a badly written mystery novel I'd already given up on, and opened it to read, hoping I’d get bored and finally shut my eyes. But it didn’t happen. I couldn’t get my mind off of Lucien. I was so preoccupied with him that I read the same page over and over, without even thinking what was written. At four o’clock I fell asleep, exhausted.