December Rain
December Rain
By A. L. Goulden
Copyright © 2014 by A.L. Goulden
Smashwords Edition
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
ISBN 9781502806871
www.author-algoulden.com
Therapy
Leslie, a forty-seven year old with silvery blonde hair sits with her legs crossed and hands closed in her lap. The office has a warm mix of birch and mid-century furniture with a view of the garden outside. Monica’s never been comfortable with the office in Leslie’s home. It worked on “Growing Pains” but in real life, therapy in someone’s house is awkward. She sits stiff on the sofa staring into a corner like a kid in detention. Alex leans forward resting his elbows on his knees, checking his hands for new cracks or scars. His scruff is heavy and those tough guy eyes are tired, but he’s here, and that’s something.
“What is it that you two want to accomplish, ultimately?” Leslie asks.
“A great marriage,” Monica says. Alex nods with a quick glance at both women before returning to his hands.
“What do you ask from each other?”
Alex eases back into the sofa with a smirk. “She’s always asking me to be more
intimate
.” The emphasis on his last word felt like tiny jazz hands slapping Monica in the face.
Leslie gauges his sarcasm. “And how do you respond to that?”
He folds his arms. “I don’t anymore. When I did she laughed at me... so I stopped trying.”
“That’s not true,” Monica says. “I don’t know where he comes up with his... his perception of things.”
“You laughed at me when I told you how beautiful you are.” The large vein in Alex’s forehead struggles to stay in his skin.
“First, that’s not intimacy, it’s a compliment. A very sweet one, but delivering it with an intensely serious look on your face doesn’t make it more potent. It felt like bad acting or something. It was awkward.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t know what the fuck she wants from me.”
“Okay. Let’s back up. Monica, what do you consider intimacy?” Leslie asks.
“I want to feel something when we touch and have it last longer than five minutes. I don’t feel anything. Maybe a conversation without the TV on would be nice. I don’t know exactly one thing that will fix it, but I don’t feel connected.”
“Thanks.”
“When you make love is it usually quick?” Leslie waits while neither jumps to answer.
Finally Monica says, “Yes.”
“Yeah. It’s all my fault.” Alex’s anger spikes as his eyes swell.
“We don’t place blame here. You are here together to claim this relationship together... equally okay?” Leslie waits for Alex to give reassurance. “Do you both have orgasms regularly?”
Monica wavers at her choice of words. “He usually makes sure I’m taken care of orally.”
“But she doesn’t seem to like that anymore,” he says.
“That’s not true! I just don’t want that all the time. It’s always the same.”
“What is it that you would like?” Leslie asks Monica.
“I want to feel him inside me. I want passion that doesn’t get cut off because he comes.”
“Okay. There are lots of techniques you can try to build up to what you want. It’s very common and the longer you’ve let it go, the harder it’s probably become to extend your excitement. We can fix it though.” Leslie smiles gently, looking pleased to find a solution. “Monica, what do you mean feel something when touched?”
“I want to feel passion. In my gut. It’s been so long since just looking into his eyes made me wet. I miss that.”
“I miss the time when it didn’t feel like every fuckin’ thing I did was being judged,” Alex says.
“How long have you felt like she’s been judging you?” Leslie asks.
“Years,” he snaps.
“Did it start with your affair?”
Alex shrugs, staring at his fingers in his lap. “Maybe.”
October 29th - Saturday
“That wig is awesome,” Tristan says as she draws whiskers on her cheek with black eyeliner.
Monica adjusts the black pageboy wig in the mirror. “It’s kinda cool right? I could wear it some other time. I’m too chicken to die my hair.”
“Definitely. If it were pink or something I’d say keep it to Halloween... but the black is hot.”
“Wait ‘til you see the dress.”
“I can barely see it now.” Tristan reaches over and grabs a hanger with gold mesh and beads dangling off. “It looks like a shawl. What goes underneath?”
“Skin,” Monica laughs knowing her friend’s horrified reaction, “and these.” She gropes her boobs through the robe.
“You can’t be serious.”
“Why not? It’s San Francisco. What good is living in a liberated city if you don’t let go sometimes?”
Monica finishes painting her eyelids blue and black before taking the golden dress from the hanger. She drops her navy robe and steps in gently pulling past the fishnets and black and gold lace bra with matching panties. The beaded fringe along the hem adds a little roaring twenties vibe to her Cleopatra costume. She looks in the mirror at the golden thread that merely decorates her bare flesh.
I’ve never gone in public this naked... but it looks hot. Sexy. Fuck it! I can totally pull this off. Own it.
She turns to examine the view of her ass.
Alex is gonna freak! Wonder if he’ll try to stop me from wearing this? Hmm. Or maybe he’ll chase me
. The beads whack her thighs as she turns delivering a tiny shiver to her sex.
I’m gonna have to dance in this.
Tristan’s cat costume is a black bodysuit under a velvet LBD with a tail pinned to the butt. She’s perfected the Zooey Deschanel look-alike thing even when it isn’t Halloween, so adding the kitten features doesn’t stray very far from her norm. She finishes fussing with her tail before glancing at Monica. “Holy shit! How much weight have you lost?”
Monica smiles. “Fifteen pounds. Not bad huh?”
“I knew you lost some weight, but you were hiding under that sweatshirt all day. Girl...” The surprise affixes to her bust looking more predominant with the loss to the middle. Monica turns showing off her slimming backside. Tristan covers her mouth. “What does Alex say about that?”
“That I’m stealing from him,” she laughs.
“That’s so sweet. You know how many women wish their husbands felt like that,” Tristan says. “You’re a lucky girl.”
If she keeps pointing out how great he is I swear... queen of guilt trips.
Monica traces her lips with a flesh toned lip liner.
I know she knows. Or she thinks she knows. Whatever.
She rolls her eyes.
A knock on the bathroom door startles them both. “Hey babe. I brought you a hot tea with lemon,” Hoi says. “Can I come in?”
“No!” Tristan jumps to grab the door knob.
“Jesus Tris, it’s not our wedding day,” Monica says laughing. “We’re both dressed. Let him in.”
“Are you really going in just that? Does Alex know?”
“Seriously? You don’t want Hoi to see me? Get a grip. He’s gonna see a lot more flesh tonight then this.”
“But he’s not going to know those people. I know him. He’s going to feel uncomfortable.”
You mean you’re going to feel uncomfortable.
Monica starts to huff in a pout. “Oh my god... fine. I’ll wear my cape until we get to the ball.”
Tristan clasps her hands together and blows mini kisses her way.
“But once we get there... that’s it. I’m coming out.” Monica starts singing Diana Ross as she throws on a metallic gold cape that dramatically swooshes along her curves with equal sexiness. Tristan gives up and turns the handle.
“Thanks honey. You’re so sweet.” She kisses her husband Hoi chastely and carefully sets her tea on the bathroom counter. He lingers awkwardly for a second in his sexy nerdy way. Hoi’s parents were Japanese immigrants, but he’s as American as his Ralph Lauren sneakers and preppy polo shirts. The only cultural things he holds onto are a brown belt in Jui Jitsu and his gentle voice.
“You guys look great! Wow! My little kitten.” He purrs a little reaching for the cat tail.
He’s so into her. They are adorable.
Monica gets back to the mirror while Tristan fights him off and adds a stack of accessories to her pharaoh getup.
“Can I get anything else? Monica, you sure you don’t want any tea?” Hoi asks. She smiles and shakes her head.
“Oh, can you bring my kitty slippers in?” Tristan asks. “And switch the laundry before we head out.”
“Okay.” Promptly Hoi brings in some black velvet flats from their bedroom. “Here sweetie. I’ll go take care of the other stuff. Let me know if you need anything else.” He smiles and nods before leaving.
“Man. You got him whooped!” Monica cracks.
“What? Shut up. We’re a team.”
“Okay. Well you’re definitely the quarterback.”
“Whatever. How long do you need?” Tristan asks trying to sip her tea without messing up her lip gloss.
“I’m good. A little lip stick, my heels, and I’m ready to jet.”
Tristan giggles. “I haven’t heard you say that in so long.” Monica winks before straightening her friend’s cat ears. “I’ve missed this. Remember the Halloween you went as slutty Mrs. Claus?”
“I wasn’t slutty Mrs. Claus. It was sexy Mrs. Claus.”
Tristan rolls her eyes. “Whatever. It was hilarious, those Swedish guys carried you around.”
“Oh my god! That was so crazy. Who were those guys?”
“I have no idea.”
“They told me the only costume they could come up with was dead Santa’s helpers. So random.”
“I have a photo of that,” she says rushing out of the bathroom while Monica laces up some gold strappy heels. “Here.” She hands over a photo that makes her gasp with laughter.
“Damn baby! Look at you!” Alex enters the master bedroom in a Roman warrior costume. His eyebrows jump with a drooling scan of her body. “Are you gonna wear something over it? Or under it?” Monica gives him an ‘are you serious’ look, avoiding eye contact with Tristan. She pulls the cape around her and a devious smile surfaces on his face. “It’s definitely sexy enough to make empires crumble,” he says, with a little slap on her behind.
“Thanks Mark. Your shorts are showing.” She reaches to tug on his tunic.
“This shit is too short.”
“It’s the longest Roman costume I could find.”
“I thought they wore togas that went down to the ground,” he says.
“Marcus Antonius was a politician. The tunic went under the toga,” she says adjusting his belt.
“What’s that? Is that you?” He takes the photo from her hand. “Who are those guys? And what are they dressed as?”
Monica laughs. “I’m not sure. They were Swedish so who knows. They painted their faces like black sugar skulls and slapped on Santa hats.”
“They kinda looked like mimes too,” Tristan adds, “wearing all black. Turtlenecks, right?” She smiles at their cleverness.