Part 8 (1/2)

Suddenly it dawned on me. It was all perfectly clear in my head, every reference illuminating and concise. Tabitha was The One. As perverted and horrible and wrong as it sounded, I was certain that Ash was f.u.c.king our stepmother. I had always read DDO as Daddy-O, a vapid salutation Ash used on our father when she was disobeying. Isn't that right, Daddy-O? She said it at the gala before she died, and on the night she was banished to the pool house.

Oh G.o.d, as violently ill as I felt that night of the break-in, the night of Ash's murder, the night Shane left, that was nothing compared to how I felt right now knowing with almost sureness that my sister and the woman we both called stepmonster for years were having an affair. In Ash's journals it was clearly going on for at least two years, maybe more. When-no, how could this have started? How could Tabitha have betrayed Father? And in the end, was she another of Ash's perverted pick-ups or something more real?

Was she another jilted lover who thought Ash got what she deserved, or was she as torn up as I was about her death? Ash wrote so often about The One, as a sort of ominous force, yes, but also as the sole arbiter of her happiness. Clearly she had a power over my sister-did this also mean she was her murderer?

Chapter Fourteen.

It took me months to begin to understand what transpired between my sister and Tabitha. I could see the path I was on so much more clearly now. I'd dipped my foot in the pool of Ash's s.e.xual depravity and instead of recoiling I'd discovered that I might really like to take a swim. Somehow, just learning of my sister's s.e.xual power buoyed me. Maybe by f.u.c.king my way through life, I'd learn the secrets that everyone wanted kept from me. Maybe by recreating Ash's s.e.xual adventures, I'd gain some of that power too.

Daddy-O probably thought learning of Ash's depravity would shatter me, but really, it freed me up to become something entirely new. Three years since Ash's death and I had become a new woman. I was...uncontrolled, liberated like Ash was from all the artificial constraints of polite society and all the bulls.h.i.+t artifice that the average American lived with. My nights had become more exciting than I could have imagined when I was with dull ol' Shane. How ironic that I once wanted her so badly I would have given her anything, even my livelihood. I now thought of her as sort of a dullard, a weight I escaped, awakened not just by Ash's murder but by the pa.s.sing of the guard in my family. Ash's journals weren't windows to her soul; they were portals to my own.

My bosses at the newspaper could see the change in me right away, too. They took me off that mandatory leave and, best yet, off that stupid slush pile of c.r.a.ppy freelancer pitches. If I had to read one more misguided pitch on the benefits of Botox, I would have lost it. What part of alternative newsweekly did these writers not understand? Now I was actually out in the field, following leads, writing articles, and making deadlines. In the months following the break-in I had become something of a social b.u.t.terfly. It didn't hurt that I was the only reporter at that paper who had her finger on the pulse of Portland's dirty underbelly. Well, h.e.l.l, it was not the pulse my fingers were tapping, but each night I did find a great outlet for my creative juices and in the morning I got to type it up and submit it. I spent part of my time writing traditional news articles and the rest undercover as a culture columnist. I was now PDX's Lipstick Lesbian, the anonymous s.e.x columnist who took on-don't forget up and under-Portland's s.e.xual playground and told the tales. I had topped nearly every girl at the paper and even two of the gay boys played bend over boyfriend for me. h.e.l.l, the guys in the mailroom looked like they were going to blow when I walked by now, but I had my sights set on bigger things. It was my boss Ca.s.sandra who I wanted to really make cream, but she insisted on maintaining her ”boundaries.” I figured after a few more of my masturbatory columns she would be putty in my hands, but who could wait?

”h.e.l.lo, Megan,” Ca.s.sandra said as I walked through the door to her rather tiny office. I was wearing a pencil skirt and a white oxford s.h.i.+rt that was missing a very pivotal b.u.t.ton. I knew she was interested when her gaze fell immediately to my b.r.e.a.s.t.s. But she was still coy, still worried about propriety and about the power dynamics of being my boss. Still, she practically licked her lips when she asked me, ”What's up?”

G.o.d, didn't she know I just wanted to f.u.c.k her so badly, right there and then on her white Formica desktop with the other reporters scurrying around outside?

”I just ran across a Goth strip club with a lesbian domination night. Want to join me there?” I twirled pieces of hair around my fingers, flicking the end on my tongue like a Long Island Lolita.

Ca.s.sandra was clearly aroused, her face flushed with excitement though, as always, she played it cool. ”I'm not sure that's the best use of my time. We're on deadline for the hospital administration story.”

I moved into the office, closing the door behind me and flicking the lock sideways. Alone, that was how I wanted us. The boss lady looked like a doe trapped in my headlights, but she didn't want to lose her administrative decorum. I couldn't stop dreaming about pulling off those wire-rimmed gla.s.ses and pus.h.i.+ng my head down between her ample thighs. I had wanted to see her ”O” face for weeks now and I was finally bold enough to just take it this time.

”I'm pretty busy, Megan, if we could...” I pulled her chair from her desk, rolling her lap out toward me so I could hitch up my skirt and straddle it. I put my fingers, still damp from touching myself in the restroom, on her lips and blew, ”sh-sh-sh” at her. She resisted, briefly, but by then I had pulled open my s.h.i.+rt and thrust my chest at her. She complied, her protestations a distant memory in the face of my b.r.e.a.s.t.s. It was hard to find a lesbian who didn't like me with my s.h.i.+rt off.

I arched my back so my whole upper body leaned against her desk, a pile of pens and paperclips and corporate ephemera stabbing at my flesh, and my legs entwined around her waist like a squid pulling its prey underwater. Though I wanted to force myself on her, playing the top dog in this little erotic battle, I figured the way to win her forfeiture was to let her think she was the one in charge. She wouldn't have to admit defeat that way. And if I had learned anything from Ash it was that if you open yourself up for the taking, someone would always want you.

And Ca.s.sandra did. She wanted me badly right now, so with the simple arch of my back I let her know she could have me. And she did. My panties were gone in seconds and her hands were groping me up and down my body. Boss lady apparently wanted me quite badly and I was thrilled to oblige. She tried to talk, but I shushed her again, and the whole move must have emboldened her because within minutes her fingers were inside me, balled up into a delicate little fist that was engulfed by my c.u.n.t. I bit down hard on the palm of her free hand to keep from screaming and even still I came with an eruption of grunts and groans that I was fairly certain the entire office had heard.

As I lay there, spent and sweaty, I noticed Ca.s.sandra-her clothes amok, her hair askew, her office trashed-looked positively aghast. Apparently she didn't often let pa.s.sion overcome her-at least not in the workplace-and no doubt by now she was deciding just how she'd spin this to the rest of the staff. It's not easy for the big cheese to live down that she had f.u.c.ked the newspaper's adventure s.l.u.t.

Personally, I felt great. There was something about boss lady that intrigued me more than the other tricks I'd had lately, and while it wouldn't stop me from checking out the lesbian action at Club 69 tonight, it might at least entertain me a little bit longer.

”How about we finish what we started here?” I didn't wait for Ca.s.sandra to reply. ”Let's say around seven at my place.” I straightened my skirt and walked back into the newsroom, smiling broadly at anyone who looked my way. Yeah, that's right, I just banged the boss. How do you like me now?

”I feel like I have a huge hole in the middle of my soul that I've been trying to fill with an endless parade of women.” I was trying to shock Dr. Finnigan. She wasn't really my shrink. She was my psychiatrist neighbor. She had lived in my building for years, but it didn't dawn on me until now how useful she could be in helping me understand my sister a little bit more. I took her a cup of tea the same day I took Ca.s.sandra and though I didn't plan to f.u.c.k Finnigan, I did hope she was as easy to crack.

”I guess, Megan, the question is why you feel like you have a huge hole in your soul.”

Finnegan had to be at least sixty, with long gray and white hair, a slight overbite, and half a dozen cats. She listened intently whenever I talked and never seemed to pa.s.s judgment on what I was saying. I did so like trying to shock her though. So far I'd recounted every single s.e.x act I'd experienced and t.i.tillated her with a list of aberrant behavior I'd tried out with past lovers, from last week's threesome to a costumed gang bang. Some of the stories were mine; many more were actually entries from Ash's journal. I wanted to know my sister, and if I couldn't decipher her life-or death-maybe Dr. Finnigan could.

So far the lady was unflappable. Even still, these thrice-weekly encounters were becoming mandatory pit stops for me. Work, Dr. Finnegan, a night of f.u.c.king, and back again. It was more healing than confession, and Finnegan made a better priest than any I'd seen. But tonight, I didn't feel like going to confession. The hole in the soul was Ash's. I had bigger fish to fry.

”I've got to go, Dr. Finnigan. Big date, you know?” As the graying doc looked curiously askance, I swooped up my stuff and bid adieu. ”You're not the only one who likes p.u.s.s.y.”

I air-kissed my way out the door and back to my apartment. I'd hardly changed a thing since Ash left it to me. The more I came to know my sister through her journals, the more I found myself becoming the woman she was. One night before going out, I rifled through the bottom drawer of the vanity and pulled out that aging bottle of Nana de Bary perfume, emboldened with a woman on the front-naked, except for thigh high boots. Each time I spritzed Ash's old perfume on me, on my neck, wrists, belly b.u.t.ton, it was like a pilgrimage to another time and place. I was venturing outside my life and inside Ash's. By the time I made it to the club, I had to admit, I even looked a little like Ash now. As I strode down the long mirrored hallway leading from the box office to the main showroom, I couldn't help but look fondly in the mirror and watch myself walk by. How many times had Ash gone out like this? How many times had she spritzed Nana de Bary and been inspired by that woman wearing the thigh high boots? Plenty, I was sure because Ash's trench-the only other thing I was wearing over the boots-was saturated with the stuff. I wondered what Dr. Finnegan would say about that?

The real s.e.x diary of Ashley Caulfield, November 12 I've wanted her from the moment my eyes first shone on her. Not in the way I was supposed to, but in the deep, aching need only a woman scorned could have. How could The One be here for him and not for me? I remember making my first move. She laughed and fended me off like the schoolgirl that I was. But I knew then as sure as I do today that she wanted me just as badly as I needed her to. I saw it, h.e.l.l, still see it in every look she gives me. She tried to hold back, to temper herself, to tell me it's not right. But I knew that desire could only be held at bay for so long. Finally, on one of the many occasions when we were left all alone in that big house, I made my move. n.o.body can resist supple young flesh, least of all a woman in a bad marriage to a much older man. I was her pa.s.sport to pleasure. She was my punishment with kisses.

Oh no, Ash was a bad girl at school today. She can't go on the weekend trip with Megan and Daddy-O. But it's not my fault. You remember how hard high school was, right? After all, it was only two years ago. She tried to fight it, but there are just some things I can do that a man can't, and even at seventeen, I was already an expert at them. She joined me by the pool one day when no one was around. I watched her watching me and I knew she was lonely. He had wronged her, too. She wanted me like everyone else had, but with her I wanted to give in.

She watched me put suntan lotion all over myself, long, smooth strokes meant to remind her how young and supple and flexible I was. And when I was done, I looked her squarely in the eyes and said it.

”You want some?” You should have seen her face pale.

”Excuse me?” She tried to regain composure, but I knew she was mine right then and there. I pulled my arms under my bikini straps, flipping my wrists upside down so they were bound with my straps and my b.r.e.a.s.t.s were bared.

”I'm all tied up. Maybe you can help me out?” Any man her age would have jumped on me right then and there, but The One wasn't easy. She bolted from the pool so quickly I was scurrying after her with my hands strapped to my sides, bikini twisted up around my waist.

I found her in her bedroom and we tumbled onto the bed like two lovers with a death sentence hanging over their affair. I devoured every inch of her until, panting, she begged me to stop. I can still imagine her that day. Her flaxen hair matted and stringy from the pool, her bronzed skin the perfect setting for the most beautiful blue eyes I've ever stared into.

It was never as glorious as it was that first day, but for years it was amazing still. She tried to call it off repeatedly, but each time I threatened to tell Father what she had done. I loved her and was willing to do anything to keep her. But still, she left, again and again. She called my bluff and wouldn't see me, wouldn't touch me, wouldn't hold me anymore. It's a cruel fate, to be discarded by the woman you love.

Each time I believed it hardly mattered. Love was dead and I took refuge in the c.u.n.ts of strangers, each ignominious hookup a reminder that I'm a b.i.t.c.h, hardened to the meaning of love.

Oh, The One, how could you leave me like this? Last week, I told Pat I needed something really shocking to stir me up. Something more than a c.o.ke-snorting wife swap-not that those modern day key parties aren't fun, but I need more out of my adventures. And this time Pat delivered.

Pat had me dress up in this little flapper dress with champagne-colored fringe and a hemline that barely covered my crotch. I wore peep toe Christian Louboutin heels with little black bows. Besides the Nana de Bary perfume, I wore nothing else, not even a bra. Pat put on a large leather mask that covered my eyes completely, and had me follow him to the taxi and then up two flights of stairs at our destination. There was a scratchy old jazz record playing, something that recalled a Mississippi bluesman's deal with the devil, and a lot of hushed whispers. Pat led me to a bed or a divan or something and sat me there, closing a door behind himself. I could hear more talk outside the door but couldn't hear what they were saying. I was tempted to lift up the mask, to figure out where the h.e.l.l I was, but hadn't I been the one to ask for this mystery?

Soon, the door swung open and there were hands grabbing at me, pulling my arms back and my legs apart, and before I could even say anything my mouth was full too. I didn't know how many people were there that day, or even if they were all women or men. I was never sure how safe I was, though I never bothered to protest. Yet with all that danger, with twenty? Thirty? strangers having their way with me, I was still fairly bored, albeit a bit nonplussed. Who were these thirty strangers who so desired to have me bound and gagged? What were their lives like? Was this a thrilling night or an everyday occurrence? What had they done to be here?

I felt a little out of my body that night. Sure, an o.r.g.a.s.m is an o.r.g.a.s.m, but when it's not with The One, there's a pure hollowness to my s.e.xual conquests. I f.u.c.k 'em and leave 'em, but it doesn't even matter to me. I watched a doc.u.mentary about Annabel Chong once. The p.o.r.n star had s.e.x with 251 men. She was all post-feminist, women's s.e.xuality is maligned, and there are double standards. All true, all things I agreed with, but when I watched her banging those dudes, I knew this wasn't about feminism or double standards or even her pleasure. Somebody had taken power away from Annabel Chong and she was getting it back, one hairy dude at a time. I just saw a little girl lost in all that carnality. Not the viper wh.o.r.e her fans wanted to see, but a little girl who probably never meant to take things this far. I recognized the same look when Pat showed me the Polaroids of that night-the hordes of women, each wearing a macabre, smiling carnival masque, penetrating me in nearly every possible way.

I've been behind the green door, and without The One, it's an empty, hollow journey.

I was trying to tell Dr. Finnegan about one of Ash's last journal entries before her death, and I could tell the doc was a little disturbed.

”The thing is, Dr. Finnegan, I'm worried about, um, my sister's ex.”

Finnegan was silent, looking pained. ”You mean the woman she called the one?” I had refrained from telling Finnegan that The One was probably my stepmother Tabitha.

”Well, yeah. I don't know how much of her diaries are real or fantasy. It all sort of blends together. h.e.l.l, in my own life I don't know anymore.”

”Do you feel like you're losing touch with reality, Megan?” Finnegan was being concerned, I was sure, but it dawned on me that she was a licensed shrink. If, G.o.d forbid, she thought I was slipping out of reality she could probably have me locked up.

”Oh no, no, nothing like that.” I backpedaled. ”It's just that sometimes I feel like someone is watching me. I can't explain it. In her diaries, Ash says that her, um, The One, hires a private investigator to follow her. I don't really think a PI is following me, but the break-in has me on edge I guess, so I'm always watching over my shoulder. Maybe I'm just as paranoid as Ash was.”

Finnegan was thoughtful. ”Megan, it's hard to know in our grief and loss sometimes where the lines are between fantasy and reality. I can tell you've gone through a lot of changes this year, and I was wondering if there's a healthier way to channel your energy than reading these diaries and acting out your sister's adventures in the name of journalism.”

The old lady was a lost cause. She had slipped into shrink speak and I could tell our next scene would include a lecture about healthy s.e.xuality. That was a little more than I could handle right now so I played down her questions and ducked out of her apartment gracefully.