Lo straightened up and grabbed my legs, yanking me so hard that my breath rushed out of my lungs. My back thudded flat on the mattress, successfully distracting me. He hovered over my body and leaned close. His mouth found my ear, and his tongue slipped inside, my limbs quivering.
As he pulled away, he whispered huskily, “Can a film do this?” He grabbed my wrists, bringing them above my head as he did so often. He trapped them with one hand, and using the other, he lifted up my shirt and my bra. His lips sucked lines from my breast to the hem of my pants, teasing and drawing out intolerable sensations. I wanted him to push inside. To come with every thrust. And I knew he would give it to me. When it came to sex, he offered me everything.
A film could not touch me the way Lo could.
I’d almost give anything to hear him finish with, “I love you.” As he always did.
Instead, I now stare at my paused television, wishing Lo was here to fill my needs instead of meaningless porn. I can’t even try to reach my climax from it. All I do is think of Lo, and how he basically said—in his own sly way—that I should quit watching porn and find my fix with him.
The film seems corny and cheesy and so fucking stupid in comparison. So I shut it off.
I stand up and gather all of my videos, and I stuff them in the little trash bin under my desk. They don’t all fit, so I pick up the aluminum bin and open my door, about to find a larger trashcan that’ll hold all my dirty secrets.
This seems right.
But ditching porn won’t lessen any tension spun inside me.
Not yet at least.
As I head down the stairs to the kitchen, I hear distant voices. It’s near midnight, but I’m not surprised by the conversation. Connor Cobalt and Rose schedule time together like one would a business meeting. She let me know that he may be over late in January since nights are the only time they can see each other this month.
“Why are you reading that?” Rose asks him. I inch forward and creep towards the living room. I edge close and peek behind the curved archway. Their backs face me as they share the cream couch, draped with a purple throw blanket. From here, I smell the fresh cut flowers that fill the vase on the glass coffee table. Connor brings a new bouquet every time they wilt. This time, he picked out yellow and pink daises that remind me of my youngest sister.
Rose’s arm presses against Connor as they sit close, each with their own laptops. Both are wearing insensible clothes to be hanging around the house. Connor sports a charcoal gray suit—worth thousands no doubt—while she wears a Calloway Couture piece: a black mini dress with a see-through maxi skirt on top. Classy, as always.
Connor doesn’t look up from his screen. “Because it’s useful.”
“Freud is not useful. He’s infuriating and sexist and wrong half the time.” She tries to shut his laptop, and he clasps her hand, bringing her knuckles up to his lips.
He gives her a light kiss before saying, “Just because you don’t like his theories doesn’t make him wrong. There’s good stuff in here.”
“Like what? ‘Penis envy?’” she snaps.
I frown. What the hell is penis envy? And more than that, are they really talking about my sexual needs again? I caught Rose with a stack of books the other day, all about sex addiction, and they were not only highlighted and bookmarked, but there were post-it notes stuck inside. And these notes, let me tell you, did not have Rose’s handwriting. Since Connor Cobalt was my tutor first, I can spot his cursive, calligraphy-like penmanship.
I can deal with my sister in my business, but her boyfriend who thinks he’s always right…well, that was a little hard to swallow.
I’m adjusting to it. Even if it’s incredibly weird. For years, Lo was the only one who knew my secrets, and now I have three more people keeping the news quiet. It’s a lot to handle.
And definitely too much to process.
“Yeah,” Connor says, “penis envy and psychosexual development.”
“You’re so off base. My sister doesn’t have penis envy—that implies that she could possibly have the Electra complex.”
I cringe, knowing what that is. I have no craving to hook up with my father. No thank you.
“I never said she had it,” he says easily, not defensive like most men with Rose, a girl who attacks full force, eyes icy and hard, ready to combat with claws and power. I love her for it. And whenever they bicker, I’m inwardly waving Rose Calloway flags, cheering for my closest sister to come out on top. “But your sister is a sex addict. Whose theories are you going to start with? Aristotle? The Hamburgler? Or how about Erik Erikson? Lily has a thing about names.”