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I begin to type from the heart. I delve into the stories of the men I spent time with at the beach house, highlighting their similarities and differences. Each man has left an indelible mark on me, and I strive to convey their impact on my emotions. Theron empowered me to explore my desires. He gave me the freedom to put aside all my anxieties about sex and open my body to new experiences. Stefan, my first, was a firm and steady hand, who made the time we spent together a safe and exciting space. Carson woke different desires in me, and he and Jimmy showed me what it could be like to be worshiped by more than one man. Tom, Clay and Gabe gave me so much pleasure that my mind disconnected from my body, and then helped me realize it’s okay to want more. Jonas and Theron took me further on my journey with lessons that made me more confident, and Oliver and Russell sealed us as one formidable group.
So, what does size mean to the men in this story? It’s led to experiences both positive and negative. It’s led them to feeling both objectified and powerful.
And what does size mean to me? Yes, the men I’ve come to know and care about all have ten inches, but would it matter to me if they didn’t?
Of course not. Do I think it has an impact on their ability to please me? Maybe a little. I guess I’m lucky I don’t have some of the issues with their size that their previous lovers had. But the most important thing is that they’re all wonderful and considerate lovers.
They’re decent men who made me feel like a queen.
As I continue to write, the words flow with an ease that I’ve lost in recent months. Instead of trying to force out the content for my article, I feel like my heart rests in the center of this one.
I’m concentrating so hard that I don’t hear Russell approach me until his hands rest on my shoulders. “You’re writing?”
“The article,” I say.
“Our story?”
I twist my head to gaze up at him, moved by his words. “Our story.”
“Can I read it when you’re done?”
I nod, reaching out to cover his hand with mine, so grateful to have him standing with me through this process. “Of course. It’s our story. I want you to be comfortable with everything I say about what happened between us.”
“That’s not why I want to read it,” he says, squeezing my shoulders gently. “I know you’ll write something that does justice to our experience. I just want to read something you wrote. I want to hear yourvoice.”
It’s the first time a man has understood that what I write is deeply connected to who I am. When it’s from the heart, it reflects part of me that I hide from the world, the secret place where my true ideas about the world reside. The voice I use when I write unconstrained deeply reflects my thoughts and feelings in a way that spoken words often don’t get the chance to.
I blink back tears that threaten again, and he bends to kiss the top of my head. “Can I fix you a drink or something to eat?”
“I should be offering that to you,” I say. “Some hostess I am.”
“I don’t need you to be a hostess.” Russell’s already lumbering across the room and into the kitchen, his big body taking up so much space in my apartment it makes me breathless. “I need you to write your truth, and when you’re done, we need to go back to the beach house and deal with what comes next.”
I open my mouth to say I can’t. I can’t face them all again, knowing what’s been said about us and the pictures that are circulating. Each of their lives is going to be affected by that one night. It was special to me. A moment when I allowed myself to satisfy all of my cravings without guilt, but it was nothing new to them. I’m just another woman in a long line of women. If there wasn't photographic evidence, they probably wouldn’t remember me in a few years' time.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I say, catching Russell by surprise just as he passes through the doorway to the kitchen. He stops, and his broad back grows wider on a deep inhale.
“I know it’s going to be hard,” he says, not turning to face me. “I know you don’t want to face what comes next because everything feels uncertain. But sometimes we have to steel ourselves for the difficult times because what is beyond the horizon is worth getting to.”
“What’s beyond the horizon is me losing my job and going into hiding,” I say. “It’s my parents dying of mortification. It’s everything I’ve worked for crashing down around me.”
“Trust me,” he says, still not turning. “Trust me, and you’ll get through this.”
“Like you’ve gotten through your problems?” I know I’m poking a sore spot, but I don’t care. He’s expecting me to be stronger than he is. How's that fair?
“Sometimes we’re better at helping others than we are at helping ourselves.”
That’s truer than it should be. Can I trust him? Can I believe that he will help me through this in some way I haven’t managed to think of despite all of my mental churning?
I can’t imagine what idea he has brewing that’s going to rewind time, but I do know that I’d trust Russell with my life.
“I tell you what. I’ll trust you on one condition.”
He turns then, his brows tight over his forest eyes. He doesn’t ask me what the condition is, but simply stands there, resigned to whatever demand I might have.
“If I let you help me, you have to let me help you, okay?”
He rubs his hand over his short, cropped hair that I know will feel like velvet under his palm and focuses on the ceiling for the longest time. I think he’s going to say no, and we’ll both be the worse for that decision. I cross my fingers, wanting his support more than I’ve ever allowed myself to rely on another person.
