The Girl with Two Lovers

By Riccardo Berra © 2011, Love on the Edge
With thanks/apologies to Jean-Luc Godard

A girl takes a shower, alone in her apartment. As she sits naked in the dark to dry herself, a familiar ache grows inside her. Lit only by the blue glow of her computer screen, she touches herself and as she does, she composes two emails, one for each of her two lovers. She asks them each to meet her the next day, the first man at 1l o'clock, the second man at 5.   

The first lover is a day laborer, a brooding hulk of a man, to whom she writes:

You are strong and powerful. I am putty in your hands. When I arrive, I want you to tear my clothes off, slap my face, curse me, push me, treat me like the little whore I am. You know what I deserve. I want to feel you smothering me, pounding me until I can't breathe and I dissolve in a puddle of cream. When you finish abusing my pussy, just flip me over and force my asshole until I scream and beg for mercy, though I expect none.

The second man is a poet, an intellectual, to whom she writes:

When I arrive at five, I will be Verlaine to your Rimbaud. I will undress slowly and provocatively. You, as you always do, will recite the sonnet you've written, just today, just for me. I love that my restless spirit is your muse, your poetry our foreplay and that my body is the field of your consummation. I ache to feel you take me, inside me, softly, tenderly, until my passion overwhelms me. When I feel your chest tighten and your seed flood inside me, I will know our love is sacred.

Aroused by what she has written and the dark, confusing duality of her nature, she puts her feet up on the writing desk and straddling the laptop, brings herself to a powerful climax with one hand. With the other hand she clicks "send" twice, but as soon as she clicks the second time, lightning strikes and the power goes out. 

The girl sits shivering in the pitch dark as outside the storm rages and the rain lashes the window of her tiny apartment. Inside her, a gnawing doubt grows from suspicion to certainty—that she has transposed the addresses and sent the wrong email to each man.

Hours pass and the power does not return. She passes a most fitful night, tossing and turning, getting no sleep.  In the morning she dresses quickly, desperately, in her sexiest panties, bra, skirt and blouse. Studying her reflection in the mirror, she makes a decision, slips off the delicate panties and stuffs them in her purse. A quick stroke of ruby lipstick and she's off to her first lover.

They fuck passionately, exactly as she described the night before. While lying together and smoking cigarettes, she innocently inquires if he has read her email. The first man has not read any email yet. Relieved, she tells him she was drunk when she wrote it and that he should just delete it without reading. He demands an explanation. She demurs. He straddles her. One powerful calloused hand pins her soft wrists to the pillow above her head. The other hand poised, threatens to slap her face. He demands again, "Little whore—tell me everything!" So she does, she tells him the whole story and begs his forgiveness. He breaks up with her on the spot, accusing her of thinking him stupid and herself above him.

Heartbroken, she spends most of the day wandering the streets, but by 4:00 o'clock she reconciles herself that though she has lost one love, she can keep the other. She dries her eyes, freshens her makeup and rushes crosstown—only to find her second lover already in front of his computer.

She is filled with dread, but he doesn't seem at all angry. He rises and kisses her on the lips and neck. He feels beneath her skirt, pleased to discover her naked beneath it. He does not recite poetry. Instead, he slowly, tenderly removes her somewhat battered blouse, skirt, and bra for her, draping them gently over his laptop. He pushes her on the bed and makes love to her with unaccustomed physicality. While her body still ripples with her orgasm, he flips her over and using the lubrication of their first exchange, he pushes easily into her anus, hooks two fingers into her vagina and pumps away until they both explode a second time.

Spent, the girl nestles in the arms of her lover, eyes wide and glowing with satisfaction. As she strokes the soft hair on his belly, she whispers you are so sweet and I am so relieved that you have forgiven me.  He acts surprised and insists that she explain herself. She thinks he wants to humiliate her a bit before putting her duplicity behind them. As an intellectual, she assumes, this is how the game is played, so she goes along and holds nothing back. When her story has ended, the man rises from the bed, gathers up the girl's tattered clothes and throws them at her.

He tells her to get dressed and get the fuck out—that he never wants to see her again. Though she weeps and begs, he'll say nothing more. She has no choice but to comply.  Walking aimlessly through the streets until dark, she finally returns to her sad, empty apartment. The power is on and tearfully, she pulls up the two emails, each sent, correctly addressed, to her former lovers.

_______
© 2011 Riccardo Berra/Apostrophe. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Bio: Ricc Berra is a New York-area screenwriter who is drawn to complex, troubled lovers and their complicated relationships. This story is inspired by Jean-Luc Godard's "A Woman is a Woman" and its luminous lead, the lovely Anna Karina. This story is the newest member of Ricc's anthology, "Love on the Edge" which can't always promise a happy ending, but does promise a lot of heat and maybe some light getting there. Read his stories and poetry on
www.inside-apostrophe.blogspot.com.

Authors live for feedback!
If you enjoyed this story, please send comments to Riccardo Berra/Apostrophe

  E-mail this page

Copyright © 1996 and on, Erotica Readers Association, Inc.
All Rights Reserved World Wide. Reproduction in whole or in part in any form or
medium without express written permission is prohibited.