I’ve been fucked by the truth dozens of times over the course of my life. Sometimes that truth has come from outside of me, sometimes from within…though less often the latter. And I’ll be honest, when she shows up, I don’t tend to invite her with a welcoming smile, offer her a cuppa on the better china, and listen to her graciously. No. More like a frightened child who knows she’s done wrong, I see her coming, close the drapes and sit inside, rocking back and forth with my fingers in my ears while she knocks insistently on the door.
I wouldn’t call myself dishonest, but I’ve done my share of lying…usually to protect myself or get out of something. And when faced with my lies, I’ve tended most often to deflect or pass the blame. Anything to avoid acceptance of my own bad behavior.
But truth, and facing it, isn’t always connected with lying. More often, it’s about dealing with reality and either accepting it or changing it.
Truth can be painful or healing. It can be terrifying or enlightening. But the beauty of truth is that it just is what it is. No matter what we do or how we try to hide from it, it holds firm in its existence.
Truth sat on the couch looking at me with that infuriatingly passive openness that she always wore. It was a look that said, I’m cool if you ignore me right now, because I’m right…and eventually you’ll see that. Or you won’t. It doesn’t matter.
I loved her and hated and her, but no matter how much time passed between our meetings, she always seemed pleased (and not surprised) to see me. This time, she was the one to instigate.
She patted the cushion beside her, beckoning me, and I took her invitation uncomfortably, even though we’d known each other since just this side of the womb.
“How have you been, Ryan? It’s been a long time since I talked to you.”
She had a way of saying simple things like that, yet making them feel like knives digging into flesh. Yeah, alright…I’ve been away from home too long. I haven’t been in touch…with anyone, and I should have been…I get it…I’m a dolt…a real, fucking dolt. I haven’t even called my mother.
“I’m alright. Been doing some photography work out in L.A. and a bit in New York.”
“Wow! Sounds major…like you’ve really made something of yourself.”
Ouch. Because you know I haven’t. You know I’m a poser. My work will never be seen.
“Yeah, maybe. We’ll see. Vogue’s been looking at some of my stuff, and they might pick me up for a photo shoot this fall.”
She knows I’m lying. She knows.
That’s all? And said with that downshift in tone toward the end of the word that makes it sound like she means the exact opposite.
“So what have you been up to?” I ask.
She replies, “Oh…the same old thing, really. I’m kind of all over the place, keeping up with everyone else’s lives. George just got a promotion, and the kids are all in school now. It’s freed me up a bit to do some of the things I really enjoy…like knit…and do crosswords.”
Of course Truth would knit and do crosswords. Of course she would marry someone named George and have perfect children.
Then she leaned in toward me, placing her pale hand on my jeaned thigh, “But if you want to know the truth,” she sniggered, “I’m so completely bored with it all.”
Confused, and a bit uncomfortable, I inquired, “Bored? You? Little Miss I have it all?”
“Yes, I think I’d like to just put it all in a box, my whole life, and send it off to Siberia so I could start over.”
She didn’t look sad or conspiratorial or ashamed. Actually, she looked like she’d just told me we’d have to drive the Ferrari instead of the Lamborghini…c’est la vie.
I ran my eyes over her. Her clothes were high quality. Her teeth were straight. And her hair and skin were smooth. Aside from her gray hair, she looked as young as she had the day I’d last seen her, 25 years prior.
She must have caught me surmising, because she continued with, “You know, this isn’t really me?”
My eyebrows rose in question, and she continued, “The make-up, the creams, the treatments…all lies. And I think that’s what bothers me most. But, George likes things a certain way.”
My thigh was warming beneath her touch.
“I’m still under here, though. And I can feel myself yearning to resurface.”
“Why don’t you then?”
“I couldn’t…George…the children…”
My eyes settled heavily on her hand resting on my thigh, and I felt a surge of nerve bolstering me and my next words.
“I don’t have any expectations of you.”
She looked up at me…not sad…or hopeful…just knowingly.
“I know. That’s why I called you.”
She glanced down at her lap, sighed, and then looked up at me, taking my face between her palms and kissing me softly.
“Give me a few minutes.”
She raced out of the room in a swish of black linen, leaving me in a fog of What the fuck? I gazed around the room. It was perfectly orchestrated, well-designed, and devoid of personality or any real comfort. There were silk plants, glass tables, and cream-colored furniture. No one really lived here…least of all Truth.
When she returned, my breath caught in my throat. She stood in the doorway, completely naked, her face devoid of make-up, her hair mussed. She didn’t seem nervous or afraid that I would reject her. She just was what she was.
I went to her, held her face in my palms, searched her face…the tiny wrinkles and freckles now visible on her clean skin. She pressed into me and wrapped her arms around me, her hands sliding up between my shoulder blades. And just like that, as if she’d pressed a button, I folded over her. Our lips connected clumsily at first, our tongues fumbling, and I closed my eyes. My hands slid over her shoulders, down her torso, grabbing hungrily at her waist, her hips, her buttocks. I pulled her into me, grinding my hardening cock into her soft lower belly.
She sighed, and I matched her sigh with a low, quiet growl. I hadn’t fucked a woman in months, and I’d always wanted this one. To have her, naked in my grasp was gratifying, to say the least. I let go of concern for consequence and simply let myself go.
Truth unbuckled my belt and then unbuttoned and unzipped my jeans. She pulled them, along with my boxers, down to my thighs, and pressed herself back up against me. Electric currents surged from my center, firing messages I hadn’t heard in ages…to kiss, to fuck, to feel.
I knelt before her and pulled her down to me, then guided her to the floor.
There were no games. No foreplay. I simply spread her legs and slowly pushed myself, balls deep, into her. Her face told me she wanted it that way. No art. Just raw, pure, sex. She was wet and soft and hot, and her orgasm came quickly, her body undulating beneath me, her moans and grunts matching mine sound for sound.
I came just after her, my body arching and jolting above her; her pussy grabbed hold of me, pulsing around me each time I shuddered, intensifying every sensation.
I rolled onto my side and then my back, breathing heavily beside her on the white carpet, my jeans still wrapped around my calves.
We lay there for several minutes, catching our breath in silence.
“Ryan, can I tell you something?”
“That’s the first good orgasm I’ve had in 25 years.”
“Fuck…you’ve gotta be kidding me? I’m not even that good.”
“George thinks my orgasms are too messy.”
“Shit…that’s fucked up…orgasms are supposed to be messy.”
She was quite for awhile, and then she said, “Ryan…let’s do that again…on the white couch…and the white bedspread…and the white kitchen counter…”
I interrupted her with my laughter…”Hold on there, Truth…I don’t think I can do it that many times…I’m not as young as I used to be, and I need some time to reboot.”
“How long are you in town?”
“Long enough to fuck up every white thing in this house.”
She smiled at me, and somehow I think I started to see the truth a little more clearly. I think she did, too.
Truth is messy, perspective-shifting stuff. And it will wait you out until you are ready to face it…or fuck it, as the case may be.