Page 32 of Tell Me What You Want

I don’t respond.

“Sex is a game, Jude. A game that allows for curiosity, sensation, and everything and anything you want. I get a kick out of making you feel good, and when I see you burning with desire, it drives me crazy. But your inexperience with good sex ...”

“My inexperience with good sex?” I say as I take off my robe. What is he saying? Where is this lecture going? “For your information, I’ve had magnificent sex.”

“Forgive me if I doubt that,” he says with a cold laugh.

“You’re so conceited!”

I fold my hands into fists, wanting to punch his lights out.

“C’mon, Jude. I have no doubt your experiences have been satisfactory. What I’m saying is that they will never be like the experiences you’ll have with me. I mean, c’mon! You blushed when you said, ‘Fuck me!’”

“It’s vulgar. It’s gross.”

“No, sweetness. It’s nothing like that. All that happened is that desire and curiosity spoke for you. Desire and curiosity allow us to be uninhibited. In the shower, you gave in to desire and curiosity. You told me what you wanted. You asked me to fuck you because that’s what you wanted.”

“I don’t want to hear any more.”

“What bugs me most is that you enjoyed everything we did. You enjoyed the vibrator, and you very much enjoyed saying the word ‘fuck.’ Your problem is that you deny it all. You lie to yourself.”

Exasperated and indignant, I refuse to answer him. How did everything change so quickly? I don’t look at him as I put on my underwear and bra. I just want to get out of there. Out of that suite. Out of that hotel and out of his life. Eric watches me without moving from his perch on the bed. I look for my jeans and T-shirt, and once I’m totally dressed, I find myself standing in the middle of the room.

“Nothing we’ve done together can be changed now. But from this moment on, you will go back to being Mr.Zimmerman and I will be Miss Flores. Please, I want to go back to my normal life.”

With that, I turn around and leave.

I need to forget everything that’s happened.

13

That Sunday, I’m exhausted.

I want to forget about Eric, but my vaginal muscles still ache, a constant reminder of everything that happened the day before.

At quarter after eleven, I finally get out of bed, and the first thing I do is talk to my dad. It’s a Sunday-morning routine. Besides, today is the Euro Cup Final, and I bet he’s going nuts.

“Hello, little girl.”

“Hey, Papá.”

After we talk for about ten minutes about Curro and the Euro Cup, my dad changes subjects.

“Are you all right, my love? You seem down.”

“I’m fine, Papá. I’m just very tired.”

“Little girl,” he says, trying to stay light, “you have only two weeks till vacation, right?”

He’s right. My vacation starts July 15, and the reminder perks me up.

“Exactly, Papá. It’s just so close, I can’t help but be impatient.”

I can feel him smiling. That comforts me. He had a really rough time when my mom died two years ago, and seeing him do OK is a great relief.

“Are you coming by the house for a few days?”

“Of course, Papá.”

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