Forbidden Flirtations
"Mr. Lloyd Drinks with Joy," by Paul Henry
When Walter Lloyd paused the Muddy Waters CD, he caught the
last tone of his doorbell’s chime. Walt hurried to open the door for Joy
Bittick, his daughter’s best friend.
“Hello, JB,” he said, then immediately regretted it. He
called her that when she was twelve. Now Joy was a CPA for Deloitte and Touche.
“I heard ‘Mannish Boy’ the minute I opened my car door.” Joy
patted him on the arm as she entered. “The music was a little loud, Walt.”
“You should have just walked in.”
“I always ring when Christine isn’t home.” Joy wore blue
canvas deck shoes, low-rise Levis, and a faded yellow oxford dress shirt with
rolled-up sleeves and the tails tied to expose her tanned waist. Walt
recognized the shirt as one of his. She lifted her bucket of cleaning supplies.
“I’m ready.”
Joy was 5’10”, almost Walt’s height, poised, with short
curly brown hair and deep brown eyes.
“We’ll make quick work of it,” he said, rolling up his
sleeves, too. “Just like the old days.” Her jeans belled at the ankles but
tightened around her hips and ass. He wasn’t supposed to notice those things
about his daughter’s friends, but he always did. “You’ve lost weight.”
“Thirty
pounds.” Joy struck a pose. “But not everything got smaller.” She thrust out
her chest and winked. “The new boobs were a graduation gift from my
step-father.” For a moment she was the precocious kid that used to flirt with
him. “Buddy told me they would guarantee a second interview in a tough
economy.”
“Did they?”
“Of course,”
she laughed. Joy watched the expression on his face, the sadness that crept
into it even when the mood was light. “I’m glad you called, Walt. It was time.”
He nodded. “It’s been a year…” Walt still couldn’t speak
about it.
Joy motioned to his half empty glass on the hall table.
“What are you drinking?”
“Breakfast.
Bent River Oatmeal Stout.” He raised the glass to toast the morning. “I’m a
connoisseur…”
“…not a lush.” She laughed at the old joke as she climbed
the stairs, amused when she turned and caught him staring at her ass. “Pour me
one?”
“I’d have to
see some ID.”
“Oh, Walter,”
she said with a smirk, “you know exactly how old I am.”
When Walt joined Joy in his daughter’s room, the sunlight
was streaming through the pale yellow curtains. On the dresser were three
pictures, a year-old calendar, and a half-opened purse with lipstick spilling
out. “There’s no dust,” she said in amazement.
“Christian Home
Cleaning Services. I told them not to disturb anything.”
“It’s as if Christine stepped out for a Coke.” Walt handed
Joy a pint of stout. Joy held up the translucent brown liquid and watched as
the sunlight played on it. She savored a sip before swallowing. “Very
nice.”
The stout left a thin foam mustache on her lip. “I bought a
growler,” he explained. Walt wondered how the foam would taste if licked it
from her lips.
Joy took another long slow drink. “The perfect breakfast
beverage.” She set her glass down on the nightstand and picked up a photo of
Walt leaning against his old Nissan 300ZX: seated in the convertible, Christine
pretended to drive while Joy in her Cubs cap held the road map. The girls were
fourteen, dressed in matching blue tank tops and cutoff jeans. Joy was strictly
A-cup back then. “Still have the Z?”
“In the garage.”
“You owe me a road trip, Walt.”
He imagined Joy seated beside him in the low-slung Z,
wearing the blue tank top, filled to overflowing with her new boobs. Instant
hard-on.
Joy picked up the second photo: Walt’s mother Katherine, his
wife Karen, and seventeen-year-old Christine beside the Christmas tree. They
wore matching green cocktail dresses, shimmering silver hose, and three-inch
heels. Karen, weakened by cervical cancer, sat on a stool in the middle of the
trio.
“They were beautiful in those dresses,” Walt commented. Even
ill, his wife looked stunning.
Joy raised her eyebrows. “That’s not what you said that
night.” After Walter took the photo, he and his daughter had fought. “You told
Christine to cover her cleavage.”
“It was one
thing for my wife to flash every man at the party, but my daughter…” Christine had been drinking. She
slipped her bra off after the picture was taken and spent the rest of the night
teasing his friends. Christine and her mother competed for the men’s attention.
Walt pretended not to notice. Joy didn’t, leaving the party early in disgust.
He couldn’t compete.
“I was
off-camera here.” Joy pointed to a spot outside the frame. “Furious that you
didn’t include me.”
Walter looked up, surprised. “It was a family photo.”
“I know,” she said, handing the picture over to Walt to pack
away.
Later that same evening, Walt’s jealousy boiled over. He
dragged his wife into the laundry room and fucked her while the party raged on,
her weak protests drowned out by the midnight countdown.
Walt wondered how it would feel to fuck Joy, wearing the
same dress wrapped around her waist pressed against the clothes dryer as he
entered her. He’d had the thought before, but he quickly shook off the image.
“Christine’s scrapbooks are here somewhere. She was always
up here, scrapbooking. If you’d like them—”
“No.”
Walt was startled by the abruptness of Joy’s response. “Why
not?”
Joy walked over to the open closet, knelt down, and rooted
out three large scrapbooks, bags of ribbons, markers, glue sticks, and
scissors. She opened the top book. The pages were empty.
“I don’t understand.”
“Christine wanted time alone without you asking questions.”
Joy pointed to the photos pinned to the bulletin boards. “That’s where she kept
her trophies.” She stood. “Girls at the Women’s Shelter would use the
scrapbooks. I volunteer there most weekends.”
“Oh.”
Joy picked up a wastebasket. “I’ll take down the bulletin
boards.” One board displayed a pennant from Reagan High, the other a pennant
from Iowa State where the girls had been roommates. Concert ticket stubs, play
programs, wedding notices, newspaper clippings, and dozens of young men’s
pictures dripped down each board.
After Walt packed the scrapbook material, he moved to the
bookshelves that Joy had helped him build. They were filled with dozens of
Sweet Valley High books and Harlequin romances. “Why did she read this junk?”
“She didn’t. Look at the spines. They’ve never been opened.”
Walt glanced at the books and saw she was right. “She bought the books because
you wanted her to read, Walter.”
“What else don’t I know about my daughter?”
“A lot.” Joy continued to pull newspaper clippings off the
board. She was barefoot.
“When did you lose your shoes?”
“Habit. It’s always warm in here.” She carefully removed
tacks from a series of senior photos. “It’s the sun from the south windows.”
Joy turned around. “Maybe you should put those boxes in the hall so we have
more room?”
As she spoke, a boy’s photo fell to the floor. Walt picked
up the portrait, surprised to see Christine’s handwriting on the back. He read
the note aloud, “Blowjob at Jenny’s party. People watched.” There was a date.
Christine was fifteen at the time.
“Best not to
read those notes,” Joy warned.
Walt thought about the images on the boards. “Surely not all
those pictures…” Joy’s expression silenced him.
“Sorry.” Joy started on the second bulletin board. “After
her mom was bed-ridden, Christine used to sneak boys up here.” Joy removed the
last picture from the board. She stared at the senior photo, then turned it
over and silently read the back. She tore the picture in half and threw it in
the trash. “That bastard!” she said. Joy stepped off the chair and began
unbuttoning her shirt. “Jeez, it’s hot in here.”
“Whoa! What are you doing?”
She untied the shirttails. “I’m trying to cool off.” She
took off the shirt. “Walter Lloyd, stop staring. It’s a sports bra. Women jog
in them.”
“You surprised me.”
“You’re easily surprised.” Joy threw the shirt on the bed
and sat down. She looked at her empty glass. “You have more?”
“I have what’s left of the growler, plus a refrigerator full
of others.”
“Either should suffice.”
When Walt returned with fresh beers, Joy was examining the
third photo on the dresser, taken at Jacksonville Beach three months before his
wife, Karen, was diagnosed.
Christine was sixteen. Joy had been fighting with her stepfather and
spent the summer with the Lloyd family. In the photo, Christine and Karen wore
matching lemon yellow bikinis and mugged for the camera. The pose was mockingly
suggestive.
Walt shook his head. “I was never comfortable with that
picture. Christine was my baby.”
“You snapped the shot.”
“Christine insisted.”
“You had it framed.”
“Karen framed it. She wanted me to know what I was missing.”
Joy looked confused. Walt
explained. “I’d threatened divorce because of her infidelities. We hadn’t slept
together in three months.”
“I didn’t know.” Joy took a drink before setting her glass
down. “Walter, I bought a bikini the same time they did.”
“I don’t remember it…” Just the thought of Joy in the yellow
bikini had him hard again.
“I never wore it.” She opened the top drawer, and started
pulling out underwear. “Christine said I would gross out the guys at the
beach.”
“You weren’t fat.”
“Tell that to the junior class of Reagan High. Tell that to
the frat boys at Iowa State.”
“I’m not a frat boy.” He raised his glass.
“Karen said it, too.”
He looked at the pain in her eyes as she remembered the
comments. “Well, Karen’s dead. Has
been for five years.” He took a drink, hoping to distract her from the erection
growing in his pants. “Trust me on this one, you would have looked good in a
swimsuit.”
Joy was amused at his discomfort. “I can see that.” She
raised her glass and savored the beer’s aroma. “I always admired the way you’d
taste a beer and say something like—”
“Full-bodied. Burnt toffee overtones.”
“Exactly.”
He motioned to his wife in the photo. “Karen used to drink
Bombay gin by the quart and laugh at my pretensions.”
Joy picked up a red lace bra and folded it. “I always wanted
to pose for you, but you never asked.”
“You weren’t a swimsuit model.” Walt best remembered Joy as
the chubby seventh-grader in Oshkosh overalls who’d helped build benches for
the patio. “You were my handy helper.”
“Handy helper? Screw you, Walter Lloyd.” She threw the lace
bra at his chest. “I’m the same size Christine was in that photo!”
He was surprised at her anger. “I just said you’d look great
in a bikini.”
“Well, you’ll never find out. Not after that comment.” Joy
pulled a condom box out of the drawer. “Can I keep these, or do you need them?”
“I don’t have much use for them,” he said sharply. “Knock
yourself out.”
Joy put the condoms in the corner of the room along with a
few items from the bulletin board. She picked up the red lace bra and added it
to the stack. “One night just before our senior year, Christine and I walked
home from a party. We were too drunk to drive.” Joy moved to the next drawer.
“You knew she drank a lot, didn’t you?”
“Family flaw,” he said, lifting his beer.
“That afternoon, you’d helped me with my college
applications, so I was going on about how terrific you were. ‘Mom’s dead,’
Christine told me. ‘If he’s so
nice, you date him.’” Joy looked
to see Walt’s reaction.
“She really said that?”
Joy nodded. “Remember, we were very drunk.” Joy closed the
second drawer and opened the third. “We said a lot of stupid things that
summer.” She began removing tank tops.
She looked over to Walt. He’d packed the books and now was just watching
her work. “You’re not much help.”
“I’ll clean under the bed,” he offered. Walt watched Joy
remove a vibrator from the drawer and throw it in the trash. He hesitated,
“What do you think I’ll find under there?”
“Barbie, Ken, Skipper, doll clothes, a Dream house—all the
stuff we used to play with when we were just little girls.”
Relieved, Walt pulled out four boxes filled with dolls and
accessories. “Want these?”
“Give them to the kids at the Woman’s Shelter. Malibu Barbie
was Christine’s role model, not mine.”
“Who was yours?”
“You, of course.”
Walt laughed nervously. “That’s hard to believe.”
“Why do you think I became an accountant?” She went back to
emptying the drawers.
Walt taped the Barbie boxes shut. “Christine said, ‘Date
him’?”
Joy walked over and opened the closet doors. “What
difference does it make?”
“Well, when Karen died, I was vulnerable to
certain…thoughts.”
“Why, that’s sweet, Walt,” she said emerging from the closet
with an armful of sweaters. “Since
I was seventeen at the time, it’s also a little perverse…and against the law in
this state. Which is not to say I didn’t have similar thoughts.” She dumped a
pile of sweaters on the bed. “Box these and put them in the hallway.”
“I’m going to take a piss before I do anything.”
“First dibs on the toilet,” she said and took off down the
hall racing to the bathroom.
“Bring more beer.” She slammed the door. “Surprise me.”
Walt took the boxes into the hall. “I hate sloppy drunks,”
he shouted toward the bathroom door.
“Don’t trip on the stairs, you lecherous old fart.”
Walt returned with two Westmalle Belgium Trappist Triples.
“I brought you something special, he said as he entered the bedroom. “Wowser!”
“Well, thank you, Walt.” Joy stood before him in a tight
yellow cropped-top and short black skirt with a slit up the left side. She’d
put on pantyhose and red strapless heels.
“Those aren’t cleaning clothes.”
“Obviously.” She put her hands on her hips and thrust her
chest slightly forward. Walt realized she’d taken off the sports bra. “Still
vulnerable to certain thoughts?”
Walt stared for a moment. “No.”
“Liar.” She took a Triple from him and looked at the cloudy
brew. “What should I be looking for in this beer?”
“Floral, fruity…” He took a sip. “It’s triple brewed. Aged
in the bottle. It’s also close to ten percent alcohol, so drink lightly.” He
took another sip. “Dry with lingering flavors.” He watched her take a drink. “Why did you change outfits?”
She set her glass down. “Christine and I used to role play.
She’d put on an outfit. I’d be the boyfriend of the week.”
“Weren’t you ever the girl?”
“Christine was in charge. Her house. Her game. One day, she
wore this outfit.” Joy stepped back to give him the full effect, stumbling in
the loose-fitting shoes. Walt steadied her. “Thanks.” Her skin was hot to his
touch. “Of course, in high school, I wouldn’t have fit into this outfit.” Joy
pulled away from him. “I asked Christine who she was dressing up for. She said
Bobby Price.”
“The kid who took you to homecoming?”
“Yes. We’d broken up by then.” Joy took another drink.
“Christine said she never slept with him. But that was a lie. I read the back
of his picture today.” Joy set the glass down again. “Walt, you play Bobby
Price. I’ll play Christine.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Christine didn’t give me a choice. I played her games, or I
got out.”
“But this is my house.”
“That’s not what Christine said.” Joy picked up the glass
and raised it to Walt. She waited until he lifted his. They drank in unison.
She could feel the alcohol rush as she gulped the beer. “Play Bobby,” she said
softly. “Maybe it will end differently.” She waited. Walt nodded. They set
their glasses down.
“All right,” she said brightly, “I’ll set the scene. I’m a
beautiful, screwed up brat. My father is working late at Deere Corporate. I’ve
told my best friend to get lost. I’ve led Bobby up the stairs into my bedroom.”
Joy walked to the bulletin board and then turned and faced Walt. “Look,
‘Bobby’, I saved a place for your picture.” She slipped off her shoes,
positioned the chair and stood on it, holding an imaginary photo. “Could you
steady me?” Walt shook his head. “You wouldn’t want me to fall, would you?” She
turned away from him and stretched as if to place the photo. He watched her
tiny skirt ride up her thighs. She swayed unsteadily. Walt grabbed her waist.
“Thank you.” Joy placed the “photo” on the board then turned to face him. “I’m
ready now.” He lifted her from the chair to the floor, her breasts brushing his
chest as he lowered her.
Walt held her tightly against him. “How did it end?”
“What?”
“When you and Christine played it out? How did it end?”
Joy hesitated. “She kissed me.”
“Christine kissed you?”
“Yes. And I kissed her back. But when she started to undress
me, I got scared and left.”
Dream, San Francisco, 1999 by Phyllis Christopher (available at ObsessionArt.com)
Walt clutched her bare midriff. Joy leaned into him, kissing
him. He tasted the beer on her lips. He drew her closer and kissed her again,
but when she began to unbutton his shirt, he pulled away. “I can’t do this.”
“I’m not sure I can either.” She turned away from him. “But,
I’ve wanted to try.”
“Please, change.”
“Of course.” She unzipped the skirt and started tugging it
down her hips.
“Not here!”
“You need to be more specific, Walter,” she teased as she
stepped out of the skirt.
Walter wanted to rip off her panty hose and throw her on his
daughter’s bed. Instead, he told her, “I’ll take some boxes downstairs. It’s
getting crowded in here.” He started to leave.
“You don’t have to go.” she told him, but Walt knew he did.
He made several trips downstairs with boxes until he’d emptied the hallway.
Walt stood staring at the refrigerator. “We’ve had enough to
drink.” Walt thought about Joy’s bare midriff. He thought about the taste of
her. He grabbed two August Schell Firebricks and poured them into frosty mugs
from the freezer. “I need to cool things off.”
When Walt returned, Joy was dressed in a simple,
well-tailored, red cocktail dress and a pair of black heels. Sleeveless with
small spaghetti straps, the dress showed off her tanned shoulders. Its lines
accented her waist; its length showcased her shapely legs. The neckline was
low-cut, yet tasteful. He imagined his wife, Karen, dressed like this and was
aroused immediately.
Joy saw him and twirled. She steadied herself facing him.
“You like it?”
“Very much.”
Joy noticed the beers. “Frosty mugs! What a great idea.” As
she took the beer from him, Walt caught the scent of Chanel No. 5. Chanel was
Karen’s scent.
“To Handy Helpers,” she said, raising her glass. She was
drinking too fast.
Walt stared at the froth on Joy’s lip when she lowered the
beer mug. He reached over and skimmed it away. She licked the foam off his
finger. “We need to talk.”
“We could talk…” she said, as she teetered in the heels.
Walt took Joy by the arm and walked her over to the bed.
“Sit.” She sat. He sat in the chair across from her.
“What happened the night Christine died.”
“I already told you.” She crossed her legs.
“No, you never did.”
“You know what happened. We were partying at Jason Miller’s
house. The air conditioner broke, so everyone was outside. Christine was on the
porch swing. People were dancing on the balcony over the porch when it
collapsed under their weight and crushed her.” Joy’s brown eyes stared into
Walt’s. “Christine died and two others were injured. What else is there to
know?”
“Why you aren’t dead too.”
Joy stood up and walked from the room. Walter caught her in
the hallway. He grabbed her shoulder and turned her around, forcing her back
against the wall. “How could you say that?” she asked as she fought him. “How
could you say that!?”
Walt held her shoulders until she stopped struggling. He
reached up and touched her cheek. “Joy, I don’t want you dead. I don’t.” She
brushed away his hand. “You were part of this house for over a decade, but you
haven’t stepped inside it since the funeral. Something’s not right. I want to know. What happened when
Christine died?”
“You won’t want to hear it.” Joy slid away from him. She
walked back into the bedroom. Walt
stood in the doorway.
“Tell me anyway.”
She turned and faced him. He sensed he should remain in the
doorway. She looked over to the window. “Christine and I had been drinking
vodka tonics in the playhouse like we used to do in high school. She’d broken
up with Todd Corbin that afternoon. She suggested we go to this party. I said
she was too drunk to drive. She said I wasn’t her mother. She bet me she could
get laid in fifteen minutes.” Joy looked over at Walt. “Want me to continue?”
“Yes.”
“It didn’t take her ten minutes. Word got around. There were
three or four guys. Everyone watched. I just walked away. I was dancing on the
roof when it fell on her.”
“I still don’t see—”
“I wanted her dead, Walt. I was giddy at the funeral. My
weight had crushed her, and I was free.”
He shook his head. “You’re no more free of her than I am.”
Walt stepped inside the room. “Isn’t that why you came over today?”
“I came to clean house. Isn’t that why we’re both here?” She
waited for him to answer.
Finally, she spoke. “You don’t recognize the dress, do you?”
“Should I?”
“Karen bought it for Valentine’s day the year she died.
Christine and I picked it out.
Karen never wore it. When she became too sick to notice, we stole it
from her closet. Christine thought
it should be her dress.” Joy watched Walt. “I think the dress suits me.”
“Yes,” he said quietly. “But it’s not…your dress.” His words
arrived awkwardly.
“Should I take it off?” She was angry.
“Yes,” he said quietly.
Joy looked over at him. Then, she knew what he wanted. She
reached back and unzipped the dress. She pushed the thin straps off her
shoulders and the dress fell to the floor. She stepped out of it. Joy tottered
for a moment, then steadied herself. She faced Walt in a black strapless bra,
panty hose, and heels. “Is this what you want?”
“It’s a start.”
“I’d take off this bra, if you wouldn’t get the wrong idea.”
“There is no way I’d get the wrong idea,” Walt assured her.
Joy reached behind her back and undid the clasp. When she uncovered her
breasts, Walt decided she was the sexiest woman he had ever known.
“What about your clothes?” For a moment, he was startled at
her brashness. “Aren’t you concerned about what I want?” she asked him.
“Point well taken.” Joy watched him strip off his polo
shirt. He unbuckled his belt and let his pants drop to the floor. He kicked
them aside. “I need to be more attentive.”
“Oh, I think you are plenty attentive.” She smiled and
motioned to the enormous erection trying to climb out of his blue Big Box boxer
shorts. “Did I do that?”
“You know you did.” Walt could hear her breathing. “And I
want to kiss you again, but I don’t want to be Bobby. And you shouldn’t be
Christine.”
“Yes. I want that, too,” she said softly. She removed the
last of Christine’s clothes.
As Joy stood naked in his daughter’s bedroom, waiting for
Walter to take her, he prayed the ghosts of the house would forgive him.
Originally published April 2010