This will make more sense if you have read the first part of Clyde and Colette
It was ten days before she sent a message. He’d thought about her every day, and every day he had concluded that their story was over; a brief, intense, slightly terrifying chapter in the book of his life. He’d even gone back on the app, swiping through a sea of faces, but none of them captured his interest. They all seemed so… predictable, safe. And he didn’t want safe. Not any more.
On the other hand, he wasn’t sure if he could cope with— what? ‘Un-safe’? ‘Downright dangerous’?
But then there it was, her name on his screen, a simple, “Umm. You OK?” followed by, “Coffee? Without the… Please?”
He met her at a place near her work, a bright, airy cafe with a young, upmarket crowd— non-losers. She was already there, a book open in front of her, a cup of tea steaming beside it. She looked different, more… put together. Her hair was down, brushed to a shine, and she wore a simple black dress that hinted at the curves he had only seen in the dim light of her apartment.
“Clyde,” she said, looking up from her book, a small, nervous smile on her lips.
“You came.”
“I came,” he said, sliding into the chair opposite her. “I was— surprised. To hear from you, I mean.”
“I surprised myself,” she said, closing the book. “I … I didn’t know if you’d want to see me again. After… you know.”
“The floor show?” he said, a wry smile on his face.
“Something like that,” she said, her cheeks flushing slightly.
There was a long silence, during which she looked at her hands, and he wondered if this had already gone wrong. What did she want from this?
Then, after what seemed like a little internal struggle— visible as her body tensed, then a little shake, then a shift— she looked up, and she was blushing, and her eyes were big and vulnerable and she looked at him, and he thought— only later realising what a cliché it was; Gods, but she’s beautiful when emotion takes her! All she said, though, was;
“It … it was… intense.”
He had to get something more than that from her!
“It was,” he agreed, then, pushed as much as he dare; “But … not … not actually, bad. Right? As in, definitely something.”
“Not … bad,” she agreed. Her gaze dropped to her teacup again, but she was still with him this time, and now she gave him something;
“Just … not what I was expecting.” she looked up again, and she was definitely giving him something with her eyes, and he knew that he wanted more, but couldn’t think of anything sensible to say, and he lost her, her eyes back on her hands, folding the napkin, pointlessly.
There was a long pause, then, and it could easily have gone sideways, but she shook herself, reset her seat, and looked up, the intensity gone, but with a brave smile that melted him again, and mentioned the new roman a clef with so many references to the previous administration, asked if he knew which of the characters was…“you know—’that woman’?”
“You must have an inside track on this stuff with your work …”
It was a distraction from the thing that sat so large between them, but it wasn’t a stupid one, and he did know something, though it wasn’t what she expected, and then, quite soon, they were having an actual conversation, that was interesting, and light, and … and it was good.
Not at all ‘dangerous’, but not predictable, either. And— it just flowed; they just talked, easily; about everything and nothing. They talked about their jobs, their families, their fears and their dreams. They talked about books and movies, about politics and philosophy. It was easy, natural, a comfortable rhythm that neither of them had expected. It was the kind of conversation he had been missing, a meeting of minds that went beyond most dates. He felt at home, in a way he hadn’t in a long time. And he thought he saw the same in her, a glimmer of the woman he had glimpsed in their texts, the one who was smart and funny and could manage her vulnerability when she wanted to.
From the coffee shop they went to the Park, and walked, and talked, and, quite quickly, it had been hours, without an awkward moment that had not turned out to be a way into some slight increase in intimacy, in understanding. And he realised that she had stopped ’trying’, and that he had too.
The moment when they both had to ’notice’, just how late it had gotten, that it was getting dark, was easy, too; he didn’t let a silence happen, managed to just simply and naturally invite her back to his place, and she agreed.
A small, nervous smile briefly shaped her lips, and her eyes drifted, but then she looked up at him and simply said;
“Yes, please, that would be lovely,” and they were walking and talking again.
His apartment was the opposite of hers; neat, minimalist, almost sterile. A few carefully chosen pieces of art on the walls, a stack of books on the coffee table, all arranged with a precision that belied the chaos of their first encounter.
“Nice,” she said, looking around. “Very … you.”
“I try,” he said, handing her a glass of wine. “It’s a work in progress.”
They sat on the couch, a comfortable silence stretching between them. He wanted to kiss her, to feel her lips against his, to see if the magic was still there. But he hesitated, afraid of breaking the thing they had built that afternoon.
And suddenly the doubts were back; their first encounter, this day— how could they both be true? They were both ‘real’, he was sure, but— where was the link? What was the resolution? What if the delightful free flow of their conversation had been a one-time thing, a product of their nervous energy and their ill-fated role-play? What if the sex was … normal?
Then, out of nowhere— as if she had decided it as a tactical move, she leaned in and kissed him. It was, a soft, tentative kiss that was nothing like their first. It was awkward, exploratory, a kiss between two people who were still getting to know each other. But honestly, it was nice. It was … fine. It was the kind of kiss you have on a third date, a kiss that says, I like you, I want to see where this goes.
And then, everything did become sort of normal, and … well … ’normal’ wasn’t ‘bad’, was it?
They moved to the bedroom, a slow, careful undressing that was a far cry from the frantic tearing of clothes on her living room floor. And the sex was … fine. It was nice. It was … normal. He was gentle, considerate, attentive to her needs. He tried to be the good lover, the decent guy, the man he thought he was supposed to be. And she seemed to appreciate it, her responses soft, her sighs quiet. There was no intensity, no desperation, no raw, primal need. It was … pleasant.
Afterward, they lay in bed, the moonlight filtering through the blinds casting long shadows on the wall. He felt a sense of … disappointment. It wasn’t terrible, though— not at all— and he made himself relax, and so, it seemed, did she.
There was, there in him though, a hollow ache where the fire had been. He had wondered if it could flare up, like the last time, if he would feel that surge of power, that sense of unstoppability. But it wasn’t. It was just … sex. Pleasant sex. But pleasant was good. It really was.
“Is … is everything okay?” she asked, her voice soft in the darkness.
“Yeah,” he said, turning to face her. “Everything’s okay. Just … thinking.”
“About what?” she asked, her eyes searching his.
“About … us,” he said, the word feeling strange on his tongue. “About what this is.”
“I don’t know,” she said, a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. “Do … do we have to figure it out right now?”
They never did figure it out. Though the question lurked, and surfaced itself at odd moments, the moments had no real pattern to them, and— each time— either circumstances or one or both of them delivered ‘cover’, just enough so that it wasn’t more than a little uneasy to avoid having the ‘figuring it out’ conversation.
Messily, awkwardly, with much unspoken that they each knew needed to be spoken of, they began to see each other. More or less. And then, over the weeks, more and more.
They built a relationship on the foundation of that one explosive night, a night they never spoke of, a ghost that haunted their every interaction, which they had covered over with the comfort blanket that was the romantic afternoon, the cliché— ‘walked in the park, talked for hours without even noticing how long it was’— so obvious it was glaring. They went to movies, to museums, to parks. They had dinner with friends, who commented on what a cute couple they made. They were the picture of normalcy, a perfectly pleasant, perfectly dull pair.
The sex remained … fine. Sometimes, it was better than fine, a glimmer of the intensity they’d shared that first night. Sometimes one of their conversations hit an angle that took them there, sometimes an accidentally harder kiss, a firmer touch, a breathy cry that sounded more like a command than a sigh, nearly ignited something. But it never quite happened, never tipped over the edge, never quite became the raw, primal thing that remained a spectre for both of them; one of them (sometimes he, sometimes she) would always withdraw, just the tiniest little stepping back, and the other would notice, and pull back a little, too, and then it would be ordinary again. A perfectly acceptable routine of ‘good enough’, a relationship that was not quite a relationship, a love that was not quite love.
He found himself getting frustrated, resentment bubbling to the surface. He resented her for not being able to say what she wanted, for hiding behind her theories and her ideologies. He resented her for making him feel like a brute, a monster, for the way she would sometimes flinch when he touched her, as if she was afraid of what he might do.
And she, in turn, resented him for his calm, his detachment, his seeming inability to see the turmoil she was in.
The moments when ‘figuring it out’ demanded attention became not just awkward, but downright dangerous. ‘Nice’ and ‘pleasant’ were honestly and obviously a great deal better than ’lonely’ and ‘frustrated’, and each of them knew there was something— something real going on somewhere, that to simply split up would be to lose a chance at something.
Which just made it more important not to risk the difficult conversation, in case it blew everything up. Which meant, of course, that everything was going to blow up.
So now, eight months later, they are in the crappy diner near her apartment— the one they agreed never to go to again, since it is without a single redeeming feature save that it is open, and the nearest bit of neutral territory to her place that is not outside in the New York January, and they cannot, cannot have another horrible row in either of their apartments.
Another failed night last evening— an argument over dinner over something meaningless that neither of them knew much about, with ideological overtones, that they had just had to uncomfortably agree to disagree about and then— mainly because it was planned, no burning desire involved, went back to her place and failed at having sex.
Both are miserable to be having another ‘are we over?’ conversation. The clatter of cutlery, the hiss of the coffee machine, the drone of a television in the corner, the almost performatively sullen service— all of it a soundtrack to their shared misery. The vinyl of the booth seating is cracked and disturbingly slightly sticky. Colette stares into her coffee, watching the cream swirl. Clyde picks at the loose sugar packets, stacking them into a neat, orderly pile, a small act of control in a conversation that feels increasingly out of control.
“Are we doing this again?” he says, his voice flat, devoid of emotion; " The whole ’let’s take a break’ thing? Or are you still allergic to honesty? You have to pick a lane, Colette. We have to. Either we’re done or we’re not."
“You say that like it’s simple. Like I’m just being difficult for fun.”
“Difficult? No. Complicated? Always. But it’s like you want me to be your goddamn compass when you won’t even tell me which direction you want to go.”
“That’s … fair. But … why … why can’t you … join in?”
“Join in? You mean while you’re busy building a maze out of your own contradictions? Just— tell me what you want, Colette— please? Not what you think you should want. Not what your books say. Just you. Words, Colette. You’re supposed to be good with them. Use them.”
She turns her head away, agitated; another refusal to get into it, to actually address anything for real. There’s something there— he knows her eyes will have that incredible beauty to them right now, knows they will be bright with tears in her distress and— frankly— his cock stirs in his pants at the thought of it, and he’s angry that she won’t let him see her. There is something here— something that needs to be something. Only— only he doesn’t know how to get her to see it— to own it for herself— even though he knows— thinks he knows, at least— that she feels it too.
He just can’t ever figure out what the right words are to get her there, and he’s not sure he can face trying again.
And then she does that thing again— that she did in the cafe on the second date, the one where everything clicked, the thing he remembers so clearly, that she has never done since— the internal struggle that works itself through her body, every part of her a part of it as her body tenses and shifts, every move ruthlessly suppressed, every stillness urgently broken, the struggle resolved by a definitive, decisive, decidedly sexy little shake-out, the settling, after which comes a purposeful shift as she turns back to him, flushed— and there it is, her eyes big and bright and looking directly at him, soft and vulnerable and full of need and he is all hers again, happy to wait as she visibly works herself up, gathering the courage to speak, almost not caring what it is that she might say, mostly thinking about the sex on the first date, about how alive her body must be right now.
But she is speaking, and there is something urgent and fragile and needy in her tone that demands he pay attention, get his head back in the game, only, only Jesus she is so fuckable when she’s like this!
“Okay. OK. I will. I know you want to break up. And I know I always talk you round. And I know it’s not working. And I’m sorry.”
“There is, there is something … something I need to say. And … and I’m not doing well with words at all right now. That’s because this is— very— hard for me.”
“The thing is it’s … fuck I can’t even say the words. It’s— fuck— It’s the sex.”
She’s bright red. Her eyes have dropped again, but he’s riveted; this isn’t her copping out, this is her being incredibly brave, and he is on her side now, willing her to do what he has failed to do, so many times— find the words that will get them somewhere. He reaches for her hand but she snatches hers away, and he recoils; Jesus you just always do the wrong fucking thing, man. Just … chill. She’s got a plan. Listen!
It takes a while, but he can see she’s not giving up and, soon enough, she lifts her head and shows him her eyes and starts again and he knows he loves her in that moment because he is so damn grateful to be looked at that way by someone so frightened, seeing her trusting him with her fear.
“It— it’s about that first night. And we’ve never … I mean we’ve tried, but we’ve never really talked about it.”
“I’ve never let us talk about it … is what I mean. And I … I apologise again.”
“…it was that the sex was so good. The way you … God the way you did me was … was so good it makes me cry to think about it sometimes. Which made me have to message you, even though … And … and here we are! But I couldn’t. I didn’t … I didn’t dare tell you. Not anything real. And you— you’re so nice, anyway, so decent and interesting and caring and … so that … so that then I wondered, maybe, maybe nice was too precious to risk.”
He’s simply listening to this, as if she has cast a spell on him, on them both, because she doesn’t seem to be in control, either— rather gripped by something, and it hasn’t done with her;
“This … this is what I’ve been thinking. Me, I’m too hung up about how I think things should be between men and women, what a ‘proper’ relationship should be. And, and you, you’re too worried about not behaving how your shitty Dad behaved, how those dumb jocks behave. Not wanting to be like them.”
“But here’s the thing. I’m not ‘women’. I’m me, Colette. And you— you’re not ‘men’, not your dad. And you’re not a stupid jock either— you’re actually this unique, amazing person— you’re Clyde.”
“And this, this relationship, whatever it is, is not ‘men and women’. And it’s not babes and jocks. And it’s not cartoon Boss and Secretary either.”
“It’s not even a ‘relationship’, actually— what the fuck even is that? It’s actually, us— just us— it’s you and me; Clyde and Colette, and what we do with each other. That’s our choice, not a stage play about how things should be. This is about how things actually are, right here, right now, every second a new reality; how things can be, in what we do with each other.”
“And I …”
She looks down, again, trembling, half turns away, the fears seemingly too much, makes to jump up, as if she’s about to run from the room— he’s ready to tackle her if she does, so fierce does he feel, so determined to have her (Jesus, to fuck her!), but deep down he knows that if it comes to that, he’ll have lost, that they’ll both have lost, so that he is utterly focused on her when she wins whatever battle it was and turns back; very small, suddenly, and very soft, her voice small, too, quivering, breathy, but very deliberate, with a core to it that feels unshakeable; whatever she is saying is the deepest truth for her, it tells him.
“I want to do things with you. I… Actually, what I want, is for … for you to do things to me.”
Her eyes are his, and this— the dirtiest thing he has ever heard anyone say— is not dirty at all from her, but simple, honest truth, as pure as snow, and his cock surges again.
He knows that, right now, he could screw everything up very easily indeed, and he has no clue, no clue at all, what to do; Fuck, Fuck, Fuck …
Luckily, though, it seems that staring straight back at her, immobile, transfixed, speechless, is the right thing— or good enough, at least— for she’s speaking again;
“Somehow… somehow we need to figure out how that can come true, so that it can be like that again. Like we know it can be between us.”
“And … and here’s the thing.You’re going to find this very hard to hear, I hope. But I’ve been thinking very hard about this, and … And it’s the only way. I can’t … I can’t discuss this— I just have to say it. So … so this is it.”
“And it’s this: you have to rape me.”
And then, in a terrible rush, into his round-eyed, shell-shocked face, determined to get it said, staring hard at him now, holding him, she continues;
“I mean violently knock me down. Hurt me. Rip my clothes off. Force me. Take your pleasure with me any way you want it. Even though I’m not gonna get anything out of it.”
The silence then is a wall around them in the din of the diner. It holds them in suspended animation, which is the only thing that can allow the terrible thing she has just said not to cause an explosion.
And the fuse is still burning when she simply and cleanly extinguishes it, resetting herself, controlled but somehow at ease— at ease as he has never seen her, he realises. She’s not smiling, but all the intensity has gone; her eyes are back to normal — no, they are in some new condition, too— candid, open, still, not looking at him, but not staring away, not darting about; she’s looking at his hands, it seems; at peace, somehow, something she never is. She looks up again, still with that look of peace, tinged already with a little of her habitual nervousness, and says;
“There. I’ve said it.”
“And … And, well, I’ve said it.”
Clyde is stunned. He cannot think of anything at all to say, as, right in front of him, he sees her peace dissolve, sees her lose the confidence she’s just worked so hard for— classic Colette— and this time she really loses it, shaking, eyes all over the place again, jittery, shifting, clutching at the table, “No, no, no” under her breath, full of turmoil. He’s also unmanned by having the fastest growing, most painful hard-on he’s ever had in his life trying to burst out of his chinos.
And so when she jumps up and runs from the diner, he can’t chase her. For a number of reasons.
He sits there, the sugar packets abandoned, a half-built tower of pointless order. His coffee is cold. The clatter of the place returns to his ears, a garish assault after the focused, intimate silence that had just been shattered. His body is a riot of contradictions. His mind recoils, the word she used— rape— a screaming siren of wrongness, of danger, of every decent principle he holds. It’s what his father would have done, without the pretense (’knock the bitch down and fuck some sense into her’). It’s what those jocks he despised joked about in locker rooms. It’s an unforgivable crime.
And yet.
His body, treacherous and primal, had responded to her appalling suggestion with a ferocity that shames him. The pressure against the fabric of his trousers is more than a simple erection; it’s a sense memory that bypasses thought, morality, and reason. It’s a memory of that first night, of the frantic, desperate release on her floor, of the way she’d melted against him, of the guttural relief in her cries, of the violence in him that had not been interested in her at all. He feels a wave of nausea, hot and bitter. The shame is a physical thing, a tightening in his throat, a cold sweat on his brow. He is exactly the monster he has spent his life trying not to become.
