Stand-ins
by Merri-Todd Webster
(31 May 1999)

I tell myself I'm not the one she wants.

It's hard to remember that you're only a substitute.  So hard 
to remember when she drains the glass of red wine and fastens 
her lips on yours.  Her mouth is so full, rouged to a deep red as 
intoxicating as the wine, and her tongue is greedy inside your mouth.  
It's hard to remember that you're not really the one she wants.

I don't see her more than maybe twice a month, three times, at most.  
Sometimes not at all, depending on her caseload.  It's always very civilized.  
I go over to her place with a bottle of red wine and fresh flowers for the 
table.  We never go out, no, that would be unthinkable, by mutual 
agreement.  She's always cooked something that goes with the wine, 
and she always sniffs the flowers and smiles at me over the bouquet, 
even if they're mostly carnations.  Carnations remind me of funeral homes.  
Mozart or Vivaldi, sometimes Chopin, plays in the background while we eat 
dinner and talk about inconsequential things, books, movies, recordings of 
music.  Sometimes we rent a movie and watch it in the dark, her head on 
my shoulder, a bowl of popcorn between us.  Sometimes she listens to a 
new CD I've brought over; I've gotten her interested, gradually, in early music.

Eventually, there's a certain threshold that she crosses.  I'm not sure 
yet what it is.  I don't think it's as simple, as crass, as drinking enough 
of the wine.  I think it has something to do with getting used to my 
presence.  Relaxing when there's a stranger in her territory.  I still
haven't been to her apartment enough times to know where she keeps 
everything.  I probably never will.  But you really don't see her unwind.  
One minute, she's friendly but formal, as if on her best behavior for a 
first date; the next, she's a whirlwind, a snake peeling out of her skin, 
a leech with a hot, demanding mouth.  The transformation is... frightening.

The first time we were together, she went down on me and slipped her 
finger up my ass to massage my prostate.  I hadn't come like that since 
I was thirteen.  And that was only the beginning.  She's wanton, insatiable, 
knowledgeable and unpredictable.  Sometimes she ties me up and fucks me, 
controls the experience in every way.  Sometimes she's completely passive, 
lying perfectly still and whimpering softly as I make love to her, as I do my 
utmost to worship her through her body.  She is as indescribably beautiful 
as I'd imagined, delicate as blown glass, unyielding as steel, and always 
hungry for sensation.  In the semi-darkness of her bedroom I forget who 
I am and become who she wants me to be.  I kiss her sex for hours, 
pleasuring her with my lips and tongue, drinking the bitter nectar that 
pours out from inside her, leaving her gasping and giggling, limp with 
satiation.  I twist and groan when she swallows me whole, try to hold 
back as long as I can, and finally surrender, one more time, calling out 
her name as I flood her throat with everything inside me.  She lets me 
call her "Dana".  And I let her call me "Mulder", though that is not who I am.

It isn't me she really wants.  Nor is she the one I really want, for that 
matter.  We're just stand-ins.  In the morning I put on my cheap suit, 
comb out my hair, and go to the office, to Langly's and Frohike's jokes.  
I think Frohike knows what's really going on;  he rags me just enough 
and not too much, just enough not to rouse Langly's suspicions.  Oddly 
enough, Frohike isn't jealous.  I thought he might envy me, but I think
he feels sorry for me instead.  But then, what's to envy in being a
substitute, somebody to hold the position while they set up the lights 
and then make way for the actors when the cameras are ready to roll. 
John Byers is a stand-in, not an actor.  I know that.  I'm content with 
the role.  For now.

When will the actors show up, I wonder, to take our places under the lights?