Moira

Hi Litsters,

Wow, full time jobs really take time out of your day, don't they? This is the first miserable bit of literature I've managed to eke out since I joined the ranks of the gainfully employed. I hope you like it. Please let me know your opinion of the story in the form of votes and comments. Private email

feedback is also welcome.

The band mentioned in this story really do exist, and they're really quite good.

A massive shout of thanks to my editor, Bramblethorn, and my beta reader RuzieD.

"We accept the love we think we deserve."

― The Perks of Being a Wallflower, Stephen Chbosky

* *

PROLOGUE

"Why did that meeting take so damn long?" thought Moira, crossing the street. "It should've been over at least an hour ago."

She walked briskly along the pavement, her purse and shopping bags tucked under her arm. Her hair unravelled in the strong breeze, but she didn't have the time or energy to put it together again. Each step she took reminded her that she was old enough to have two teenage kids.

Her phone began ringing abruptly. Cursing silently, she balanced her load on her other arm to get to it. She pressed it against her ear and kept walking.

"Mom, why aren't you back yet?"

"The meeting took longer than expected, Peyton. Moreover, I had to stop by the department store to get some clothes for Thanksgiving."

"How much longer?"

"I'm a few blocks from the garage where I left the car for works. It'll take some time to settle accounts there before I get back. Could you cook dinner for four by the time I get back?"

"For two, you mean. Shawn is eating out with his soccer buddies after practice and Dad already ate dinner at the Church down town after his sermon."

"Just two? In that case, order some takeout. I think we have the menu for Dragon Palace in the kitchen drawer. Don't order too much."

"I won't, Mom. I think I know how to order some lame Thai food."

"I'll be back in an hour or so. Take care till then. Love you."

There was an exasperated sigh over the phone before the call dropped. Moira didn't break stride putting it back into her purse. It was getting dark and few of the streetlights lit her path. She was a block away from the garage when it happened.

The gunshot ripped through the air, scaring a flock of pigeons off the nearby railing. She stopped in her tracks. The few other pedestrians screamed in panic and took cover. Soon, all but her had scurried away. She stood with her heart thumping against her chest, paralysed with fear.

A gleaming black Escalade burst out of the entrance to the alley. It took a left turn before speeding off in the opposite direction. It was a good minute later that she found movement in her legs. She saw someone else peer into the alley and cry for help before she looked in herself.

Slumped against a stack of empty cardboard boxes at the far end of the alley was a man with blood seeping down from the bullet hole in his temple to his shirt.

"9-1-1. What's your emergency?"

* *

Living a dream, living a lie -- is there a difference?

Moira Malone looked fondly at her son putting the black and white soccer ball down on the ground. He carefully placed it above the penalty spot and took a few steps back. His team stood on the half-line, watching with bated breath. There was silence, drowned by his heart thumping against his ribs and blood pounding in his ears. He looked up and saw the opposing goal keeper shuffle on his line, hoping to induce a mistake.

He hoped in vain. Shawn Malone took three quick strides to the ball before unleashing a thunderous drive which slammed into the right goalpost before deflecting inwards. The entire frame shook momentarily as the ball settled into the net.

The little park erupted with joy. Shawn's team rushed over and drowned him in a mass of bodies and hugs. He struggled to extricate himself from the tangle of humanity before throwing his hands up in the air. A last-gasp equalizer followed by taking the winning penalty in the shootout -- his performance had Man of the Match written all over it.

Moira cheered and clapped while being congratulated by the other moms in her vicinity. Her eyes returned to the field where the hugging and back-slapping resumed with gusto. The team coach had made his way down to congratulate every member of the team personally on making it to the district level finals. The cheerleaders streamed onto the grass as well, intent on letting the team know how much they liked their performance.

She watched her son lock lips with his cheerleader squeeze, Tricia. They tongued hungrily in the middle of the field, seemingly oblivious to everybody else around them. Tricia let her lips wander on his face for a short time before engulfing his lips in another ravenous kiss. Shawn responded by holding her head in his hands and tilting her head for better access into her mouth. The animalistic frenzy of the kiss neatly segued into a tender, yet passionate moment between two high-school sweethearts very much in love.

Moira smiled, sighing deeply inside. She longed to feel those lips on her own -- Tricia's that is. From her vantage point, she could only imagine what those lips would feel like. So soft, so tender, so giving.

"You must be really proud of your son, Moira," said a middle-aged lady to her left.

"I am," she said in response, beaming. "I couldn't be happier."

The half empty bottle of Prozac carefully hidden in the console of her minivan begged to differ, but she said it anyway.

Living the dream or living a lie -- it was never a choice, never mutually exclusive.

Her mind drifted for a bit, brought back to reality by the bone-crushing strength of her triumphant son hugging her. She hugged him back and kissed him. To her chagrin, her senses couldn't find a trace of Tricia's essence on his cheek. Her nascent dream of inhaling her fresh aroma faded into a distant recess in her brain.

Where was that Prozac again?

* *

Shawn made his way into the minivan after the festivities had died down. Moira got in front and took the wheel. It was a short drive back to their home, one she had memorized over countless trips to and from Shawn's practices.

They don't call them "soccer moms" for no reason.

"Can I go over to Lance's house for the celebration party?" Shawn asked entreatingly from the side. "Please?"

"Lance Davison?" replied Moira. "The kid who notched up a DUI last month? If you think I'll let you go to his booze fest, you're sorely mistaken, young man."

"Come on, Mom," he wheedled some more. "All the guys are going. Tricia is going too. I need to go to keep an eye on her, to make sure she doesn't get drunk with the wrong guy."

"You're quite the guardian angel." Moira smirked. "No. It's final. You're not going to that party. "

"Okay, I think we can work something out. I'll mow the lawn and keep my room clean for the entire month if you let me go. How does that sound? Win-win, right."

"Don't bother trying," she snorted, rolling her eyes. "You're staying home tonight."

Shawn took the cue to hang his head and sulk for the remainder of the journey back to their home. Moira navigated the wide open streets of Westchester easily. Her mind drifted seeing the white picket fences and children playing on the lawns. It was life, the only kind she knew.

There was a latent tingling between her lips as she replayed the kiss in her mind in a repeating loop. Tricia's pink lips pressed against her son's pale skin. They pecked and pulled at his cheek before moving down to his lips, leaving a trail of wetness. Their lips locked and she let her tongue glide into his mouth, simultaneously wrapping her arms around his neck. They kissed torridly, all the while oblivious to Moira's longing gaze from the stands.

"Mom," said a vaguely familiar voice. "Don't we have to pick up Peyton from her ballet practice?"

"Right," she replied, snapping out of her idle ruminations. "Sorry, I got lost thinking about something else."

Moira drove around a few blocks until she reached the ballet academy. She parked a block away.

"Shawn, could you be a dear and go get your sister?" she said beseechingly. "I'm too tired to move right now."

"Will you let me go to Lance Davison's party if I go?"

"Let me think about it... no," she replied with an eyeroll. "Now go get Peyton before she throws a tantrum for waiting too long."

"Yes, ma'am," he said with a Fascist salute before walking off. Moira studied his receding form. At the entrance of the academy there was a milling crowd of others waiting to pick up their respective budding ballerinas.

The part of the street where Moira had parked was relatively empty. No one thought to look twice at a mother waiting in her car. She snuck a furtive glance nevertheless before letting two of her fingers wander down past the waistband of her dress. Her sex was soaked with unholy need. She let the tip of her index finger circle her clit before pushing it in.

She closed her eyes, letting the delicious feelings spread through her nerves. Parts of her skin rippled and her nipples stood out straight. She would have dearly loved to push her free hand into her bra and play with one, but the street wasn't secluded enough for that. She had to be content with the two fingers which were now effortlessly gliding in and out of her. She hooked them inwards, pressing against her G-spot momentarily before pulling them out to circle her clit again.

The rush of endorphins through her body triggered vivid images of herself and Tricia in her mind. She wondered so often how she looked underneath that skin-tight cheerleader outfit. Her heart skipped a beat every time she saw her big breasts heaving and falling with every jump or pirouette. The images were getting more lurid. Tricia was lying on her bed, her legs splayed and her dripping sex laid out for Moira's eyes. She crawled forwards and let her tongue trace Tricia's inner thighs back and forth before focusing her attentions on her red lips. She was sure Tricia's sex would be a warm tinge of red, maybe a deep pink. She ran her tongue up and down the length of her slit before pushing her tongue into her fleshy warmth as far as it would go.

The heat was unbearable now, seeping through every pore of her body. The tingling of a repressed need began deep within her, feeding on itself and growing by the second. Every bit of her teetered on the brink of orgasm before she finally gave in. Her body shook, kept steady by considerable effort.

She felt herself swim in the airy darkness of her climax before opening her eyes slowly. She saw Shawn making his way towards the car and a visibly disinterested Peyton trailing a few feet behind him.

"How was ballet?"

"The same as it always is, except we have a new instructor from the Russian ballet," she said blandly.

"You missed out the part where you and all your friends drooled at him until I dragged you off," Shawn snickered from the side. His remark earned him a hard punch to his arm and an acid glare.

"Now now, Shawn," said Moira reproachfully. "Play nice."

The children got into the back seat. Peyton took care to ensure her ballerina costume was not caught while closing the door.

"Your brother's team won by the way."

Peyton glanced over to her right before settling back into her perpetual look of irritability. The rest of the drive back home was uneventful. Moira saved the rest of the images in her head for the bathroom.

Afterwards she would pray with her family before dinner and go to sleep wishing never to wake up again.

Of course, she would then wake up to repeat the cycle one more.

* *

TWO DAYS LATER

"How long will you be away for?" Moira asked, straightening out her husband's black robes. He had received a last minute invitation for a preaching tour.

"Hard to say, hon." He placed his white collar. "Not later than the weekend, I suppose. These tours upstate aren't long. There will be two sermons at most. Are you sure you're going to be okay on your own?"

"Of course I will," she said dismissively. "This isn't the first time you've gone out of town for a few days."

"You must be bored out of your mind."

"I'll find a way to keep myself entertained," she said, planting a soft kiss on his cheek. "Do you want me to see you off at the station?"

"No need, dear. I've already called for a cab. You take care."

They kissed gently before he left. She watched his cab disappear around the corner, along with the enormous weight on her shoulders. She exhaled deeply.

* *

The minivan climbed up the gravelled approach to the patio where Moira's sister waited with a smile on her lips. Her smile grew wider when her beloved niece and nephew came out and took turns hugging her. Moira followed close behind.

"They insisted on coming over to see their favourite aunt," Moira smiled, hugging Catherine. "How could I refuse? It won't be too much trouble, right?"

"Nonsense, of course it won't be. Don will be thrilled to see them when he gets back from work. It's a shame you can't stay, though."

"Yeah, I wanted to, but it's an emergency. A college friend of mine is in the hospital and I feel like I should really go see her."

"Really, who?" came the enquiring reply.

"Lizzie Hewitt," she replied breathlessly, desperate to end the conversation. "She's having an ovarian cyst removal at Mercy. I thought it would be a nice chance to catch up."

"It's going to be a nightmare driving into the city at this time."

"I know that," Moira said, getting slightly flustered. "That's why I'm leaving the car here and catching a train to Grand Central."

"Is something wrong?" pressed on her sister good-naturedly. " You look agitated."

"I'm just a little worried about Lizzie, that's all."

"You take care, Moira," said Catherine with a tight hug and parting peck on the cheek. Moira waited till she heard the front door close before making her way to the public rest room near her bus stop. She somehow managed to cram herself into one of the tight cubicles before her fingers raced past the waistband of her dress to get to her sopping wet sex.

The mere thought of what lay ahead kept her fingers busy through three very satisfying orgasms.

* *

The train ride seemed to stretch on. Moira was aware of every cyclic clickety-clack of the steel wheels on polished rail. The wait was an agony in itself, but it was necessary. She needed to be sure she was far enough away from her husband's parish.

"No one can ever know," she mused. "They'd never forgive me."

The sheer irony of her situation was not lost on her. The people who loved her the most were the ones keeping her shackled to her miserable existence. They were the ones who would be hurt most if she ever tried to break free.

Quietly, she popped open the plastic cap on her bottle and let two pills slide into her arm. She studied them carefully for a few minutes before swallowing them. She took a deep breath and resumed staring out of the window.

Her gaze stayed on the sliding pane, a strange woman looked back at her in the glass. Every day, it got harder to look at the woman in the glass with a straight face. The medicine helped her play the part of a happy, doting housewife when her husband was home. When he was away, the need to keep up the nightly charade faded and it utterly failed to keep her from crying herself to sleep.

The train chugged on, taking her from the world she was intricately tied to in the suburbs to the world she was inexorably drawn to in Manhattan. The twain would never meet. The dichotomy of her struggle had almost pushed her over the edge once.

She hid her depression remarkably well. Every subtle shadow and nuance of her personality was moulded by years of indoctrination. No one could ever tell.

She thought back to that day, several years ago, when she sat in her car while it was still parked in her garage. The lights were off and the garden hose had been improvised to go from her exhaust vent, in through the passenger's side window. She took a deep breath and tried to turn on the ignition, but her hand shook too much. The fear made her drop the key and by the time she had retrieved it, her nerve failed and she ran back to her gilded cage.

Her life was in limbo -- unable to go on living a lie, unable to stop living. She carried the weight of her indecision to every school concert, every soccer match, every PTA meeting and every prayer service. She even got applauded for her efforts by other Stepford wives in close proximity.

The train rumbled closer to Grand Central. Moira let out a low, longing sigh. It had been too long since her last pleasurable excursion. She stood up and looked around the compartment. Each time, she had the persistently nagging fear that someone was watching her, following her. It was paranoia born of sin.

She made her way to the entrance of the coach. Grand Central was its usual crowded self and no one gave a second glance to a respectable middle-aged lady striding towards the cab stands. She approached a particularly grizzled man wearing a beanie to cover his sparse hair.

"Where do you wanna go, lady?" he asked gruffly.

"West Village, please."

"You know, lady," he said while opening the door to his cab. "I bet you're from the suburbs."

"How can you tell?"

"You're the first one who's said

please

to me all day."

* *

Henrietta Hudson is a paradox in most respects. One of New York's trendiest lesbian bars and nightclubs, it never lost its simple ambiance. The décor remained on the high end of the tasteful spectrum and the gleaming mahogany tabletops welcomed any friendly lesbian looking for a fun night out.

As far as Moira Malone went, it was an oasis of liberation. In here, for a sliver of time, trapped between swathes of reality, she could let out her Id. Floating on her temporary freedom, she made her way to the bar where a cheery bartender greeted her.

"And what can I get you, doll?" she said, flashing her pearly white teeth.

"A cranberry soda will be fine," came the timid reply. Her gaze turned to the thin crowd around her. More people were gradually filtering in.

"I wonder what her family thinks of her," she murmured to herself, eyeing a smartly dressed woman chatting casually to three associates near the pool table. She seemed so carefree and comfortable with her identity.

Moira's searching gaze moved to the other end of the bar where she saw two tattooed women sharing a light kiss. Her eyes lingered on the black lips while they left an ephemeral impression.

Her drink made an appearance and she sipped it, browsing some others. Two obviously sporty types walked in, carrying tennis bags slung over their shoulders. They wore skin-tights and were sweating from their recent exertions. The brunette among them put her bag down and hugged a businesswoman busy on her tablet. There were exclamations of joyous surprise, followed by a tender liplock.

"Do her parents know?" she thought ruefully. "Do they even care?"

She clenched her eyes shut and sobbed within herself. Her soul wanted to scream in despair at the world, but knew that the world would only laugh back. Here she was, a respectable, prim and proper suburban Mom looking for a lesbian hookup.

Moira looked around again. Even more trendy lesbians made their way in. They smiled, laughed and kissed. Some even dragged their mates to the back. No one judged.

This was the world she yearned to be part of.

She was feeling claustrophobic among the swell now. Every direction taunted her with visions of what she could never have. She stood, paralysed in a living dream that was bound to end too soon. All thoughts of chatting someone up abandoned her in a flight of panic. She desperately needed to get out. Her trembling hands put down the glass.