Gail Mackenzie-Smith

Faking It

The scream jolts Jonny and Daria awake—each on their side of the bed trying like hell to put as much distance between themselves as possible. 

The fight earlier had been a nasty marathon of cutting zingers and threats of divorce. It lasted hours but seemed like days. Exhausted, they’d finally given up and fallen asleep having resolved nothing. Whoever said, “Don’t go to bed mad”, has obviously never been married. And now Kelsey—their upstairs neighbor—would-be actress, and shameless drama queen—is having sex and wants everyone in Silver Lake to know. She screams again.

“God dammit!” Jonny yells. “I actually work unlike some people I know.”

Daria eyes her husband coldly. What a nutjob. Jonny is psychotic about sleep. One of his many OCD traits that drive her batshit crazy. Fussy, uptight, control freak. And those goddamn windows and mosquitos. We have screens for god’s sake. The AC is broken and she’s melting. But even tightly shut windows can’t lower the volume of the fuckfest that’s taken place every night this week because Kelsey finally got lucky. 

The moans upstairs turn rhythmic and the thump of a headboard banging against a wall joins the ascending crescendo culminating with shrieks and moans that soon quiet into a blissful silence. 

Sighing with relief, Jonny fluffs his pillow and settles in. But the respite is short-lived. Something that sounds like a chair crashes to the floor and giggling ensues. They’re at it again.

“Wow, that was quick. I’ve never seen a man recover so fast,” Daria smirks. Jonny doesn’t take the bait. The fight was his fault and he’s definitely the asshole but even the dogs of hell snapping at his balls won’t make him say the ‘S’ word—sorry.

 “She’s faking it, by the way. Has been all week,” Daria says. Her sense of humor has freed Jonny from the dog house more times than he can remember. He decides to give it a try. 

“Maybe she’s running lines with a Brad Pitt look-a-like from her acting class,” he says, shooting her his killer smile—the one that never fails even after five years of marriage. But not this time. Daria glares. “I don’t know if we should call the police or get the lube,” he tries. No response. “A howling coyote is more convincing.” Nada. He gives up and props himself up on his elbow. 

“How do you know she’s faking it?” he asks. Daria looks down on him with benevolent patience. This is never a good sign. But he can’t resist asking the million-dollar question. What man could? 

“Have you ever faked it with me?” he whispers.

Daria studies him. His green eyes sparkle in the moonlight. Who has green eyes? Only guys in romance novels have green eyes. But here is green-eyed Jonny—a romance novel hunk—strong, broad shouldered, arrogant. Whoever said ‘Sex is emotion in motion’ never really explained which emotion. But Daria knows. It’s all of them—it’s a smorgasbord of emotions. Her hatred for him right now is so powerful, her body practically hums with it yet all she wants to do is crawl across the bed on her hands and knees and ravage him like a Regency heroine. Goddamn chemistry, she sighs.

“Well, have you, Daria? Faked it?”

“Are you saying that you don’t know the difference between a real orgasm and a fake one, Jonny Boylan?” He knows better than to interrupt her when she’s on a roll so he keeps his mouth shut. “Come on, deep down inside all you guys know. But you can’t admit it to yourselves because of your fragile egos. So you blame us. We’re frigid or don’t like sex or whatever bullshit lies you tell yourselves. But the truth is if a woman has to fake an orgasm with you it’s because you’re crap in bed.” 

One corner of Jonny’s mouth quirks up in a smug grin. He sure isn’t. 

Daria rolls her eyes. “To put it anatomically”, she continues. “When a woman comes, she flushes, her nipples harden, her breathing quickens and her vaginal muscles contract and pulsate on your cock and if you don’t see or feel any of these things and she’s screaming like a Banshee you know she’s faking it. It’s simple biology. And a man who asks, “Did you come, baby?” knows full well she hasn’t, forcing her to lie yet again making him not only a moron but a total asshole.” She tosses her long black hair over her shoulder and lifts her chin defiantly.

A slow, self-satisfied smile spreads across Jonny’s face. “So, that’s a no?” he says, moving towards her. 

“Oh, baby, fuck me like you mean it,” Kelsey shouts from upstairs as the headboard slams into the wall again.

“Goddamn it!” Daria says. “I’m getting the broom.” Jonny grabs her arm. “No. Wait.” He opens the windows. Daria stares, shocked. “What about the…” but his mouth is on hers. 

Pushing her against the wall, he grasps her wrists with one large hand and raises her arms over her head. “What are you doing?” she shouts. His tongue traces her left ear then he nips the lobe. “I hate you,” she gasps. “I know,” he breathes. Planting wet kisses down the silky skin of her neck, he bites her softly in the tender spot where neck meets collarbone. She shivers. Her nipples pebble and push against the shear fabric of her nightgown. He strokes rough thumbs over the hard peaks then pinches them. Daria jumps. Her bedside lamp crashes to the floor.

 “Hey, keep it down, you guys,” Kelsey yells.

But Jonny’s hand is moving down Daria’s flat stomach to her pussy—now plump and juicy. “You’re so wet for me, baby,” he whispers as he slides two fingers into her. He crooks them and moves, expertly hitting that sweet spot. She whimpers. When he presses his thumb down hard on her swollen clit and moves in rhythmic circles at the same time, she sobs. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.” 

He stops. 

“What the fuck?” she pants. “Sorry. Just remembered. We’re in a fight,” he winks. “Are you insane?” Daria shouts. 

Jonny chuckles as he hoists her up against the wall like she weighs nothing and wraps her legs around his waist. He positions his cock at her entrance and nudges. They lock eyes and Jonny speaks to her without saying a word—“I’m sorry. I love you”. Daria melts. Their kiss is deep as he thrusts into her. Once. Twice. That’s all it takes. She shatters into a million pieces, her shrieks echoing in the surrounding hills. Jonny goes rigid then moans into her neck as he comes with her. 

They stay entwined in each other’s arms, spent and barely able to stand for some time, unwilling to let each other go. When they finally come back down to earth, Jonny shouts out the window. “I just fucked my wife like I mean it. Can we all get some goddamn sleep now?” 


Gail is a screenwriter. When she’s not cranking out treatments, she writes essays and flash fiction. Her work has appeared in Dorothy Parker’s Ashes, Flash Fiction Magazine, The Manifest-Station, Purple Clover, the flash fiction anthology “Microchondria II”, published by the Harvard Book Store and elsewhere. She lives in L.A. with her eccentric but highly entertaining British husband, and a one-eyed poodle/terrier mix named Bowie.

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