He didn’t even have to roll down the window to open the garage door grate. I park on the street. My building doesn’t have a garage. He guided the car to his proscribed spot and I directed my attention to my seat belt, to begin extricating myself. He took a handful of the hair at the back of my head.
What? I said. Kiss, he said.
Turning my head, he covered my mouth with his. I thought I might suffocate. It was like burying my face in an oiled pillow. I don’t think I’m ready for that, I said. I couldn’t imagine me turning down something so harmless as a kiss, but there I was, doing just that. I saw that he was sexual. I also saw that I did not find him attractive. This confused me about myself, so in tune to wanting those who want am I.
Because I am not attracted to him, I figured it was safe to go home with him. You and I, we don’t take about me fucking other men. I know you assume I don’t and I feel bad about that. I keep meaning to tell you, but our time together is so peaceful, I’m loathe to ruin it.
His place is designed to impress girls. He dresses like the theater nerds I knew in high school. I didn’t know he had money. But square-footage like that doesn’t come cheap in my city. It was unfussy with big, dominant, curtain-less windows. He’s painted the walls in romantic, dusky shades of prune, brick, taupe. There were thick, worn French cookbooks on his counter top. I rolled my eyes a little and tried to stifle my amusement when I asked, How often do you actually use your Larousse Gastronomique? It was my grandmother’s, he said. I did not say, I grew up with a mother who didn’t use her copy for effect alone. But I thought it.
He has one of those fancy refrigerated wine storage units– as tall as an actual refrigerator. I swear, these things are the urban aesthete’s version of the pussy-mobile. Chicks dig fancy wine. Of course, he pulled out the long-stem Riedls. Instead of just pouring for me, he insisted upon decanting. And then he dutifully filled the bowl of my beautiful, razor-thin crystal goblet. I must admit, whatever wine he chose– something Spanish and beyond my frame of reference, I’m afraid– was delicious. So much so it caught me off guard. Serves me right for buying the $5-a-bottle Juicy Juice wine from Trader Joe’s so often.
I fought him all night. He’d reach for me and I’d succumb for a minute and then resist, blaming you. Blaming that I haven’t yet told you what a slut I am. I couldn’t do it without making sure everyone was fully informed, I said. But I was full of shit. I just hated kissing him. If I’d liked it, you never would have entered my head.
Eventually, though, he stripped me naked except for my thigh-highs and plunged his fingers into me. I’d shake him off and lay there, passive and stupid until he came at me again. Again. Again.
Eventually, though, he put his cock in my mouth. Again with the hand in my hair, forcing the rhythm of my head as he forced himself down my throat. I hated the smell of him. It wasn’t just man-smell– though the chemistry was clearly off between us and I hadn’t liked the smell around his mouth and neck much better. He groin smelled dirty and urine-like. I winced from the smell as I sucked him. He heave one-word commands at me. He disgusted me. Suck, he’d say. No hand, he said. Balls, he said. I acquiesced. It’s what I do.
By three in the morning, I was tired from the debate in my head. Was I holding back because of you? Because I did not like him? Because his little displays of wealth amused but did not titillate me? Was I giving in because I hate being the girl who says no? Because I am not yet the slut I hope to be? Were my politics, my refusal to play gatekeeper, silencing my actual desires? Please, can I go home? I said, finally.
Put your hand on my cock, he said.
The next morning, I wrote him an email. I said, there is a deficit of attraction on my end. I find this unfortunate as you seem open to indulging my whims in the boudoir. The archness of my “boudoir” made me giggle as I sent my terse rejection. He took it like a man. It is, indeed, unfortunate, he said. And I thought that would be it.
***
Last Saturday night, you stayed home to watch a documentary in which I had no interest. He instant messaged me at 10. I’d just finished watching a movie on my own couch– something awkward and twisty about sexual awakening. He said, what are you doing tonight? I said, watching a movie. He said, Well, I was going to ask… I said, I’m wearing a wifebeater and pajama pants. I have no make-up on. I’m bleeding something fierce. I’m in no state to go out. He said, those first three things can change. I’ll pick you up in an hour. Teal boots? I said, you’ll take me seriously if I have to stop, right? He said he would. I wasn’t thinking about you. Not really at all, though I’d felt the weight of you on my back as you’d fucked me just that morning.
At the first red light, he pushed my face toward the passenger window. He wrapped some soft black cloth around my eyes.
Oh, I thought. Oh.
I wondered if anyone could see me through the car windows in such a state. I wondered how I’d keep from falling in the 4-inch heels of the teal boots when he pulled me out of the car. But he was kind. He ushered me out of the car like a gentleman and put his hands on my hips to guide me up his stairs. I stood, arms at my sides, as he removed my purse, my coat, my gloves and my scarf. He took both hands and led me to the rear of his place. I was weirdly grateful for not having to look at all his success this time.
Of course, he shoved me face-first into the bed and lifted my skirt over my ass. Of course he did. He began touching me, though, I do think he was a bit tentative. When he went to lift my sweater, he found how ticklish I am up and down the ribcage. I think my reflexive recoiling amused him in the way it would have had I been a very small kid. He liked it more when I fought him, squirming away as he dug fingers under my ribs and ran them along the bottoms of my feet. I am strong, but he is big. Bigger than you. Soon, he had me pinned on my belly. Somehow, I was also naked.
It must’ve been an hour that he worked my clit. I wanted to come. I felt myself open, wishing he’d just put his damn fingers inside me. I willed myself not to beg for it. I asked, Do you want me to come, because you’ll have to take the tampon out if you do. He said, I don’t mind if you do come, but I’m not working that hard for it. I just want to keep you on the edge. And I was. For at least an hour
When he had me wet beyond moderation, he stopped.
Come on. Of course he did. Employing the sly tactic of strategic delay is how these guys work, right? The blindfold must’ve fallen off in all that, because he had to tie it around my head again, catching it in the hairs that had worked themselves loose of my braid. He rolled me to my back and reached for my wrist. One, then the other, then both legs, he secured in leather restraints that he’d so carefully secreted away under his bed.
I wanted to see if I could get out. Of course I did. They had hook releases, which I swung around so that I could work them from the palms of my hands. What? I said, I never said I’s always cooperate. He pulled the straps so tight as to engage all the muscles in my arms. Perfect, I thought. If only I wanted him.
He brought out the toys. Much to my chagrin, I’ve yet to encounter a man with such a selection as he. Where are those dirty boys, out there? I hear tell he’s not the only one. But you’re certainly not among them, are you? If only.
In any case, he has a Hitachi. Yes, that mythic beast of all vibrators. That barbaric porpoise. He rubbed it along my thighs, inside and out, and I quaked in anticipation of it. It made all the vibrators I have at home look like mewling kittens. Or rather, feel like that. He turned it on low and pushed it very slightly against my clit. There is no arguing with it. Blindfolded and spread eagle, I couldn’t move much to press into it, but, oh, how I wanted to. In under 10 seconds, I was on the precipice of orgasm, and he knew it, so he took it away.
You like it, do you? he said. I had to catch my breath. He mounted my chest, pushed his dick into my mouth. The smell again. He held the back of my head, refusing to give me air. I can withstand this, I told myself, for the promise of getting to come under that pounding, wicked machine. He still wouldn’t let me use my hands to make him come. When he’d had enough, he dismounted and settled, sitting akimbo between my spread thighs. You want more of this, he said, running the little jackhammer down my flanks. It was a statement, not a question– but who was I to disagree?
He put it to me and in an instant, I felt the waves of it rolicking up my pelvic floor. I came so hard I could not stop coming for, he told me later, nearly 45 seconds, for this man in whom I have no interest whatsoever.
After, he came quickly into my hand. Little interest in my pussy.
The night was fueled with novelty. The leather manacles. The cat-o-nine-tails. The blindfolding. The endless mechanized orgasm. I wish it had all been your idea, your doing. I know you don’t have it in you, but it doesn’t stop me from wishing you did. Or from wishing that it was he, and not all his fancy accoutrements, that made me so fucking hot.
So, I’m telling you here: I’m a slut. Too many needs for just one man.
