April 13, 2009

1: He is small, dark and well-built, with curly hair and a shy smile. I had dragged him onto the dance floor, then taken him home with me. His hands are clumsy and dry, prodding and poking in some approximation of foreplay. I push them away and hand him a condom. I feel a momentary twinge of pleasure and anticipation when he climbs between my legs. Momentary. His cock feels disappointingly small inside me. I stare at the ceiling and wait for it to be over. He asks permission to come. I roll my eyes, glad for the darkness of the room, and sigh, “Uh, okay…”

2: It is early morning and the room is hot and bright, overheated. I lay on the bed, sweating, hungover, mouth and eyes dry. I see him asleep next to me and wonder if he’s faking, hoping that I’ll leave soon. I don’t want to be there either and I curse myself for having passed out instead of leaving in the middle of the night like any self-respecting, decent slut. I want water, fresh air, a strong cup of coffee, a hot shower. I slip out of his bed, gather up my scattered garments and quietly dress in the bathroom. My dress-up shoes cut into my feet and I try not to limp as I make my way through the absurdly grand lobby. The sound of my heels clicking on the marble floors hurts my head and I vow never again to try to fuck away feelings of jealousy.

3: He’s gathered her onto his lap, his arms around her, this girl who is  almost bigger than he is. He peeks around her and grins beatifically, proud and happy. She seems embarrassed. I study her thick, formless legs, the ‘nude’ nylons and the thin bandages she wears on her feet to save them from the strappy dress shoes. He had told me about the bandages earlier, grimacing slightly. He’s a leg man, a foot man. I make up my mind to take him from her. It takes four months until they’re broken up and I’m slipping into his dorm room late at night.

4: I’m drunk. My roommate’s drunk. Both of the Irish guys we are talking to are drunk. The one I’m talking to is slurring slightly, lips wet and eyes shining, but his accent saves him. He hauls my bar stool closer to him, so that I end up between his wide-open legs. We kiss, a sloppy, tender, drunken kiss. I feel his fingers brush the outer edge of my bra, the inner seam of my jeans. I let him kiss me again and his breath is so alcoholic-sweet. His hands are everywhere and in a daring moment, he even slips one between my thighs, lightly stroking my pussy through fabric. I am wet, wet, wet and the bulge of his cock is visible through his pants.

5: He asks to see the rope and I oblige, hauling the bundles out of my suitcase and dropping them onto the scratchy duvet. He picks one up and admires it, tells me about the virtues of hemp over cotton or nylon again, and unties a coil. I curl up next to him and watch as he drapes the loose rope across his bare chest. I know he wants to be bound by me, but it is late and I am tired. I gather the rope and toss it onto the suitcase. He twines his limbs through mine and we fall asleep in each other’s arms.


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