By Joe Rayment
She’s naked. What the hell am I doing?
I’m pretty sure she said she’sin school for dance or photography or something like that. School. I’m almost positive she said she was in school. Not high school, I hope. Uh oh. No. She was in a bar. If she wasn’t 18, she at least had ID to say that she was. I can tell the judge I checked it. Besides, she looks at least 25. I’m almost positive I’m not going to jail for this. Almost.
She’s still naked. I guess I am, too. I still have socks on. I don’t feel naked. I’ll kiss her neck and move up to her earlobe and she’ll moan a little and pull me closer. What was her name? Jenn? Marissa? Rachel? I hope it’s not something awful like Martha. We’re fucking.
Her legs are coming up around my waist. She’s arched her neck so she’s looking at the wall behind her. She’s moaning loud enough to piss off my neighbours. If I twist to the left and lift her right leg a little, she’ll get louder and clutch her hands on my back. Maybe she’s faking it. I haven’t touched her clit yet.
Most women can’t have an orgasm with penetration alone and, even at that, it’s not as good. So I’m told; it could be another lie. No one has ever told me first-hand, they can only tell me about other people. Maybe this is all just a show for my sake. I shift my weight to free up my left arm. I slide my hand across her nipple, her abdomen and between her legs. I rub her clit with my middle finger and she moans louder. I didn’t turn on the stereo. Fuck.
Not that I really care if people know I’m having sex, it just bothers me that they can tell exactly what I’m doing. That and I hate this silence. It makes me feel vulnerable. She’s starting to scream as I lean to one side and fumble for the remote control. This is harder than it sounds; I have to do it without breaking rhythm. I press every button at least twice before I find play.
Now instead of two bodies smacking against each other my neighbours hear loud music with the sounds of what could be a murder in the background. Fuck ’em. They’re assholes anyway.
I wish I had something appropriate in the CD player. I could change it. It’d only take a minute. Would that spoil the mood? Is there a mood to spoil? My room is hardly romantic.
Everything is a shade of yellow and the floor’s covered with laundry. The lights are off, she probably didn’t notice. Ministry is awful fucking music. What is this girl’s name? She looks like a Jessica, or a Mary, maybe. I’m pretty sure she just came; her eyes are closed and she’s smiling a little. I’ll slow down for a few minutes and she’ll hold me close to her body and whisper in my ear. She’s blonde and has brown eyes. When she smiles, her cheeks get little dimples.
Her body’s toned and warm. Her skin is pale and soft to the touch. When she looks at me, I feel hollow. I can’t remember what her voice sounds like, or anything she’s said to me. I wonder if she’s smart. She’s naked. I’m under the sheets. My left hand is still between her legs, meaning I’ve had all my weight on my right side for 20 minutes.
I shift my weight again and switch sides to avoid collapsing from the pain. I’m moving faster now and she’s starting to yell again. I’ll slow down a little and she’ll grab my ass and pull me into her at the preferred rate. ‘Pull me into her.’ I sound like a romance novel. Books that have to find 65 different ways to say “fucking” in a single chapter. Books written by Fabio. It’s smut for old women. They have the same effect on elderly women as a three-page photo series in a Swank magazine will have on a man. It’s a classy way for decrepit women to get off. My grandma reads three or four in a week and the imagery has always disturbed me.
I wonder if she masturbates? As if I can maintain an erection with this train of thought. I once saw a photo series in a Swank where Jesus had an orgy with four women. The highlight of the night was when he fucked one of the girls through the hole in his right hand. I hear her say my name under her breath.
I’d return the gratitude if I knew how. She looks like she’s having a good time. I wonder how I look. I wonder if it matters. I think Jesus must have been a good fuck. The real one I mean, not the one in the Swank. Does being fucked by Jesus mean you get into heaven? Or hell, maybe. In either case, it’d be a great story.
Something to make bumper stickers about. ‘I got slammed by the messiah.’ You’d have bragging rights for the rest of your life. She grabs my back and I’m pretty sure she’s leaving marks with her nails. While this is happening I realize I should either replace my wallpaper or seal the room off from the public.
This is an absurd interaction; a strange and destructive hobby. I’m sitting here with a piece of my body inside of her; a piece I spend the majority of my life hiding, that seems so useless and inconvenient normally. I’ll spend an hour or more thrusting until I’m covered in sweat and my back hurts. Then we’ll fall asleep beside each other, nude. We spend our whole lives hiding. We hide our breasts; we hide our penises; we hide our vaginas.
We’re always holding something back. And for some reason we’ve chosen this moment to tell our secrets, to expose ourselves–to a stranger. She has a small mole just below her left nipple. It’s beautiful. So beautiful hardly anyone knows it exists. And when the sun comes up she’ll put her clothes back on and that mole will go back into hiding.
It doesn’t exist–it never did–we’ve always been at war with East Asia. I’m cold so I grab the blanket from the side of the bed. I’m pretty sure she’s coming again; I think that makes it three. There was a spot back when I was thinking about romance novels I’m pretty sure it happened. I hope it wasn’t when I was thinking about my grandma.
It’s been 60 minutes and I’m nowhere near an orgasm. I’m not really doing this to come though; it’s more of an ego trip. It’s one of the few things I do in my life that people appreciate. Sometimes it’s nice to indulge in something you’re good at. Plus, it’s good exercise. Maybe she’s faking it, though. She could be doing this for the same reason I am.
We could do this for hours, both pretending we’re enjoying it waiting for the other person to give out. We’ll die of exhaustion in the strangest act of mutual masturbation I can think of. Maybe she’s a theatre student, and this is good practice. I wish I felt something, physical or otherwise. The more I do this the less gratifying it becomes.
I wish I felt something for this girl. That I cared for her deeply. She’d stay for breakfast in the morning and we’d eat cereal and watch SpongeBob together. We’d spend a day on a park bench and talk books and politics. I’d tell her all my secrets as we watched the world pass by. But I can’t. All I am to this girl is a man-sized dildo.
All she is to me is a cheap placebo. She comes one more time and I roll off of her. The CD stopped 10 minutes ago. The cold air from the open window rolls over me and I feel exposed. She’s still naked but I can’t stop looking at my wallpaper. There’s a beautiful woman next to me and all I can think about is how I feel nothing. I want so much to love her.
The city filters in from outside: distant cars on the expressway, an aeroplane passing overhead, a calm breeze and a rusted red wheel barrow, glazed with rain water. Beside me, she has closed her eyes.
She’s naked, and so am I.
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