May 1, 2011

I reach under me, my sweaty and slick stomach, feel my way down me, down to my crotch and between my legs, and the sun is out and coming through the open window, and I read under me as he’s fucking me; I’m propped up against the bed, bent at the waist, his hands on my hips, and I reach and feel the whole length of him sliding in and out of me.  His sweat is cold as it drips on my back.

I can see the woman across the street, in her balcony in the building opposite mine, when I open my eyes.  She was so nice to me when she introduced herself when she moved in last week.  She’s so pretty.  She’s hanging ferns on the hooks she was installing yesterday.

He’s quiet but every now and then, that invocation for godmygodyoufeelsogoodfuckI’mgoingtocomegod.

He slides in and out of me at a steady clip and it’s not that it doesn’t feel good but I’m just not here.  This is an obligation fuck because he did me the favor of asking and I was too damn lazy to say no.  To afraid to be alone.

His hands are not rough: they feel like a woman’s hands.  His name, I forget it for a moment.  He pushes me onto my stomach and I grip the bed firmly.  I don’t close my eyes.  He doesn’t say anything about me being quiet.  Really, they never do.  His pants are still around his ankles, his belt jangling with the rhythm.

I look at the woman across the street, hanging her potted ferns, in her tee-shirt and shorts, and I’m not sad but wonder what she’s thinking right now, what she’s looking forward to after her chore is over?  Is she thinking of her husband, is she thinking of their kid?  What does she do for a living?  It’s Friday mid-day and I wonder if this is what she wants to be doing on a nice afternoon like this, tending to some new plants in solitude.

He falls on top of me and buries his head in my nape, his hips never lose a beat, one of his hands finds one of my gripping the bed and he entwines his fingers in mine, his other hand finds its way to my crotch and I’m hard despite myself.  His hands are not rough.

Of course he moans when he comes inside me; I feel him tighten, as if he’s flexing every muscle in his body at the same time, but he doesn’t linger: he slides out of me and quickly begins to pull up his pants.  His shirt and tie are in my living room.  He’s wearing terribly ill-fitting boxers and says, ‘Shit, I gotta go.  Call you later,’ and he leaves.  I’m glad he’s gone and I sit naked and wet in a chair near my window and I open it and take a cigarette from my nightstand and light up.  I never wonder what he’s thinking about because it’s probably nothing interesting.  I don’t know.  I don’t hate nor dislike him.  But, when across the street, in the balcony, I see him kissing his wife as she finishes with her plants, I wonder why that isn’t me.

[there was this tweet by ms melissa grant the other week, and there is this by ms cupcake, and now there is this bit of mine.]

  1. ghoulnextdoor said: Oh dear. This really got to me. Thanks, always, for sharing.
  2. 405 posted this