by Kristen Mae
I’m at Garrett’s again Saturday night, reclining against the arm of his black leather couch and methodically pushing my cuticles back one fingernail at a time while doing math in my head. After I played downtown this afternoon I gave away another wad of cash to some random bag lady loitering and mumbling to herself on a street corner. Why do I keep doing this? She’s probably already used it to buy wine or heroin or whatever thing she’s addicted to. Now I’ve got to go back downtown tomorrow to make more cash or I’m going to overdraw my account when the school applies the parking fee that’s due this week. Fuckity fuck, fuck.
Garrett is beside me with my legs across his lap. He’s watching boxing, a surprise to me because he seems too clean for it. He shakes my foot to get my attention. “You’re quiet today.”
I don’t want to tell him that I have a weird habit of throwing money at random strangers and that it’s literally making me nauseous. I can’t explain why I do it; I don’t know if I’m subconsciously trying to punish myself or if compulsive philanthropy is a temporary buffer against self-loathing. “I didn’t make much money downtown today,” I say. “People were…stingy.” I was too generous.
“That’s too bad.”
I sigh. “I’ll have to go again tomorrow.”
“Ow!” he says, jerking his head back in sympathetic agony at the scene on the TV. A sweat-slicked fighter is on his hands and knees, dazed and blinking, trying to get his feet back underneath him. One fighter is clearly weaker—he’s getting the piss beat out of him—but he keeps on coming back for more.
“I don’t understand this brutality.”
“Girls never do.” He gives a dismissive sniff.
“Next time, warn me, and I’ll bring a book.”
“Are you bored?” He looks at me. His face is hard, intimidating, his blue eyes gleaming with a hidden dare. My heart rate quickens and I lower my eyes.
“I’m…no, not bored. Just…anti-violence.” I want to be playful with him, make a joke, tease him and say What are you gonna do, kick me out? but I can’t make my mouth form the words. He turns me into someone else, someone who is desperate to impress and terrified of saying the wrong thing. Plus, what if he does say yes? What if he tells me to go?
He lifts my chin with his finger, forcing me to look at him. “It’s not violence—it’s a sport.”
“It looks violent to me,” I say timidly. “All that…blood. I’m pro-nice, you know? Pro-gentle touch. Make love, not war and all—”
“Come here,” he says, and he grabs me by the face and pulls me up to sitting so he can kiss me. His tongue is in my mouth and I turn to butter, oh, here we go, please yes let’s turn off the damn boxing, but he leaves it on, and even as he’s pushing my knees apart and sliding his hand up my inner thigh, I’m distracted by the angry thudding of fists on flesh, the crowd cheering on the brutality with their hoots and whistles.
I break our kiss and lie back against the arm of the couch. My legs are still splayed across his lap like an offering, Here, use me. Garrett’s fingers are beneath my underwear now, working me, sliding into my wetness, my knees flopped apart at odd angles. God, how does he always manage to make me feel so exposed? I don’t care about the boxing anymore—I’m panting and hungry. He keeps at me with his fingers, and I can tell he gets off on watching my face contort as he brings me closer to orgasm. I’m grabbing at the edges of the couch, spreading my knees as far as I can, pushing my hips at him, I’m so close…fuck.
He removes his fingers and edges out from under me, then settles himself in between my legs and undoes his belt, pushes his pants off. I’m pawing at him, helping him undress, greedy and impatient to put my hands all over his steel-soft skin. When he’s naked I go to rip off my own shirt, but then he says “No,” and he positions himself over me so that he’s straddling my chest. It takes me a second to realize he wants me to suck his dick.
I blink, surprised. That’s not what I was expecting. But he’s only the best lover I’ve ever had, and shouldn’t I want to please him too? I do want to please him. I take him in my mouth and suck, try to be as greedy with my mouth as I was with my hands, and the little hitches in his breathing tells me he appreciates the effort. I relax my gag reflex and take him as deep as I can, but this is an odd position and my neck is hurting, my muscles about to give out. I can hear the fighters on TV, thwack, thwack, thwack, the roar of the crowd and the semi-bored tone of the announcer describing the hits. I try to adjust position but Garrett thrusts into my mouth, and he’s tensing, getting close, so I move faster. I turn my eyes up at him, give him a bold, pornographic look, to maybe make him come quicker. His jaw is set and his lips have drawn into a thin, twitching line. Thank god, it’s working. He’s beginning to pulse so I stop to pull away, but he palms the back of my head and holds me there, forces me to take all that he empties into my mouth. I yank my head back—fuck, he’s strong—and it is all I can do not to vomit. I have to swallow, I make myself swallow, but I’m gagging and retching, stunned by the unbearable fullness, the snotty, seawater tang.
Finally, he releases the back of my head and pulls away from me, eyes closed. “Fuck Malory, that was amazing. You are the fucking best…the fucking best. Jesus Christ.”
I’m still trying to clear the slime from my mouth. What just happened?
“Amazing,” he says again, retreating, satisfied, to his side of the couch. Then he gets up and disappears into the kitchen.
On the TV, the ref is holding up one of the boxer’s arms by the wrist and bellowing, The Champion, a clean knockout after five rounds, can you believe this, ladies and gentlemen? The crowd roars like an agitated swarm of bees, but the sound feels like it’s coming from inside my own head.
Garrett reappears with a glass of water for me and I gulp the entire thing down even though what I really want to do is spit, spit, spit. It feels weird, laying down all this water over top of the slime I just swallowed. I give Garrett back the glass and rub my hands up and down my arms. I’m covered in goose bumps again. Freezing.
Garrett turns off the TV and helps me out of my clothes. I’m lying naked on his couch, legs sprawled, still covered in goose bumps, but my nipples are shriveled too, and that must look tantalizing, right? He licks his lips like he’s going to go down on me, but instead he just fingers me, and that’s fine because he’s good at it. He starts slow, taunting me again with those unbearable pauses until, this time without any prompting, I’m trembling and begging for his cock. He shakes his head and fixes his icy blue eyes on my face as he makes me come, smiling a little when I grab his hand and shove his fingers deeper into me, and then he slips on a condom and pounds into me until I’m screaming his name.
Afterward, when I’m lying limp on the couch and he’s kissing my neck, my chest, my nipples, bringing back the goose bumps as my body pulses with the aftershocks of orgasm, I think, It’s okay, I can learn to swallow a little semen.
Chapter Fifteen
The next morning I wake with a start. I’m in Garrett’s bed, though it takes me a second to realize it. His side is already cold, and the clock on his nightstand sends my heart into a panic. It’s late—too late. I have to play downtown again, have to earn enough that I don’t overdraw my account. I’m supposed to meet Rome later to study, too, and I have a statistics assignment due tomorrow. Shit. I kick myself for the hundredth time for giving away money again. I make Garrett’s bed, brush my teeth, wash my face, and gather my things.
In the kitchen, Garrett’s cooking sausage, and it smells amazing. I want to stay here and play house with him. But I have to go.
When he sees me with my bag slung over my shoulder, he grabs me around the waist and pulls me to him, kissing me so deeply I feel it all the way down to my feet. My arms let go of my bag as if of their own accord, and when our mouths part, I feel drunk.
“Where do you think you’re going?” His voice is low and demanding.
“I’ve, uh…got to go play downtown, remember? Bills to pay.”
“Hmm.” He nuzzles his mouth
against my neck and breathes me in. “But I want you.”
“Oh.” Tell him you have to go. But then his hands slide up my shirt and push up my bra so his palms are cupping my breasts, and I can’t say no, can’t say anything, not while every nerve ending is sizzling like the sausages on the stove. It’s almost rude the way he invades me. I think of last night, the discomfort I felt when he pressed himself into my mouth and came, yet this kind of invasion, his hands up my shirt almost ripping my clothes, is more than acceptable—welcome, even. What’s the difference?
I bump into the kitchen counter and he pulls away then, takes a few steps back. “Take the rest off,” he says, and picks up the spatula.
For a second I think he intends to spank me with it, but then he turns to the sausages and pushes them around in the pan, making them crackle and spit. I pause, confused.
“Go ahead,” he says from across the kitchen, tending to the sausage. When I still don’t move, he sets the spatula on a paper towel on the counter and turns to face me with his arms crossed over his chest. He lifts his eyebrows like, Well?
I’m still wearing my bra, pushed up over my breasts. My cheeks feel hot, and I’ve gone watery inside; but I reach behind to unhook my bra, then set it on the counter beside me. There are at least ten feet between Garrett and me, though I’m supposed to stay over here, I can tell by his posture—it dominates the territory within a six-foot radius of him.
I unbutton my shorts. Unzip. His eyes are on me, all over my body, and there’s a hint of a smile on his face. My heart thunders in my ears. I want to keep making him smile like that, I do. With shaky hands, I slide my shorts over my hips and drop them to my feet. My thumbs go in the waistband of my underwear, a plain white pair of hipsters, and I look back up at him, questioning with my eyes. I feel my tongue dart out to wet my lips.
“Off,” he says.
I push my underwear to the floor, and now I’m standing naked in Garrett’s kitchen while he fries sausage. I’m trembling, but not because I’m cold. I cross my hands over my belly, suddenly wanting to hide at least a little of myself.
“Turn around,” he says, and I do. My back is to him, and I’m staring at the cabinets like a criminal about to be frisked. But my heart seizes; I’m scared of what he’ll inflict on me now, and maybe also scared of how much I’ll enjoy it.
“Bend over. Lean on the counter.”
I’m panting again. Two minutes ago I had my bag over my shoulder ready to walk out the door. I have money to earn. I’m supposed to meet Rome later to study again. I lay my cheek on the immaculate counter with my palms resting alongside my face.
“Spread yourself.”
I close my eyes and breathe. “Um…what?”
He laughs. “Use your fingers.”
For a long time I can’t move, can only stand there with my cheek pressed into the counter. I imagine what I must look like from where Garrett’s standing, exposed as I am, how my naked body rises and falls with my nervous breaths, how he must notice my hands shivering on the counter, reluctant to budge. Even as I think I cannot possibly summon the nerve to do as he says, picturing myself from that angle sends me into paroxysms of lust—I’m throbbing between my legs, and now I want to touch myself. I inch my hand off the counter and thread it between my thighs, do as he says, and I shudder at my own touch, at the feeling of being spread and peeled open to the air.
“That’s it,” he says. “Beautiful.” His voice is lurid as hell.
“What else?” My voice sounds small, like a mouse, and my pulse is a tidal wave in my ears. I like this just as much as I feared I would.
“Finger yourself.”
I do it. I do everything he asks. I finger, one, two, three, four fingers—he says Goddamn, girl while I moan at myself in disbelief—and I climb on the counter, splay my legs wide, play with myself until I’ve made a wet mess on the Formica. He wants me to make myself come but I can’t with him staring at me like that, so he turns off the stove, jerks me from my seat, and bends me over the counter again. In a flash he’s pulled himself out and rolled on a condom, and he’s taking me from behind, reaching a hand around my waist to toy with me, pulling an orgasm from me so explosive that my knees give out and he has to hold me up even as he’s fucking me so I don’t crumple to the floor.
After a few minutes, when I’ve finally caught my breath, he slaps my ass and says, “Want some sausage?”
* * *
There’s a sick, hollow feeling in my stomach that afternoon as I wait for Rome in the dorm lobby. After my private performance for Garrett this morning, I arrived downtown late, when most of the lunch crowd had dissipated. The audience was thin, dropping only enough cash in my case to cover a bit of food and gas. My bank balance is $5.33.
I’ve pushed my cuticles back so many times that my middle fingers and thumbs are red and irritated. I wish, for the hundredth time, that I was like Daphne, with parents to come rescue me when I need help. But I don’t have that. I’m alone.
I send Liza a text: Miss you.
Part of my anxiety comes from Garrett, too—there’s no way to deny it. I should have gone to play this morning, but how could I say no to him? It’s just one day, I tell myself. You can make it up tomorrow. I resume pushing my nonexistent cuticles as Rome emerges from the stairwell with a pretty blond whose room is down the hall from mine. He gives her a quick peck on the cheek before she heads through the front door.
I order myself to stop digging at my nail beds. “Girlfriend?” I ask Rome.
“Friend.” He shifts his backpack so it hangs evenly over both shoulders.
I remember what Daphne said about Rome being a man-whore, and I raise an eyebrow suggestively. “Friend…with benefits?”
“Come again?” He wrinkles his forehead at me like I’m being ridiculous.
“Sorry. Trying to make a joke.”
He pauses and looks hard at me. “You okay?”
I shrug, and suddenly find myself biting back tears. “I don’t know. Money trouble, I guess.” But it’s more than that. I feel off. I feel…sick.
“Hey girl, no worries, I get that. You wanna talk about it? Anything I can do?”
I shake my head. “It’s nice of you to offer, but I don’t think you can help.” I nod to the door to the student lounge. “It’s really noisy in there. I think they’re practicing for debate club or something.”
Rome looks around. “Hmm. Library? I’d say my room, but my roommate’s in there blasting music.”
“Yeah, Daphne’s in our room writing a paper.”
“Library, then. Cool?”
Outside, a breeze rustles the leaves of the palms and oaks that dot the campus. I can smell salt on the air, and I think the breeze must be blowing from the east, right off the ocean.
“So,” Rome says. “What’s the tallest building on campus?”
I look around. “Um…”
“The library, because it has the most stories.” I glance at him funny, and he grins. “Get it? Stories?”
“But aren’t most of the books in the library reference books?”
He shakes his head, his face disappearing beneath the brim of his hat. “Damn, tough audience.”
We walk a few more feet. “Okay. What’s the difference between a dirty bus stop and a lobster with breast implants?”
I give him a tiny smile and roll my eyes. “Lay it on me.”
“One’s a crusty bus station and the other’s a busty crustacean.”
I have to chuckle.
“Forgetting your money problems yet?”
“Almost.”
“Okay, hang on, I got more.” He hops up on one of the benches that’s been stationed along the sidewalk and walks across it, then jumps off, grabbing the waistband of his pants before they can slide off his butt.
“You’re really asking for trouble with those pants, Rome.”
He’s beside me again, bobbing and weaving like a fighter in a ring, except instead of trying to knock me out, he’s trying to make me
smile. “Ready for another?”
“Hit me,” I say, smiling a little at my private joke.
“Did you hear the one about the incredibly high wall?”
“No?”
“It’s hysterical—I’m still trying to get over it.”
“Oh my god, you’re so lame,” I say, laughing. I’ll have to tell Liza that one.
“Hey, you’re laughing, though! Hold this.” He shrugs out of his backpack and pushes it at me. It’s so laden with books I almost drop it on my feet. He jumps onto another bench as we pass by, steps up onto the arm and does a front flip off the side.
My heart leaps into my throat. “Holy shit, Rome! I just almost had a heart attack!”
He trots back and takes his backpack from me, smiling and adjusting his cap like doing flips off things is normal. “Trying to cheer you up,” he says.
“You’re a fucking show-off.”
* * *
We’re forced to leave the library when it closes at nine even though I don’t feel I’ve done enough.
Rome is just as peppy on the way back to the dorm, jumping and laughing and telling stupid jokes. I know he has a lot of friends, but if he were a few inches taller and dressed better, so many girls would be hot for him too. But if he changed his clothes it’d be harder to do the tree shaking thing.
When I get back to my room, Daphne’s gone. I realize I haven’t eaten anything—Rome and I should have stopped at the student commons on the way back. I pour myself a bowl of cereal and check my phone.
Nothing from Garrett. But Liza’s responded to the text I sent earlier: Miss you too. Aunt Bonnie went on a bender last night, threw up on kitchen table. I had to clean it up because she was too sick.
I reply: So sorry little sis. Hang in there. Focus on school.
I’m working hard in school, I promise, she texts back. All A’s so far. Rehearsals started too – so fun. But I’m missing mom horribly right now.
I finish my cereal and wash the bowl and spoon, dry them, put them back. I take a shower in the communal bathroom down the hall and come back to my room to find one last text from Liza: No word from Dad.