His come is a dried glaze across her stomach. In slow circles, she traces her finger down its length and back again. In a far away voice, she confesses: “I don’t like closing my eyes.”
“Why is that?” he asks, sleepily, “You like to watch?”
He has become typical, ordinary. Maybe she has too.
“Because if I close my eyes I think about someone else fucking me.”
The post-ejaculate haze in his voice vanishes, “What?”
She carries on in the same distant tone, speaking to herself more than to him, “When I close my eyes, I think about someone else fucking me. Pulling my hair, slapping me maybe, treating me dirty, like a whore, less than a whore maybe.”
He is sitting up, staring at her silhouette in the darkness of their bedroom. He can’t find two words to put together, despite thousands of them rabidly jumbling through his mind.
“You’re so goddamned boring,” she whispers in monotone. “Every time it’s the same thing, the same script, the same story. Maybe I suck your cock, maybe I don’t. Maybe you eat me out, but not likely. Then I climb on top and we fuck and then it’s doggy style and finally missionary. You always make that same dumb face and then pull out and come on my stomach.
“Why do you always come on my stomach? I can’t figure that out. Is that hot?”
“Wait – hold on – what the fuck is going on? What the fuck just happened?”
“Is that like you’re little ‘dirty’ thing?” The words are tinted with accusation.
“I’m sorry, I totally don’t know what just happened or like what this is about at all-”
“Boredom, bored, I’m bored. What just happened? Five years just happened. And the first two were ok, and then I don’t know. I just don’t know what happened.
“It all became the same somehow. Lather, rinse, repeat.
“Do you think the way you fuck me is hot? Or is it like we ‘make love’?”
He is clutching his forehead and cinching his eyes. Processing, trying to process. A disaster or a game?
“I was finger fucked during a meeting today by a client.”
The snapping sting of her words resonate endlessly in the darkness; his confusion freezes in its tracks and for the longest stretch of the shortest second his mind is a blank slate: no thoughts, no emotions, everything at a complete stand still. But then it all comes loose in a torrent, nearly suspending any ability of conscious control. Anger, disgust and something tasting like hate: red, burning, jealous, ugly.
He stands from the bed suddenly, needing some kind of distance. He is breathless when he says, “I don’t understand what is going on.”
“I liked it. A woman at the next table saw us. She watched. I got caught and I liked it.
“And you know what made me come? It wasn’t his finger in my pussy or her watching us – watching me.
“It was the things he was saying to me.
“The dirtiest things.
“Condescending things.
“Maybe it was also the way he just took me and owned me and knew it, knew he could do it and he did it. And it wasn’t even confidence, it was almost like this sense of entitlement.
“Look, I’m sorry, you’re sweet.
“You’re very sweet.
“But you could never do that, not ever. And it’s not your fault, it’s just who you are, boring and predictable.”
He turns for the door, “I can’t believe this. I just- I just can’t fucking parse this. I just have no idea what the fuck… Like what the fuck?”
“You should go.
“This whole thing is dead.
“I need something …
“Something not cliched.”
He turns the doorknob and looks back at her black outline. In a bitter whisper, “You’re a fucking whore.”
Silence and then, “Am I?”
May 30, 2009, 9:08pm Comments
