There’s a certain romance to being wicked – living without care or sorrow. The purest of desire fulfilled at any and every whim; utter disregard for anyone but oneself. I flirted with such fantasy in my youth, until better sense put it to rest. For the sexual kinks of a young woman, my dark fantasy once escaped into the deep of a long December night. Some limits aren’t meant to be found
I met her on a night not unlike any other during this period: Lit and eager for adventure.
I kick-off with an invite to an East Village gay club. She’s introduced to me through our mutual friend. She’s no more than 21 and still fresh to the city. The throbbing base absorbs our names. “Nice to meet you,” I assert inches from her ear. She giggles with youthful radiance. A welcomed creature to the night.
Our mutual friend polishes off her introduction with an aside, “She wants to get fucked tonight.” I cancel all other designs for my high, “You don’t say…” and give her a second look. She takes notice, “What did you say about me!?” Our friend repeats what she already knows. She lights up, “Shut up!!” and aggresses a quick flurry of playful punches on his shoulder.
We reassemble to order up some drinks. Two vodka Red Bulls, and a whisky for the lady. I survey my first move – dance or cigarette – and take a calculated risk. “Smoke?…” She nods yes. “…smoke.” We cut through the thick of bodies for the door and crisp December air. She smuggles her whisky; I’m impressed. I light her, then me. “So…”
Conversation sails through the usual downtown prattle: Art, fashion, and music; then sex, drugs, and Instagram. I’m rapidly fixated by her giddy optimism and splash of spunk. She thinks I’m gay. Save for it being the east side, all signs would considerably suggest so. My averring otherwise is lost to the wind. I’m not letting this one get away.
Our mutual friend finds us outside. Her attention moves to familiarity, “I’m so horny!” she lays on him and the stars. It’s their sodden script, “Let’s fuck tonight.” He assumes his role, “No. No. No. Not tonight.” “Yes tonight!” Liquor invites me to slip myself into their play; I drop my arm around her shoulder and pull her in close, “I’ll take care of that for you…” She responds with her spirited giggle, “No,” and a flurry of playful punches, “You’re gay!” I step my body beyond her reach, “Try again. I dare you…”
A shared laugh allays the mood. I flick my cigarette to the street. She does the same and skips to the door, forgetting her whisky; ripe fodder for which I tease her all night.
After a blur of liquor, lights, punches, prattle, base, bodies and bathroom breaks, the night nears its 4 a.m. checkpoint. A brisk walk and 20 minutes later, we three soon find ourselves in her squat St. Marks apartment. “I just moved in three days ago,” she apologizes. In making some elbow room to light my cigarette, I retort, “It’s… nice.” She replies as expected. I take cover within her loft-bed workspace.
Their sodden game picks up where it’d left off. Liquor and libido help me catch my beat, and I squeeze at her waist, “I’ll fuck you tonight.” Her giggle fit wiggles her loose, “No…” and she continues on script, “You’re gay!” I improvise a line, “Noo. Let me prove it…” She turns to our friend for assurance in her position, “He’s not. And trust me, I would know.” It’s again lost to the wind, “No. You’re gay.” I pinch at her waist a second time. She giddily jumps the five feet across the room into our friend. I drop my cigarette on her worn hardwood floor and step it out.
“I’m think I’m gonna head home,” our friend injects with a yawn. A pall enters the room. “Yeah. I got to get up early.” Within two minutes, she and I are left to our own devices.
We’re face-to-face and mute. I survey the land struggling for words; she’s way ahead of me, “Are you sure you’re not gay?” The winds are calming. “Yep.” “I don’t believe you… Make-out with me!” I give no hesitation and step into her world.
“See,” I push her face away, “Not gay.” She acts incredulous. I repeat my argument. This time she bites my lip when coming up for air; then, staring me dead in the eye, she cocks the hammer, “I want you to hit me.”
“What!?” I pull back to look down the barrel, “You want me to hit you?” I can’t even remember her fucking name. She’s not kidding, “The last guy I was with wimped out. I want you to punch me!”
I buy myself time in pulling her face into mine. The aggression of her tongue stokes my psyche. I’m a hairpin trigger. The gates to raw impulse open… Fuck it.
I yank her by the hair with my left hand and smack her cheek with my right. She’s on fire. I feel no different. No heightened arousal or shame. I try again, but harder. She’s now in complete submission; I’m filled only with a familiar lust. I push her away and tell her to take her shirt off. It’s going to be a long night. I dig into my pocket and propose we fuel up – Pinch Crush Cut Toot – and dive into indulging off her lead: Bite, scratch, gag, choke, and welt, with no line to be drawn. She’s insatiable, “I said, I want you to punch me!”
Stripped down to my id and with no sensible gauge, I grab her by the hair with my left hand and deck her square in the cheek. She’s stunned. I feel neither good nor bad. I’m aware it’s wrong but I haven’t remorse; she’s gotten what she wanted.
She rips my clothes off, “Let’s go to my bed!” I ardently nod yes and toss her up. Our naked body’s meet.
I’m pure. I’m free; exorcised of emotion and limitation. Raw, kinetic energy pillaging uncharted waters. Beyond her flesh I feel nothing…
We wake with the sun blanketing our naked bodies. I rub my eyes open. She meets me with her spirited giggle. We’re sticky with sweat. Sobriety’s out for revenge. Early evidence of the hours before have taken shape on her body. We assess what I did. Each a vivid memory for which she revels in, “Oh my god,” she introduces me to myself, “You even bruised my tits!” I don’t know how I feel about this.
I survey the mood for my next move – sex or cigarette. “Smoke?” She shrugs yes. I light her, then me. “So…” Conversation docks with morning prattle: Work, career and aspirations; then breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I set designs for my day, “I’ve got work at three.”
We scour the room for our clothes. I kiss her goodbye at the door. She lingers post embrace hoping I ask for her number. I purposefully ignore it. She’s 21 and indulgent. I’m 29 and, evidently, ruthless. I don’t want to see us again.