He steps inside the house and greets me pleasantly, familiarly with a hug, and then suddenly he is upon me. He’s mashing his mouth to mine, hard and then soft the way he knows I like. I am already shaking, shivering with the expectation.
We don’t bother with small talk. He slides his hands up my dress and is pleased to find the stockings and garters I’ve promised to wear. Then he is guiding me to my bedroom; he’s only been here once but he knows just where he’s going, even though he seems hypnotized by his hands on my body. He is very, very hard.
I am more than ready for it. Just seeing him sets me on fire, as cliché as that sounds. Sometimes I feel like he has a detailed map of my anatomy in his brain and he spends his nights studying it and coming up with a new plan of action to keep me freaking out each time we meet.
He helps me unzip my dress and lets it fall to the floor, a puddle at my feet. He stops and examines me, the strappy, complicated lingerie and the stockings and the spiky black heels. I can feel his desire beating right out of his chest. His gaze is very warm; it sweeps over my entire body and coats me head to toe. He doesn’t know that two days later, another boy will yank this same dress up and bend me over my bed just before we leave for the day.
We fuck. It’s intensely good. It always is. I crave it, this hour of give and take, push and pull. I wonder, in the middle of it, if my neighbors think I’m a prostitute, having men over in the middle of the day. I don’t really care if they do. I can’t swallow the sound of my need.
I grasp at the bedding. I writhe. He plunges into me and I am wet, so wet, and wanting, wanting. I want him to stay here like this until I say stop. I don’t want it to be over. I want this to go on and on so I can stay out of my own head until I’m ready to go back in. Sometimes sex is the only way to separate my brain and my body, to not feel motionless for once. Sometimes I go an entire day without speaking directly to another person. I’d let him tear me in two if he wanted right now.
“It’s pretty funny,” he says to me later, as he’s preparing to leave. “You’ve just had my dick in your mouth and here you are looking all cute and elegant again.” But really I am flushed and trembling, a little floral slip from my ex-boyfriend thrown over my ravaged, sated body.
After he’s gone, I lie down on my dining room rug until my heart slows down. I think I should probably change my sheets. It’s bad luck to have more than one boy in your bed with the same sheets on. Can’t they smell each other? Just in case, I spray them down with some lavender aromatherapy spray. That’ll have to do for now. I can’t quite get my knees to stop shaking yet.