- So, this story is a bit of an experiment. If you like it, let me know.,
“Can we talk?”
The two women sat silently as the first woman seemed to stare at nothing, at the half empty cup of coffee, at the small round table, at her own nervous fingers gently feeling the cup.
“We don’t have to,” said the second woman.
“I broke up with Roger.”
“I’m not living in Boston anymore.”
“Are you still—around Boston?
She takes a deep breath and bites her lip. “I moved to Denver
The first woman nods.
“Denver! What happened? Can I ask?”
“It’s what didn’t happen,” said the first woman, “or what never happened. He just—I mean— It had been, I don’t know, months since we’d done anything. Since we’d had sex; since he’d shown the slightest interest. No time was a good time. Then there’s the maybe one or two times he’d just lie there. He’d tell me to hurry up. He’d jerk himself off. Sometimes he couldn’t be bothered.”
“Did you guys talk about it?”
“Oh yeah. He was full of ideas: porn, vibrators, cold showers.”
“You didn’t try a therapist?”
“So when did you break up?”
The first woman leans back and exhales. “Can I just tell you?”
“No, I mean—” She hesitates. “Really tell you.”
“”Did you cheat on him?”
“Okay. Two—” She glances askance for a moment. “How long has it been? Two? Yeah, two months ago. I came home and there were flowers on the table. Roger wasn’t home. I looked for him. I thought the flowers were for me. And God, the last weeks had been rough. I changed—a short skirt, a sexy top and, you know, a little surprise, nothing under my skirt. I think I must have waited an hour—” She purses her lips with anger. “Why am I be dressed up? Why did I put on lipstick? I doesn’t actually say it, but why do I look like a whore? And then he takes the flowers from the table and says they’re for—I don’t even fucking remember—all I remember is he couldn’t look at me. He walked out the door.”
“I didn’t wait up.”
“Why didn’t you call?”
The first woman smiled ruefully. “What’s a girl to do?”
“Where did you go?”
“To the airport.”
“No. Seriously. Money and carry-on. I bought an overnight to San Francisco. My sister owns an art gallery—a store attached to a huge flat in San Francisco. I left her a message. I mean, where else am I going to go? Roger? The block where Roger lives? The city where Roger works? I went to the airport.”
“Where are you staying now?”
“Here, at the Hilton.”
“For God’s sake, Hattie.” The second woman scolds. “You could have stayed with me and Rick.”
Hattie leans toward her friend with a level look. “I’m not single.”
“Oh,” says the second woman, then says again. “Oh! Well, we have room for two.”
“So—” Hattie lightly touches the other woman’s hand, biting her lips with a smile. “Do you want the whole story?”
“Is the Pope Catholic?”
Hattie lands back. She sips coffee. “My flight wasn’t scheduled to leave for another three hours. Have been to the airport lounges? They’re amazing. First thing I did was clean up, then found a table in the corner. I can’t decide between Stephen King and Danielle Steel. Fuck Steel. Somebody needs to die. Then there these two guys sit at the table next to me. They’ve both got five day shadows, wearing ties and beat up leather jackets. They looked like they walked out of an LL Bean catalog. So they start talking until one of them says something like: ‘You gotta’ find a girl. You gotta’ take her into the wild. You gotta’ get a girl away from everything, from civilization, from iphones, from scheduling conflicts.’ I’m hooked. I’m ready. He and his wife are married a year. They’re successful. They’re working full time. They’re stressed out. They decide to make a change. They’re disconnecting, right? They’re spending two weeks in the Rockies.
“But then? But then! They start talking sex.
“He says: Imagine you’ve been hiking all morning. You’re hot. You’re following your wife up a steep trail. What are you thinking? All you’re thinking about is your wife’s ass, he says, how good she looks in tight shorts, how good her legs look, how there isn’t another human for a hundred miles. You don’t need a bed or a room. You don’t need to pull the curtains or close the windows. You can fuck her right now.
“So what do you do? he asks. You throw off your pack. You tell her to stop.
“Unzip. Take out your cock. Her skin’s glistening. Her tits are wet. You’ve got a hunch her cunt is wet. Next thing you’ve got a thumb in her mouth, tweaking her nipple, making her squirm. She’s looking owned. Push her backpack off. Turn her around. Yank her shorts down and bend her over.
“All you see is pussy—thighs, calves, ass and middle of it all? Pussy. What do you suppose that’s like? Take her hair in one hand, make her arch for cock with the other, make her female, make her groan, own her, fill her. She’s yours.
“Take her hand. She yours. Fill her grunts with cock. Make her tits pop. Make her feel like she’s the only woman alive, the most beautiful, the most fucking desirable, the most fucking necessary. Know why? ‘Cause she’ll make you feel the same. She’ll scream for your come. And when she creams her thighs, don’t let her go. Make sure she knows whose cock she’s coming on.
‘When her thighs are running, when sweat’s dripping from her tits, she’s ready for come. Bellow if you want. Who’s going to hear you? Nature? Shout. Howl like a wild animal. Come in her from behind. Make her stink, sloppy, sweet with fucking. Make her belong to your cock.
And the beauty of it?
There’s no bathroom, no shower, no pissing it out. She’s all over your cock, like she owns it; and your spunk’s in her pussy. It belongs to your cock. That’s nature. Pull up her shorts and give her spank on the ass. Pick up your gear and keep hiking. Next time you fuck her, she’s wet, gooey and warm like she’s been waiting for another fucking all day long.’”
“Jesus,” says her friend. “You should write that down.”
“I didn’t fly to San Fancisco.”
Hattie shakes her head.
“Uh-huh,” says her friend.
“So, the guy who told the story has a flight to catch. The other guy notices me, smiles, is sort of embarrassed, and says he hopes I didn’t hear all that.’
“I’m thinking to myself: What the fuck? I tell him it was a good story. He gives me a sweet look, sort of amused, then asks if he can buy me a drink. Why the fuck not? Two hours later we’re still at the same table. He tells me he’s back from Brussels. His name is Milo. He’s overnighting in Boston to watch a playoff game. He tells me he’d already be at the Hilton if not for a beautiful woman he met at the airport.”
“Oh Hattie.” Hattie’s friend smiles. “You didn’t.”
“Are you kidding me? I lied. I told him I was back from San Fransisco. I told him I used to have a boyfriend, months ago, and the relationship was sexless and loveless. “
Hattie’s friend laughed. “I’m not judging you.”
“It was the kiss in the Taxi. Fuck, feeling like I was wanted. I started crying. Everything comes crashing down.” Hattie leans, elbows on the table, each hand to each elbow. “I told him I was naked under my skirt.”
“I didn’t want to stop.
“You must have freaked him out.”
“You know, by that point, we were both so turned on. I was trembling at the front desk. We barely made it out of the elevator. We couldn’t make it down the hallway. He pushed me into one of those the little side room with the ice and Coke machines. He didn’t have to lift my skirt. He kissed me and pushed a finger inside.” She bites her lip. “‘I just want to look at you,’ he says. ‘With my finger in your cunt.’”
“Then we’re in the hallway.
“Then we’re in the hotel room.
“Then we’re like animals. We didn’t make it to the bed. He turned me against the wall. And fuck— He just— Every thrust— I orgasmed.”
Hattie’s friend smilingly shook her head.
“It wasn’t physical. It was being wanted. It was never like that with Richard.”
“I know.” Hattie’s places her hand on Hattie’s. “Sometimes it feels like a guy can turn into a different person. You’re like: Wait, did he do that to me? Before I met Lance, I always wanted a guy to be in charge. And then, I don’t know, with Lance? There was just something about him. Now I love being on top, you know? Somehow he brings that out in me.”
“Okay,” says Hatti, “right, so, after that first night, I couldn’t— I can’t stop thinking about his cock. Is that sick? I mean, God, I’ve never been like this. I never was so into giving head. Is it Mike? Or is it being ignored for so long? I’m just totally fixated on his cock. God, it felt so good to be fucked. And, you know, size doesn’t matter—maybe a little—but, God. We couldn’t bother taking off our clothes. After I came he was possessed. He picked me up— He literally picked me up and threw me on the bed. He yanked me to the edge, opened my legs, and fuck—all I cculd think about was his cock.”
“Sure,” Hattie’s friend nodded, “but it makes sense. What woman doesn’t want to think she’s wanted or sexy. Did Richard ever, I don’t know, get hard?”
“I know. Too fast? We fucked like teenagers—bed, middle of the night, morning in the shower, bent over the bathtroom counter. I never went back to Richard’s. It took me about a month to get a job offer in Denver.”
“What about Richard?”
“He cried,” says Hattie. “Wanted to know what he was supposed to do now?”
“And your stuff?”
“And your sex life?”
“Every day,” Hattie smiles, tongue in cheek. “And oh God I love giving blowjobs. I know. Right? What the fuck. I’m damaged goods.”
William Crimson | October 30th 2017