“I need you to fuck me. Hard.”
This always got him going. Not the part about fucking, not even the idea about fucking hard. The word “need.” It was a sexy word. “Want” was something you applied to new CDs by your favorite bands, the desire to ditch class and smoke weed on the beach, deep-tissue massages, five-ply toilet paper, 24/7 A/C, guac that was a full dollar extra. “Need” was reserved for things like air, water, sleep, shits that cleaned out your insides, the stuff that kept you breathing. Billy was hard before we kissed. All my clothes were still on.
My bed creaked loudly if you so much as flipped from your right side to your left. We had a system. We’d grab all the dirty clothes from our laundry basket and toss them on the floor. On top of the clothes, we’d spread out a ratty old towel I’d gotten for free from a Dodgers game Dad took me to when I was nine. If we had trouble keeping quiet, there was a meaty part between neck and shoulder that didn’t hurt too bad if bitten; fingers could be sucked on too.
We quickly threw down the clothes, the blanket, ourselves on top of it. Billy sneezed twice into my mouth. An old gym sock got tangled in my hair. He told me that he loved the smell of my new perfume. I told him I wasn’t wearing perfume, just Speed Stick. We laughed and made marks on each other’s bodies, wet red spots that even after they dried would still shine for days afterward, make us smile whenever we saw them reflected back in mirrors and windows, little red beacons that screamed to whoever stared at them, “Hey, hi, hello, howdy, look at me, I am alive and loved.” Billy pushed inside of me and I moaned against his neck, made the first red mark above his collarbone.
I was enjoying myself and feeling grateful for that fact. I was lucky and I knew it. He came quickly, before I could, and I didn’t mind. I kind of preferred it, actually—feeling him pull out and fall onto his back, knowing that I made him feel good, happy we could just lie there now, no talking, the only sounds his satisfied panting, the whirring of our two fans, the TV from downstairs, either the news or a game show—Mom liked both.
Billy being Billy, the silence didn’t last long.
“You didn’t? Did you?”
“No,” I said. “But it’s okay.”
Billy, also being Billy, hated when he came and I didn’t. To him it was unfair, unjust, his world would remain unbalanced until I had also had an orgasm of equal, toe-curling magnitude. He ignored my assurances that everything was all good, really, and hopped back on top of me, started kissing my neck and moving lower and lower. He did have a nice tongue, used the right amount of teeth and suction. I ran my hands up and down the sides of his face and each time I got to his ears, I thought about wrapping my fingers around them and yanking him back to my eye level, grabbing his chin, and telling him to fucking stop.
It wasn’t that I had trouble saying no. It was just that sometimes saying no wouldn’t solve anything and would lead to longer conversations, ones that I wasn’t prepared to have.
Like, if I told Billy, “No, please stop,” I would also have to tell him that lately I’d been having trouble orgasming. And if I told him that, then he’d ask with deep, aching sincerity, “Interesting, why do you think you are unable to reach orgasm?” And to answer that question I’d have to breathe and speak words that were painful even to think.
Usually, I’d masturbate every morning in the shower or in those quiet sections of the day when no one was home and books and music and TV and eating and sweating and pacing up and down the stairs and everything else that filled my time at home, all of it, seemed dull. However, the past few weeks, each time I tried, the minutes would just stack on top of each other until I was so frustrated that I’d hop out of the shower or roll off my bed, body tight, fists clenched and ready to hit something.
We’d had sex more times than I could count, and I didn’t have any idea what I used to think about during. I should’ve written it down somewhere word for word, on colorful note cards, yellow or pink, bright squares I could pull out whenever I needed release. It was too easy for my mind to wander. The smallest things would distract me. I’d be starting to feel good and then my eyes would focus on something, anything, and I would spiral.
An old orange peel peeking out of the trash can would make me wonder what I tasted like. Was it something distinct and nameable? If someone kissed me would they later tell their buddies how my lips were orangey? Probably not, it was probably something unfruity, how could you taste like anything unless you were constantly eating it? Best-case, I had burrito lips. My desk lamp would be on and it would make no sense to me—I rarely sat there anymore, hadn’t picked up a book since I don’t know when, there was no need for extra light. The one, two, three, four water glasses scattered on random surfaces around my room—one glass, I could’ve just used one. The sound of a car screeching to a halt outside, honking, angry voices, I knew it was because of that fucking palm tree—tall, an obnoxiously thick trunk, it blocked the stop sign in front of my house and caused near accidents all the time. My sheets were a pleasant shade of blue, but had been washed so many times that there were patches where the blue was less vibrant, there was no way to get the original color back. In the shower, I’d pick a water droplet on the wall, name it, and watch it plummet to its death. Closing my eyes didn’t help. I could conjure all sorts of images against the darkness of my lids.
I tugged lightly on Billy’s ears. I kept my gaze firmly on his forehead as he went down on me. Any higher, I risked seeing something that would distract me. Any lower, I could be in danger of making eye contact with him.
I started picturing myself in other places. I didn’t intend to, it just happened. I was watching the mole above Billy’s right eyebrow, closed my eyes for a moment, and then I was sitting cross-legged in the outfield of a baseball stadium. No time to see who was playing or winning—soon I was in the supermarket with Dad, slapping watermelons, trying to guess which was the sweetest. Next, my high school ceramics studio. Not creating any bowls or plates or mugs, just running the dark red clay through my fingers. I was still holding the clay when I looked up, found myself lying on a couch next to an empty bag of Hot Cheetos, a half-eaten salad, a tub of cream cheese. The floor was covered in old T-shirts. I was surrounded by seven chairs, seven shitty paintings. I threw the clay away, or maybe I wasn’t even holding it anymore—I wanted to see Jenny Hauser.
It wasn’t a sex fantasy. I didn’t picture her hands or mouth on me, although I won’t pretend those images disgusted me. I was just lying on her couch and wishing that the Hot Cheetos bag wasn’t empty, that a pillow was under my head, that she had a little music on, something with lyrics that made you think and hurt with a beat that made you want to dance. She walked into the room right as Billy started sucking on my clit.
“You like that?” Billy asked.
“Yes,” I said, pushing his head back down. “Don’t stop.”