Jesus, why am I so dizzy?
He’s like a testosterone sex drip that’s being fed directly into my vena cava. How am I going to be able to live here with him? No one has mentioned if there’s a cap on the time that he’s going to stay, only that they are going to have him work at the shop, where I work as well when I’m not doing my outreach runs.
Which means I’m going to be dizzy here at home, and at work, and probably even worse when he’s far away.
I stomp down the shoveled path, the fog of my hot breath leading the way, horrified at the thought there could be another drift of steam trailing out from between my legs, because it feels like a churning steam engine down there right now.
I’m mumbling affirmations of control when I get to the front door and see it’s open a few inches.
Stick to the plan. Sit the basket down and leave.
The voice in my head sounds like my mother’s. So sensible. And so, as usual, I ignore it. And peek inside the little house.
I don’t see him anywhere.
Maybe he left.
Maybe he really didn’t want to be here.
Maybe I wasn’t what he imagined.
Maybe he just needed a ride then a chance to get away.
Maybe he has a hundred other pen pals, like you hear about sometimes in the news.
Wonderful. So now I’ll be one of those women. I saw a special on them on 20/20 once.
Lifers and the Women Who Love Them.
Women fall for criminals while they are still behind bars all the time. They even marry them. Murderers, serial killers, rapists, they all get their share of admirers. It’s not a stretch to imagine Dutch with a sackful of love letters from women all over the country.
Fuck. Did I read him all wrong?
Is this some kind of long-con and I just got played? Or, not just me, but my whole family?
I pull the basket against my center, trying to keep my belly from doing cartwheels as I stand frozen to the ground, shivering, an internal battle raging as I decide what to do.
Heavy footsteps answer my thoughts. From the gap in the door, I see a flash of indigo-covered torso toward the back of the small house where the kitchen leads to the bedroom and bathroom. A warm burst of wetness spills out of me.
I desperately try to be practical. If he’s going to shower, he needs these towels. Because just imagine—he gets out of jail, gets welcomed into our home. Only to be left standing dripping wet and naked in a house with no towels.
I’ll do it like an Uber Eats delivery. Drop, knock, and run.
I start to lower the basket onto the worn welcome mat outside the door and knock when the boom of rock music thrums to life inside.
It makes me think of a particularly sad part of one of his letters. Something he missed the most about being out in the world was being able to listen to music.
He wrote in that letter, something I don’t think people know, when you’re in prison, there’s no music.
Can you imagine? Going months—years—without music?
“Dutch?” I ease the door open another inch with my shoulder.
Then another and another, until I’m standing inside, still holding the basket, the music muffling my voice.
“Dutch?” I call out, but it’s half-hearted. I don’t want him to know I’m here.
I’m not fooling myself. I shove the door closed with my rear end and cross the small living room toward the hall on tiptoes.
I ease the basket to the floor as I come to the corner of the short hallway and take a shaking breath.
No risk, no reward.
Stepping forward, I see the bathroom door open, but inside it’s empty. There’s no steam coming from the shower. My legs feel boneless as I urge myself to move forward, the loud music pulsing around me as I approach the bedroom.
The burning in my lungs reminds me to breathe as I press my body against the wall just to the right of the open bedroom door. Bands of tension snap around my chest and throat, my mouth dry as I ease one eye over the door frame and choke back the yelp of surprise at the sight before me.
I press my fingers onto my lips until they burn from the pressure.
There’s Dutch.
It’s not just his torso that’s bare now. It’s all of him.
Every.
Magnificent.
Inch.
Inches, I mean. So many inches…
I’ve imagined him naked a thousand times. But this, oh praise baby Jesus, this is so much better.
He’s laying on the bed, surrounded by envelopes and colorful open pages covered in what I recognize as my writing. He’s holding one of my letters in front of his face with one hand as the other rasps up and down on the length of hard steel standing up nearly to his belly button.
I watch in mesmerized silence as he reads, his lips moving silently as he does while he strokes himself, making these pained, tortured sounds. His body is lean but muscular. His legs are bent slightly, knees raised, giving me a view of not only his Guinness World Record dick but balls nearly the size of my fists resting on the bedding below.
His legs are free from tattoos, but his torso, arms and abs are covered in words and images.
I want to explore them all with my tongue, ask him the meaning of each and hope I can soothe the pain that put them there.
I squeeze my legs closed, pressing the flesh of my inner thighs tight, pulsing my core muscles in time with the movement of his hand as my belly flutters and I choke back the moans that bank in my throat.
I’ve never seen a man. Not like this. Not for real.
All I’ve seen are Porn Hub clips that my friends have shown me on their phones. I was always too scared to look on my own, like somehow my father would find out and be horrified.
Besides, I mean, outside of it being sort of educational, I found the porn more comical than titillating. Those women moaning and screaming for an hour? There were no real orgasms happening, and everything was so forced and staged. How it turns someone on, I don’t get it, but to each his and her own.
But, God, the desire coursing through me now is like lust-lava. Just watching Dutch is about to put me over the edge.
His eyes close as I peek around the door, he pushes his head back into the pillow and fists the base of his erection, making the head bulge, turning purple as it swells, droplets of creamy liquid seeping from the tip.
He releases a throaty groan, then puts the letter he was holding down carefully, almost reverently. Then he opens his eyes toward the pile of paper next to him, picks up another, and resumes reading as he jacks his dick up and down until I’m squirming against the wall, practically dry humping the flat surface, desperate for relief, barely able to stand.
There’s a flutter in my chest and a sudden clutch down deep, like my ovaries are popping out eggs like firecrackers on the Fourth of July. I try to hold back, but I can’t, and a little shuddering breath breaks from my throat, and even through the music I know he’s heard me.
His hand stops and it feels like time does as well.
He releases the letter, those sea-blue eyes that I want to drown in snap toward the doorway.
Shit. I move one foot backward in retreat, but I know it’s too late.
“Daphne.” He says my name like he’s intoning a sacred chant, and the wetness between my legs soaks through my jeans. “Don’t hide. Not from me.”
“Shit, shit, shit,” I whisper, then clear my throat, waving an apologetic hand in the open doorway as I press the back of my skull into the wall. “I’m sorry…”