I actually lost count of how many times he brought me to climax. And then we just lay on the bed, not talking.
* * *
He made love to me that evening and again in the middle of the night. In the morning he suggested we shower together. I agreed.
He opened the shower door and let me in first. He lathered me with a bar of soap, then himself. Our bodies glided over one another.
Then he pushed me up against the wall of the shower. He held my hands above my head so I could not move. He released one of his hands long enough to use it to guide his cock into my pussy. He looked down at me again while bringing his hand back up so that he was holding both of my hands up against the wall. It felt like handcuffs.
‘You have to have it this way. I know that about you,’ he whispered in my ear.
‘Of course,’ I whispered back.
‘I’m not kidding,’ he said, pushing his cock deeper inside me. ‘You don’t have a choice. You are the kind of woman that has to be fucked like this.’
‘Yes.’
He was still holding me up against the wall.
‘You need to ask me to fuck you this way.’
‘Will you fuck me this way?’ I asked.
‘I don’t believe you,’ he said withdrawing his cock.
‘Fuck me deeper,’ I said. I’d lost my mind. So completely lost to passion. I needed HIM inside me. I needed HIM so much.
‘Say it again,’ he said, thrusting his cock into me. ‘Louder. I need to know you really mean it.’
‘Fuck me deeper!’
‘Yes. That’s it,’ he said. By then he’d withdrawn his cock almost all the way, and when he thrust it back it went so deep inside me that I gasped.
‘Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me!’ I was crying. We stayed like that for what seemed like hours. He pinned me against the shower wall. My nipples were engorged simply from the sensation of having his penis planted so deeply inside me. It was painful and exciting. All I knew was that I needed HIM to be doing just this.
‘Do it again,’ I commanded and he did.
Love is not a hot-house flower, but a wild plant, born of a wet night, born of an hour of sunshine; sprung from wild seed, blown along the road by a wild wind. A wild plant that, when it blooms by chance within the hedge of our gardens, we call a flower; and when it blooms outside we call a weed; but, flower or weed, whose scent and colour are always, wild!
John Galsworthy, The Forsyte Saga
This is what I understood: my life had been on hold since the day my mother got sick. After she died, I continued to live but only marginally. And then I met HIM. HIM. It was only after he came into my life that I could see how cut off I’d been from the rest of the world. I had taken the mournful road.
He and I ate breakfast in the room, then left. He kissed me softly in the hotel lobby. He did not set up another date, though I’d hoped he would, so by the time I arrived at college I was on the verge of tears. The students sensed I was vulnerable and remained quiet and passive.
When I got home later I couldn’t stop crying. My tears were the inevitable aftermath of a tryst with HIM, the price I paid for being with HIM.
I quickly changed out of my work clothes and put on an old pair of pajamas. I looked into the mirror and thought I was the exact opposite of the pretty, sexy woman who’d been fucked over and over at a downtown hotel the evening before.
I lit a fire and sat on my sofa looking at the burning logs. But it did not soothe me. I was still weepy. I couldn’t stop thinking about HIM. Esme jumped up on the couch and curled into my lap.
The sex. My God, the sex. He and I were pushing the envelope together. He’d taken me further than I’d gone with anyone. I suspected it was the same for HIM.
I wanted HIM inside me that very moment, to be with HIM night and day, 24/7. I could not live without HIM.
I could not stop crying. Sam came to my door in the late afternoon, holding an empty pie pan. I opened the screen door and took it from him. He looked at my swollen eyes and face. He asked me if I wanted to talk about it. I shook my head.
‘Do you want me to come in?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘Well, you know where to find me. The pie was delicious as always.’
I watched him retreat and closed the door. I was feeling so desperate. I found my phone and quickly wrote to HIM.
ME: Where r u? Last night (and this morning) was so amazing.
I waited for HIM to write me back. The wait was excruciating.
When a text message arrived, it had been sent from one of my students who wanted to know when an essay was due. I felt like throwing the phone across the room but quickly texted her back.
Hours later, my phone vibrated again. My heart soared only to crash when I saw that the text was from a telemarketer. Every minute without a text from HIM was empty. My patience was non-existent.
Someone with a foreign accent called me on my cell next. He’d dialled the wrong number. Instead of being polite I screamed at him. What was wrong with me?
Then finally, finally …
HIM: U were spectacular.
ME: I want u inside me all the time.
HIM: I’m abt to catch plane 2 Paris.
ME: WHAT?
HIM: Yes. On biz.
ME: U didn’t say anything.
HIM: I didn’t?
ME: No. Nothing. Why didn’t u say anything?
HIM: I was busy fucking u.
ME: K. But.
HIM: Stop being garrulous. I won’t put up with it.
ME: Meaning?
HIM: I like you a lot but I won’t put up with a needy woman.
ME: You just sprung this Paris trip on me. Not fair.
HIM: Plenty of time to catch up when I get back.
ME: Yes. How long gone?
HIM: 10 days.
ME: 2 long.
HIM: Wish u could be in my hotel rm in Paris.
ME: Me 2.
HIM: U r an incredible lover.
ME: So r u.
HIM: Miss you already.
I hated that he was so far away. I despised that my life seemed so narrow while his was wide open. He was in Paris while I remained in a suburb of a vast forsaken city. It would take me at least six months to save enough money to buy a coach seat on a plane to Europe. I’d have to consider staying at youth hostels even though I would now probably be older than most of the other people staying there. I’d grown up in the neighbourhood where I was born. I’d moved into my landlord’s duplex