I held her hand, and she ran her nail around my knuckle in circles. I told her I loved her. She sat a while and pretended the air coming out of my mouth carried no words.
I leaned back, lying on the crisp sheets. Littered with crumbs, the ceiling looked paler now in the orange light, soaking through the eyeballs, burning through the cigarette smoke that climbed the molecules toward the ceiling. The base camp at her fingers wore red nail varnish, cracked and smiling - betraying her thoughts - that face was stone, unscalable though. Impenetrable. She had a way of not looking at you, and not taking a drag, and not saying a word. But I knew. I was lost in those sheets I knew so well, my fly open, innards spilled, the metal scratched slightly, but the back of her head pounded hard, and it pained me to look at it. I chose instead to stare into the light bulb, bursting with energy through the thin cotton shade, cutting the eyes deeply. I closed my eyes, and remembered the moment of release, into her cold hands, the hand that now clutched a damp tissue, all evil forgotten in there. She let slip and fell back at last, staring straight up - I saw it briefly as I turned to see where her eyes had fallen, no on me, on the ceiling, I pulled mine back to the ceiling also.
We were not in love, and we had never fucked. This was as far as it got, not even the lips were mine, except to touch my lips with, to whisper into to let her know that her hands were working, were doing the correct gesticulations. Sometimes I had to take control, to better go at the button, for my angle of entry is more familiar. But once opened, and laying back, there the many faces of the ages flash before my eyes and I imagine them all lined up, baring all, bending over. I cheat in my head. I fellate, I caress, I penetrate. All in my head and some primal urge gulps inside of me, some wretched noise and all pours sickly sounding, sickly smelling forth, burning the air with its wickedness. The red nail varnish makes me want to cry, as it melts around the silly masterpiece that has taken place for the millionth time. Ever since I was thirteen I have been playing the same old tune, to different audiences. I never stop, but it is so wearying.
She rolls, and moves my hand from my chest - pure and innocent - and she says something, and places it on that softly warming pile of denim that mounts between her legs, and I wince, and I look at her, and she looks at me.
We talked for a while about her father, and how much more he meant to her than I could. I bet he's got a massive cock, I thought. I wasn't really listening to her, but she was rubbing my hands anyway, all spilling oil on me, and that's really all I could think of.
As I mounted her, all naked and gangly between our legs, as those filthy sheets grasped our bodies, as our warm air evaporated, the smoke still burning my eyes from all the way over there, in that solid glass ashtray. I felt her lips on mine, and again, like always, she asked if I was hard. I didn't care. I didn't answer. She just pretended it was what I wanted to hear, and I pretended I liked it. The sheets were damp, through effort on my part, to keep things relaxed, I was rather more vigorous than I ever had been in the past, with the others. She looked at me - into my eyes. I sat there for a long time - or what seemed like a long time - all I could hear was the creaking and the siding and the air seemed so still between our lips and our eyes were locked. I was climbing that unscalable face, she might let me in, at the top, once I know, once I feel it. She didn't love me. Not really. It wasn't just that she couldn't say it. I held her hand tightly, running my thumb over the cracked nail varnish sent me into a thrill, plunging my head down behind her shoulder and vanishing from sight, in the pitch black - thrusting into that sock, just like the old days before I found the sun tan lotion - there again the myriad images from my youth, the ones that always did the trick. Don't want to disappoint, don't want to keep her waiting. Before long it was darker than ever, and she had had some sort of episode, I felt the quivers, perhaps it was over. I suppose it wouldn't matter if I stopped now. Would it really pollute the experience? I don't think she has ever been under the hammer before, up for auction. She certainly deserves it. I don't think I deserve it. I drove the point home. That is the gold standard. Fuck until you feel like you earned it. That's the rule. I couldn't fucking stand girls. That was my problem. Too much wretched babble.
After long time lying next to her naked, no love lost in the encounter, I heard the door open and slam downstairs, the light from underneath the door lit the gloom, and my thoughts turned to the man, her father, who hated my fucking guts. I might do better than him, but I doubt it. He was about forty five, and average looking. He had a thin beard that always reminded me of the tissue men I gawked at through flickering screens when I was fourteen, going on fifteen. She placed my hand on her crotch and gave me some vile instruction. I complied, without turning my head from that sabre of light, which brought my thoughts of Richard, yes, that was his name. I wouldn't call him that as he fucked me though. I don't think I could bear that load, that would be too grotesque. I scaled the wall once again, she seemed not to mind, I wanted to finish, and now I had my fodder. There he was, clear in my mind, fucking me, fucking her. All so vivid. She seemed to like it but I don't know. There was no emotional bond, so it was not any real kind of betrayal. Just a play anyway. All actors seeping in and out of all the wrong places. Determined to finish first, centre stage, with some prominence. That was me, pounding out the speeches. Monologues bursting from the orifice onto the expectant audience. For once that old bastard had done me some good. Saved some face. I wanted to get out. Feed the street lights with my carbon dioxide, feel the cold air filling me with the dread of night.
That's the post fucking experience for you. Always the awful sense of being trapped within yourself, and wanting nothing more than to crash through the window and fall and fall and fall and fall and fall and fall and eventually stop - earthbound was where I wanted to be now. To place my roots in some other place - anywhere but there. As I clung on to her she whispered in my ear. She told me she thought we were good together, but she thought that if we were to keep this up I needed to stop being a fucking idiot and stop telling her I loved her. I told her I didn't love her, and I never ever would. And we clung together, in the sheets, under the harsh darkness creating half formed figures in our peripheral vision. I licked her lips, those crass and husky mountains, and she felt me, and it was warm and awfully cold all together muddled in one fermented moment.
I drank my coffee, which had been made hastily, and with little care. It was instant. That fuck. I'd never blow him now. Not after he gave me instant. But he sat there, in the yellow kitchen, opposite me, that cock-tickler mustache shining in the bright fluorescent light. I told him I intended to pay it back in full, and he agreed that was probably wise. We had good conversations, me and Richard. But that's not really enough. I hate waiting for people - talking to their parents. It's all so vulgar, but that is what we must do these days, for love.
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