IN THE KITCHEN I am teetering. The presence of someone else has suddenly amplified my drunkenness. I cling tightly to the counter, as if it is a life raft in the pit of a swirling ocean, only nothing is moving around me, not technically anyway. He looks at the cabinet under the sink, pulls everything out from inside, the dishwashing detergent (which stands, unfortunately, erect), an unopened pack of sponges, a bucket full of cleaning supplies, a container of old fabric softener I keep meaning to throw away but never do. He stacks these items behind him and then notices me and my grip on the counter. He asks me if I’m OK.
“It’s the chardonnay,” I say.
He shoves his head underneath the sink, really shoves it in there, and I stare at his ass because I feel that I should, but really, I don’t even care what it looks like. He could have a huge backside, or no ass at all and I would still sleep with him at this point. He is there, and I am ready. I loosen my robe enough to expose the top half of my breasts. I slip a round, soft leg out from the silky fabric. Peekaboo.
His ass is small, as it turns out, like two saucers in a pair of jeans, and I bet it is rock hard.
He pulls his head out from under the sink. “Well, there’s no rat,” he says. “At least not any that I can see.” He squats on the floor, takes a sip of his beer, squints at me. He bounces a bit on his calves. He nods at me. “There is no rat. Right?”
“Right. There is no rat.”
“OK, so you wanted something else?”
“Right.” This I didn’t know how to do. Online, everything was already taken care of, fully explained by a system of clearly labeled and color-coded boxes. It was just a question of confirming the agreement. I stretch my leg out further, pull my hands up to my breasts and stroke the sides of them.
He looks momentarily terrified, and then relaxes. “Oh, I thought maybe you wanted to buy some weed. Because for that I’d have to go back to the apartment.” He stands up and puts his hand on his crotch, starts rubbing it. “You want this though, that’s what you want.” He is hard in moments.
“Yes,” I say. My voice is low and has edges to it. “I want that.”
“You want to smoke some weed first? I could—”
“No,” I say. “Let’s go in the living room. On the couch.”
“No, we’re going to do it right here.” He pushes me up against the wall, unties my robe, and heads straight for my breasts, takes huge tastes of them, bites them and licks them, as if he has been hungry all night. I just stand there, hands against the wall, letting him fondle and eat my skin alive. I am almost immediately ready for him to get inside me, but I sense that he needs to do this first.
“You smell good,” he says. He licks and kisses down my stomach, gets on his knees and starts to bite my thighs, and then lick in between my legs. An involuntary noise rises from my throat and I emit it, it hangs in the air in front of my face, and then I release another.
“Fuck,” I say. I put my hands in his hair.
He sticks a finger in me, and then another. “Yeah, you’re ready,” he says. He stands, slips off his grungy tennis shoes with one hand, keeping the other on my right breast, pinching the nipple. He is looking at me the entire time. He drops his hand to his pants, unzips, unbuttons, pulls them down over his hips and ass. “You still ready? Check to see.” I stick a finger inside, and it is wet.
“I’m ready,” I say.
And then it feels like it is over in an instant, if only because I wish it could have lasted forever. I am dizzy the minute he starts pumping inside of me. I wrap a leg around him and then my arms around him, and he mutters in my ear between thrusts about how he knows I always watch him, that he has watched me, too, that he has thought about my twat—twat, he actually says that—and what it would be like to fuck me in the elevator.
“Throw down your bags. Bend you over. Make you scream. Every floor. All the way to the top. Back down again. Fucking you.”
I feel light like a child and I sink into him.
“You really thought that?”
“Sure,” he says, and I don’t believe him but it doesn’t matter. I just let him rampage on for a few minutes. I am almost sleeping. And then it’s over; he pulls out, jerks himself off for a minute, dribbles down his leg. I watch this, through a warm golden haze that has clouded my eyes and face. I feel hot, almost feverish.
“I need to sit down,” I say. I pull on my robe, tie it tight around me, and then go to the living room. He pulls on his pants, grabs his can of beer, and follows me, rubbing the moisture off his hands onto his pant legs. I stretch out on the couch and he lays down next to me and puts a hand on my breast and massages it with his fingers, around the nipple, and underneath, where it’s at its softest.
“God, you smell good,” he says.