Grisaille’s mouth, unspeakably sexy, as she laughs. —What do you mean, Cole?
Sexy, is the word I think, but it’s too gawky a word, not old-fashioned enough. The word I find is —Glamorous.
—That’s a good word, Cole. Maybe you can help me with the last translation.
But sexy was the right word all along.
Awake in the morning zippy and hard, like my cock can’t wait to see her the most.
Exactly like that, come to think of it.
—That was a good kiss. Give me more of that.
She was the first girl to ask for more so greedily. Or ever. I opened my mouth wider.
—More.
This was the first date.
—Can you take me somewhere?
—You have a reputation.
—Yeah, you keep saying.
—You have not been a gentleman with many girls.
The word gentleman stands in the air like a time traveler. —We don’t call it that, gentleman.
—Yes but I think you know what I mean. And it’s true?
—I guess it’s true. I don’t think of it like that.
—So how do you think of it, Cole?
—Um, that I’m practicing?
—For what?
—For you.
She could not help laughing very loud. But an hour later she had her bra off. Someday you’ll learn your lesson, maybe eight girls have said to me. But most of them got naked.
A single mother like Grisaille’s, the greatest blessing you can give a boyfriend. Works all day, extra hours for the piles of bills on the counter, and out a lot at night. Drinks sometimes, when she gets home from a date tipsy, doesn’t notice what liquor’s missing or swigged from.
Of course, on the other hand, a mom like this basically hates men, and sees right through you, and lives in hysteria of the girl getting pregnant. So it goes both ways.
—It clasps in front.
—In—? Oh.
—It was funny what you were doing back there, though. I know what it’s like to be a back door in a bad neighborhood, the way you scuffled at it. You could just say, take off your bra.
—Take off everything.
—Whoa cowboy. You’re not a hypnotist.
She’s right there suddenly. Alec and I have met up at the failing coffee place by the almost-done condos. He is holding two bags of pretzels, he wants to go to his house and talk about the details. Grisaille. I say her name, first to him and then to her. She strolls over and puts her hand on my arm. —I had fun last night.
—Yeah.
—Did you get my—
—I haven’t had my phone all day.
I say this with my phone in my pocket, but Grisaille only smiles.
—Are you doing something later?
—Later? This is Alec, by the way.
—Hi.
—Hi, Grisaille.
—Later?
—Later? No.
—Good, call me.
She’s at the door with two big iced teas, must be her mom in the car. I turn back and Alec is looking at me with the pretzels still, drooping now though. He knows it already.
Second real date, she asked if it was cold out. She ran back up to her room with me to get a sweater, but as soon as we got there she unbuckled me and put me in her mouth. The feeling of it, hardening against her tongue, twice as big as she slipped me out of her lips to look at me, holy fuck. Then she sucked me in earnest and I came quick. Ssh, she said, although we were alone in the house. Then she zipped me up and we went out the door kissing with my taste in her mouth.
—I really liked that.
She was talking in my ear.
—Yes.
—Yes?
She was laughing but I still couldn’t. —Me too I mean.
—Let’s not stay too late k? I’ll want my turn.
—K,
I was stuttering it out. —K, —K, —K, —K,
—You know her name’s not a real name, right Cole? You know it’s some art technique or whatever?
—Her dad named her. A really famous painter suggested it, and—
—OK, but it’s not. A real. Name.
It unnerves Alec, for some reason, to hang out with her practically at all. He was fine with the other girls, sexy even to know he knew the details while we just hung out talking, but for some reason not now, for some reason this is for some reason different. I mean, I know what the reason is, I guess. I know I know it.
Her mom picks her up at my house. She runs right out. I wave at both of them zipping away, my breath clouding it up when I rest my face on the cold pane. Her taste in my breath, then on the window alone.
Supposed to be reviewing the rules of the argumentative essay, day after the second date. Her mouth on my cock, so deep, right when I walked in the door. My homework rustles. Pros and cons. Cons, I guess, is that if she were really sucking me all the time it would be hard to do anything else. But holy fuck the pros.
I call her and she says she just came.
—What? Like touching yourself?
She finishes the sip of water. —Home. Shopping with my mom. What did you say?
—Hi. I said hi.
—Hi, Cole.
—You know her name’s not a real name?
—You told me this a thousand times.
—What kind of name is that even anyway?
I sigh at Alec and type back. —Different from all the other girls.
—It’s really different, freaky.
Alec, you have no idea.
—Do guys like it when the girl talks dirty?
Her teeth are a little purple from red wine. Never knew there was such a thing ever, a girl who drinks red wine.
—Guys?
I’m trying not to think of Alec. There was some dirty talk, sure.
—You, then. Do you like it? You want me to talk like a whore?
She leans in and whispers in my ear. —150 for oral, 300 for a straight fuck.
—Beat it, I’m a cop.
Big purple laugh.
Out up on the hill, haven’t been here in forever, wind and leaves moving across the junky scraggle of a field. A lost squirrel goes by quick.
—I keep living so many places, Cole. Everyone I ever met at every school just starts to blur by. I follow them and see their parties on the screen, and it’s just like some old scenery I passed. You know? You don’t. You live here. But another semester, a year. I just keep moving and there’s no real place, no destination.
I’m loving her suddenly. I feel it in my throat and my pulse keeps thumping.
—I could be it.
She kisses me and I taste the chocolate she likes, found a forgotten square in the coat she bought on a weekend in London.
—You could be.
She moves my hand to her breast.
Third date her mom was out again, and we just had some toast downstairs, hardly talking. Up to her room, she took off all her clothes before we even started. I thought I would look away, but I didn’t, —Cole, get naked, I want you naked.
and then I did.
—It’s one thing to write love poems.
She’s holding a sheet of paper over us, like a strict, square cloud. We’re on our backs in bed looking at it.
—That’s the poem? The real first line?
—Yeah.
—It’s one thing to write love poems? That’s cool, actually.
—I told you, Cole. It’s one thing to write love poems. Another, however, to deal with that deity of the river of blood.
—See, that sounds more like poetry that I was thinking.
—You mean it’s bad.