One Night (14 page)

Well lubricated. There was no pain. It just felt so damn good, because I was so well lubricated. First I had been reluctant; now I wanted more. I didn't pretend that I didn't want him. I professed that I wanted less, that I wasn't that turned on; I played the you-can't-control-me sex game, became that chick who challenges her lover. But he knew. The more he gave, the more I wanted, and I wanted more of him over and over. I wanted as much of him as I could have before the night, before this stolen moment, ended. I was in the zone. Grunts. The headboard moved. The expensive bed squeaked. Skin slapped, kissed skin. I gasped at times. Heard that wet sucking sound. My legs opened, separated as far as they could go.

“You're tight. So damn tight.”

“You like Susan?”

“Susan is driving me crazy.”

He stroked like he was addicted, like he was half-crazy, like he was overexcited, like he wanted to ask me to marry him, like he didn't give a damn about unplanned parenthood, like he was about to emancipate himself from his load too fast. But he hesitated. Winced. Took sharp inhales, swallowed.

I asked, “Did you just come?”

“Almost. But no.”

“You okay?”

“Give me a moment.”

“You come, I get cheesecake.”

“Be quiet.”

“Don't be rude.”

“Will you shut up?”

I laughed. My vagina pulsed around his cock, felt good as I laughed.

A few sharp breaths later he restarted his ingress and egress.

Our sex was beautiful.

I let go and went with it. Did it because this wrong felt so right.

Many men lack the knowledge and the concern for the woman of the relationship, for the woman they are making love to, for the woman they are with in bed. Their thoughts are always stuck on their own satisfaction, chasing their own orgasm and nothing more. They grow hard, become lions, but unfortunately many have sex like a lion: fast, and done in the time it takes to set free a good yawn, done as the lioness lies there in agony and roars. They sex fast, but unluckily not as often as the king of the jungle. Some men never mature in bed. All have dicks, but not many work well, and most men are about their own pleasure. That makes a woman sexually disturbed, leaves her impatient, and that yields an ill-fated relationship, a dreadful marriage. He showed me that he was not one of those weak, inconsiderate men. He showed me how he sexed his wife, and God knows he showed me well.

I was jealous and angry; jealous that she had this, and angry because I didn't.

He had given gentle fingers and an educated tongue, a tongue that had a PhD from at least ten universities and possessed an honorary degree in porn. He had eaten me without overworking my clit, without leaving it sore and tender, only anxious and aroused, very stimulated, smiling at orgasm, and then he took me as if he were trying to prove a point, treated me like he wanted to educate me and grad school was in session. He handled me like he wanted me to know he was a man among men. I treated him the same, wanted him to know that I was a good woman, a smart woman, a keen woman, a woman who had known only a few men but knew how to please, a woman who was worthy of the best of the best of men, a woman who, despite setbacks and pain, would always be a woman among women. This was my thesis, my proposition put forward for consideration. My upward thrust met his downward stroke, and with vigor I defended my position. We pulled away from each thrust in a sweet rhythm and my up met his down over and over. I sexed him like I was always the one who loved more, that being a blessing and a curse, and I deserved two hundred dozen roses and just as many cheesecakes simply for being this damn awesome. He was remarkable, too, damn remarkable, so he had me and I had him. With each stroke, the passion effloresced, and I met each thrust, be it deep or shallow, fast or slow. I showed up and met each thrust, showed him I was a participant in this affair from beginning to end, not a lady lover, not a blowup sex toy, not a warm place to come in the latex barrier between us. I wondered how this would feel bareback. It felt awesome, incredible, but I wondered how he would feel, wondered what his wife had felt. Winter felt like spring, and everything bloomed. It bloomed inside me, the sounds and faces and the way my body responded, how it rolled as he thrust, how I breathed as if I had a respiratory disorder, letting him know that soon I would come. The tingles were strong, and bit by bit my orgasm bloomed. It felt sleek at first, but it grew; it fattened itself, became impossible to hold back. Nails in his skin, I whimpered. Good sex makes me whimper, and those whimpers were a song that was sweet and young and innocent. Each whimper was as erotic as it was fuzzy. He hit my spot and that made me tense, made me sing a song I hadn't sung before, and I sang it like it was the national anthem. Oh say can you see that an orgasm was on the horizon. It came closer with each stroke, grew in size with each stroke. Orgasm ran its finger up and down my skin, each finger filled with electricity, each touch, each stroke making me jerk, making me move and fight back, making this battle for cheesecake the best battle ever fought. He made sweet sounds of suffering in my ear. That excited me, empowered me, thrilled me, made me respond. He stroked faster, and still didn't lack in smoothness or continuity, steep rises and smooth drops that were never broken. It was a beautiful poem. It had rhythm, was never curt. I was close to another orgasm. His cock was so nice, and he kept telling me how tight I felt, how good it felt to be joined with me. He had size and made me feel like I was tighter than O.J.'s leather glove. He was on a journey, going deep, searching. Going in and out and so deep and hard that I was close to tears. I tried to hold back, but it came without warning, and I became vocal. Told him not to stop. I came again. I came and he didn't slow down. He rammed me for a moment, was rough, and gave me pain, a sweet pain. His thrusts were rhythmic and varied in speed and depth, which gave my body a stirring that was unexpectedly good, and with all the foreplay I had endured, kept me in a blinding fog of light, kept me in a trancelike state with my mouth wide open, hoping there were no flies in the room. That was not the type of protein I was craving. My orgasmic song was elongated, echoed, very telling. His sexual movements were smoother than warm butter, creative, musical, and right away he became a conductor who directed the performance and moans of his one-woman orchestra with his dick. I sang like a choir. He switched up, inserted
an unexpected harpsichord solo between Bach's two movements. Already I was breathless, but my song continued as I moved against him. I mimicked his dance, learned his rhythm, and what I gave was so intense he stopped moving as I performed my own damn solo. I rendered a wicked, toe-curling solo that made him tense, stop breathing, then set free a long groan. He closed his eyes tight, grabbed the sheets. I didn't ease up. I became the director. My one-man choir tensed and made a guttural sound, the solo of all solos. He held the edge of the condom and removed himself from me. He surrendered. I wasn't done, but he had disconnected, sweet and intense agony in his breathing and on his face. I thought he was about to pull the condom off and come on me, maybe on my breasts. Thought he was going to anoint me, and was prepared to curse him if he did. He disconnected, made me want to holler and bite and kick his sexy ass. He wheezed a hundred times, then got a grip on himself. He apologized for the
coitus interruptus
. He was enjoying himself too much, relished me too much, and he needed to slow things down or he would burst.

He trembled, managed a red-faced smile, and said, “I don't want to disappoint you.”

I quivered, legs restless; I felt delirious, like I was resurfacing from a fifteen-hour dive, and in puffs, as I moved through the haze he had created, I replied, “You're. Not. Disappointing. Me.”

“Give me a moment.”

“Okay. It's not me, is it? Am I doing something wrong?”

“You're distressed.”

“Very aroused right now.”

He went down on me, ate me, slowed things down for him and kept them going for me—or actually sped them up. He gave me more stimulation, had the time of his life on my sensitive clit. Only for a few seconds, not even a minute, but he tortured me, and then he was back in control, back inside me, slow stroking, singing his own song. I was glad he didn't come. My toes curled. My butt tightened. My muscular contractions magnified the experience of aurora borealis. My hands tingled until I became aware that I had hands, and then I felt numb, cramped, felt the discomfort up my forearms. My eyes opened wide. He was in motion, still chanting in his own handful of genres, but he was chanting solo, singing his own song. I was in bed with a man I had just met. I was in bed with a married man. I had never been comfortable the first time I had had sex with a new lover. There was an adjustment period that took place over the sessions, over time. As trust grew, I opened up, changed from a caterpillar to a butterfly.

Tonight it felt like I was with a lover I had been with many, many times. He treated me like he knew my body by heart. With kisses he had made me make honey. He made me make so much honey.

Then it changed. Changed from the intense, pleasurable, relaxing feeling. It became completely overwhelming. A surge of pain hit my muscles. I didn't want to stop, but what I felt was too much, like having every nerve touched at once. I tried to endure, to ride it out, and I mewled and refused to scream. I gasped and moved with him, became very aggressive, showed him what happened when I was that turned on, but I held on to the feeling of being completely overwhelmed for as long as possible.

I asked him to stop.

He didn't.

He was so into me, so deep into the moment, so into a new world. Trembling, breathing in short spurts, I put my hands on the sides of his face, looked in his eyes. Asked him once again to stop.

He shuddered, caught his breath, asked, “I do something wrong?”

“No, not at all.”

“Tell me what I did wrong.”

“It's not you.”

“I'm not doing it right?”

“Oh, you're doing more than right. You're hitting spots right, left, and center.”

“What happened?”

“It's too good.”

“Too good?”

“You are very good and I . . . I just got too excited, overexcited, and I think I was flexing my muscles very hard, and now they're cramping a bit. Just need a second to relax; have to relax my hands.”

“You're not having a heart attack, are you?”

“No. I'm not having a heart attack.”

“This happened before?”

“Few times. But it hasn't happened in a long time, not in three years. I just have to wait a moment, or it can spread to my legs. If it does, I'll be cramped up in a ball and I'll be a hot mess.”

Then we heard them. The sounds. The applause. The intrusion.

It sounded like a murder of crows. A crowd was congregated outside our hotel room door.

They applauded, laughed, and then raced down the hall laughing and imitating my sounds.

I chuckled. “Oh my God.”

“Perverts. Eavesdropping perverts.”

“Was I that loud?”

He yelled toward the door, “
This is a respectable hotel, assholes
.”

I laughed. “If only it allowed respectable people inside.”

“And they have perverts in the hallway?”

“They heard me.”

“Us. They heard us. You made me make noises I never knew this body was capable of making.”

“Dammit. Wonder how many assholes were out there?”

“Should I get up?”

“No. Stay there. I'll be fine in a moment.”

He asked, “You're not done?”

“You're done?”

“No.”

“Really? The way you move, you can keep that pace? I thought you'd be done by now.”

“You were uncomfortable, so I assumed you were done.”

“You didn't come?”

“Not yet.”

“Then, no. Not done.”

He said, “Okay.”

“Sorry I wrecked the flow.”

“It's okay. Guess the perverts in the hallway think we're done.”

“I'm embarrassed two times over now. Them and you.”

“No need to be embarrassed with me.”

“We have a fan club.”

He asked, “What should I do?”

“Kiss me like you did in the parking lot.”

He raised up on his elbows and took his weight off of me, and we laughed, chuckled, rubbed noses, played like kids, chased tongues, and eventually kissed, and just like that my body started to relax, and a half minute later I was fine, was moving my ass as a signal for him to restart the party, and soon we were chanting together, talking dirty again, back where we left off. I couldn't remember the last time I had talked and laughed during sex. This was nice. This was fun. Wonderful.

I sucked on his neck, made him squirm, then asked, “What's your addiction?”

“I told you, I don't do drugs. Not anymore. I was a teenager then.”

“Not what I meant. What are you addicted to? What's your obsession?”

“Outside of work and trying to keep my marriage from dying, I don't have one.”

“Everyone has an addiction.”

“What's yours? Tattoos?”

“Used to be buying Barbie dolls.”

“That's every little girl's addiction.”

“Yup. Every black girl has to have a white Barbie doll. Black girls will get a black Barbie, but they have to have a white Barbie. The black Barbie never really seems like a true Barbie, not like the queen. The black Barbie is sold for less than the white Barbie. Identical dolls, except for skin color, which is telling the world she is less, that she is cheaper, that she does not have the value of the one with blond hair and blue eyes. No one wants the cheap doll. No one wants to look like the cheap doll.”

“You really need to seek help. You probably dream in black-and-white as well.”