One Night (16 page)

Again, like we had done in the beginning, we were negotiating for goods and services.

This time he was the liar, the one coming to me with the con. An affair was nothing more than a con. An affair was nothing but false promises. For one person in every affair, it was nothing more than rocks in a box. And the fool who disagreed was doing nothing more than conning him- or herself.

He was as much of a good man as I was a good girl in this heated moment, him being inside me proving both points. The time when there was a clear line between a good man and a bad man had become as blurred as the lines that showed the difference between being a good woman and a bad woman.

This was a world that loved the bad men, the bad women, and praised the home-wreckers.

I tried not to, but I moaned and it sounded like a fifth of Jack Daniels was in my blood. He was louder and twice as inebriated. We created a drunken sermon together. My body craved seeds. It took control of me, something that I couldn't be in command of. I felt it coming and it felt so good, the hollowness inside my belly, a rising savageness, a sensation of hunger that I wanted to run from, yet embrace; control, yet submit to; and all I could do was squirm. I wanted that excitement. I wanted to dance and revel in its passion, but I didn't want to get burned. And I hummed a melody that sounded like an age-old liturgical recitative, a sweet single pitch, and his syllabic chants rose to meet my every sound, and our desires married. Our sounds, our chamber music was so intense, so fucking beautiful. Eyes closed, naked, imagining I was in the seat of love, the elegant warmth of orgasm, the best bad feeling ever, a feeling that I could hardly stand, a happiness that I desperately needed, embraced me.

Those waves refused to set me free, kept rolling through my body, kept me anchored where I was. He forced me back to missionary, back to the position of dominance, to the position where gravity worked in favor of his overweight orgasm, one that had been to the edge many times and never released.

I said, “I want you to come. I need you to come for me.”

“Why?”

“My ego.”

He grinned and asked, “Is your heart strong?”

“It's been broken beyond repair, but it's strong.”

“No history of heart attack in your family?”

“Oh, is this about to get that serious?”

“It's going to be that serious.”

“Don't talk about it; be about it.”

With fervor, with desperation, with what felt like crossness, he controlled me. My mouth opened in the shape of a scream, but no sound came from my bruised soul, not then. Soon my will dissolved. I surrendered. As rain fell against the world and drunks passed by our suite singing Christmas carols, my face wrinkled in pleasure. He took the lead, his strokes deliberate and as consistent as he was aroused and firm. Three times this way, three times that way. He danced inside me. He lost control. He began pounding like there was house music jamming inside his head. We were delirious. He worked me so well I had to stop moving, had to surrender as my dreadlocks swayed with the power of his strokes. He grew harder, longer, sang louder, stronger, set free groan after groan. He stroked me and I was floating over Barbados, Venezuela, and South Africa. He took me through the clouds and around the world.

His orgasm was going to be intense. So damn intense. His pelvic thrusts were rapid, as if he had lost control, as if the need to reach a thousand little deaths owned him. Each stroke tested me. Each stroke created a new song at a new octave. Each stroke tried to dominate and domesticate me. He had me. In that moment, I was tamed. I would have become his slave for twelve years.

His heart beat strong against my chest, his breathing in and out, fast and furious.

“I'm coming; I'm coming.”

“Come for me, come for me, come for me.”

He was in his own world and pushed deep, so deep I thought he was trying to crawl inside my body. I called out. He held it there, held all of him inside me, tensed, took hard breaths, gave in to what he felt and became a roaring lion. Again he gave short thrusts, like he wanted to perforate my soul. He started to come. Again he shuddered like an enormous number of nerves had been touched. When I thought he was done, he began stroking again, stroking to get the last drop of orgasm out of his body. He used my body to satisfy that itch. It was a struggle for him to empty himself. His stroke devastated me. He gave it to me like he was an ex-criminal, ex–taxi driver, ex–club bouncer, and ex-marine.

The way I made him feel was good for my ego. My response was good for his.

I thought he was done. He was in my core, and I was giddy, on another planet.

He stroked me again, and I wondered how much come he had had stored in his nuts, wondered when was the last time his wife had pleased him, wondered if he made love like this each time.

I looked at him, at his face, at a face that was tight, veins in his neck standing out, so much power.

“Come for me. Get it; get it all out of you. Come for me. Get that nut.”

Being sexed like this was uncanny. In a good way, it was uncanny.

He strained, closed his eyes, opened his mouth, looked enraged, looked so damn sexy that it turned me on, made me feel like the queen of queens. Again he roared like a lion, roared and arrived at his own personal heaven. As he arrived, I held on to him, closed my eyes, legs wide, and again he lost control. His muscles contracted and jerked with his spasms, and he pushed, pushed, pushed inside me.

He hit my spot. He hit my spot and orgasm woke up inside me.

I'd thought I was done, but he had irritated that sweet spot again.

I ached. I itched and I ached. The itch was so damn powerful.

Nails digging into sweaty skin, body straining, my face tight like a fist, I called out.

“Don't stop, don't stop, right there, don't stop.”

It wasn't me talking. But it was my voice.

He had an out-of-body experience and pushed, pushed, pushed.

Each push hit my spot and I trembled in a way I had never trembled before.

Dreadlocks fell into my open mouth, but I was no longer here, no longer alive.

Stars twinkled behind my eyes. Emotions erupted, and there was a fireworks show.

I wasn't prepared for this. I wanted to feel good, to escape, but I wasn't prepared for this.

My face, neck, everything was warm. I was going to cry.

I was out of control. All I could do was hide my face, hope he didn't see me.

I felt so many damn emotions, some good, some amazing, some bad, some horrible.

It doesn't take long to commit a crime. Doesn't take long at all.

Chest rising and falling, a dry cough in my throat, tingles dancing between my legs, radiating through every part of me, I opened my teary eyes for a moment, opened my eyes and wiped my face with part of the ruffled white sheets, wiped more emotion from my eyes on a pillow and glanced to the side, to the table, where I saw his wedding ring in the glow from the television, and once again I closed my damp eyes.

The clock glowed: 12:15.

I blinked twice and it was 12:18.

Then it was 12:19 in the city of lost and fallen angels.

He came like a flash flood. He came and the floor shook as the bed slapped the wall.

He created so much power, and the orgasmic explosion was brief. Hard, intense, but brief and strong enough to disrupt the San Andreas Fault and cause Southern California to drop into the Pacific Ocean. That final moment, as he controlled me, as he dominated me, as he became barbaric and came, when he behaved like electric shocks were being sent into his body, I wished he could've maintained that desperate pace, could have kept that level of hardness, that passion, could have given me that level of pain and pleasure until the day after Christmas. His orgasm had triggered another orgasm inside me. That relentless pace, being taking by a caveman, had made me come, and I had quaked and waned until I couldn't quake anymore. Sinning had been beautiful. But it was done. He had come, and it was done.

I had come, and the appetite to orgasm, to obtain pain and pleasure, only grew. It had to be horrible to be a man. A man's orgasm is so much shorter than a female's, leaves the man satiated and the woman ravenous. The journey for a man is maddening, but doesn't seem to be quite as euphoric when all the huffing and puffing has ended, when the hard work is done, when the sweet violence is over. I had lost control, had given in to the sensation and come as he was coming, had experienced another slice of heaven through his burst of orgasm, through his much-needed violence, an orgasm that felt full and powerful, a million shards of explosive energy that delivered a load that could have painted every wall in the room. As he grunted and the sperm soldiers rushed and charged into a new land, for a new egg, they were captured at the border by the enemy: latex. They were captured; the penis was still hard, but no longer moving with urgency. I was still in need, still holding him, bringing my body against him, still humming and experiencing waves. Our duet had become a desperate solo, the spotlight on me. He came and it looked like he had gone numb. He had rocked my world. Now I was flabbergasted. He had given numerous combinations with the right doses of grittiness, softness, and tenderness, had been explicit, had been comprehensive, and the orgasmic violence had opened my heart, my emotions.

He was still on top of me, still inside me, shrinking, but I contracted, felt him.

His phone rang. My cell rang. Our sirens continued while I let out a whiny, simpering love song that had no place in this room. I took deep breaths. I had to, to calm myself, to bring myself down. His phone rang again. In my mind I cursed his wife for being so goddamn rude.

He grabbed the base of the sheath and eased out of me, our sexual scent perfuming both of us.

We disconnected. It ached. Being filled, then vacated, that abandonment never felt good.

I glanced toward his wedding ring. Again I glanced toward the clock and saw that we had been here too long. I expected that he would stand and get dressed right away, kiss me on the forehead, leave.

My tears had stopped. My body was warm, was kindling.

I couldn't raise my head now, couldn't be coy, couldn't be assertive and make eye contact with the man I had slept with. He had been inside me, and I smelled like him and Hubba Bubba bubble gum. I had experienced him, and he smelled like my honey and the same scent of chewing gum. I hand-combed my curly dreadlocks, walked to the thermostat, and turned the heater off. Back on the bed, body still tingling, baby-making music still playing, now Gladys Knight on a midnight train to Georgia, I scooted closer to him, but stayed about three feet away, three feet that felt like I was three rooms away. But I held my foot close to him, in case he wanted to touch after sex, the same thing I would do with my boyfriend. I didn't know if this lover would be guarded and want to get away, or feel amorous and want less space between us. Having this wickedness with a married man was tragic. But it was wonderful.

Coming with him, that last moment when we were uninhibited and clung to each other and sucked tongues and sucked fingers and bit flesh and moved like we were severely intoxicated, while we percolated, murmured, groaned, and made odd sounds like we had clogged sinuses and bad allergies, it had been like no other moment to date. He inhaled, reached down, and checked the condom.

I asked, “Condom still on the ding dong?”

“Still there.”

“Didn't break? You got pretty rough. That was one helluva stress test.”

“Didn't break. Sorry about that.”

“I liked it like that. You came a lot.”

“I know.”

“When was the last time you got some?”

“Long time. Told you.”

I asked, “Don't you jack off so you don't end up with blue balls the size of coconuts?”

“I don't masturbate. Always seemed pointless.”

“Saving it up like that is bad for the prostate.”

He said, “Well, thanks for the relief.”

“No wonder you were so testy. Maybe that will get the thorn out of your foot.”

“Same for you. You make love like you were starving, undernourished.”

“I came like a tornado, and the way you come should have a flash-flood warning.”

“It was good.”

I said, “You're a perfect fit.”

“Like a glove.”

“Damn good.”

He said, “The way you respond to me—it's like I've never been with a real woman before.”

“Stop lying.”

“You make every other woman I've met, every woman I have touched seem . . . dull.”

The man with impeccable sartorial taste, the great stylish dresser who was now nude and still fine as hell, went to the bathroom to flush his prophylactic filled with semen. He came back, eased back onto the bed. Then I went to the bathroom, went to see if I could urinate, then used wipes and cleaned myself before going back to the bed. And now I had that awkward after-first-time-sex-with-a-stranger feeling, that not-knowing-what-to-do-now feeling. As a function of the sympathetic nervous system, apperception of dignity is impossible while sex is in progress. Dignity doesn't exist when a person is aroused. But after, that need to feel dignified creeps back. That's why people leave abruptly after having sex. Dignity. Embarrassment. I felt the downside of arousal. Didn't know if I should cover myself up now. I didn't know if I should make the first move, gather my things, shower, and leave. Or wait to see if he wanted to try to go again. Or turn the TV on and watch reruns of
The Golden Girls
. He had been in my garden. We were hidden from the world, in a room, Adam and Eve. I didn't know who he would be now. Didn't know how close I should get to him, if closeness was permissible. He scooted closer to me, closed the gap, his warm skin next to mine.

A twinge of guilt rose.

But I had another issue, a self-esteem thing. The last time I had been with Chicken and Waffles, it had been disastrous. While I rode him, I heard him snoring. It sounded like someone was inside his chest starting an asthmatic tractor-trailer. I was on him, moving, and he was calling hogs. I fell away from him. That humiliation had never happened to me before. I sat on the bed, questioning myself. I had questioned my ability to be that kind of a woman, the way I had questioned my being a mother.

I'd redeemed myself. I was desirable, and I was capable.

He asked, “Were you drifting again?”

“Just enjoying the moment.”

I pulled up another part of the sheets and wiped my eyes again. I didn't want to ruin the moment. He reached for me and I scooted closer to the man from Orange County. Anxiety melted. I belonged here. For now, for the next few minutes, or the next hour, I belonged to him, not to pointless regrets. He rubbed me. The slightest touch could restart the fire inside me. He could whisper and have me again, if he wanted. Wanting me again would be more about satisfying my ego.

He said, “You're catching a cold?”

“A little stuffy.”

“Getting sick?”

“Allergies.”

I went to the bathroom, blew my nose, rinsed my nostrils, wiped the insides of my nostrils, making sure all was clear and nothing embarrassing was left behind, then went back to him.

He played in my dreadlocks, toyed with my strength, and I relaxed. His breathing was no longer labored; his body was relaxed as well. Again I caught a glimpse of his wedding ring. I pulled my lips in.

That uneasiness made me jerk. He felt the change and rose up on one elbow.

He asked, “Did you enjoy that?”

“That was freakin' fabulous.”

“Are you sure?”

“Anything past five minutes deserves a gold medal and a key to the city.”

He asked, “You timed me?”

“Don't be a narcissist. I timed me.”

“You timed yourself?”

“Almost broke my personal best.”

He glanced toward the glowing numbers on the clock and said, “Damn.”

“You have to leave. You need to tend to your distraught wife.”

“Not that. I didn't make it to the hour mark.”

I slapped his backside and asked, “You timed us?”

“I timed me.”

“Well, I'm glad that I happened to be up under you while you did.”

“You said you wanted me for an hour. I wanted to give you an hour.”

“Damn. Aren't you considerate? You were holding out all that time because I said that?”

“Was that okay for you? I don't know what you're used to. I'm sure men have given you all types of pleasure. I was trying to make sure I'd be remembered, wanted to outdo any lover you've ever had.”

“I don't behave like this. I might dress like I'm free-spirited and have tattoos like I belong in Woodstock and in the era of free love, but I don't sleep with strangers. Never kissed on a first date. I don't let strangers do to me what you have done to me. I don't let strangers stick a finger in my bum and twirl.”

“We're not strangers anymore. As they say in the Bible, we now have known each other.”

I said, “You're lucky to get to know me.”

“How so?”

“Six weeks. It would take at least six weeks to get me in bed, and that's if I really liked you.”

“Six weeks?”

“Ten cups of tea and muffins at Abbot's Habit in Venice; a day trip to tour the Universal Studios back lot; three Jamaican dinners at Will's in Inglewood; three hiking trips—one up Runyon Canyon, one up to Griffith Park, and another up Escondido Canyon, to the waterfalls—then a day at the aquarium in Long Beach, and another at Santa Monica's open-air mall and down at the pier; a trip to Tijuana and San Diego; one trip to Roscoe's Chicken & Waffles on Pico, another to the one on Gower; six dozen kisses in public at both parks and movie theaters later; a field trip to six bookstores; and at least three plays.”

“And then?”

“Then you might get to feel on Tina while you licked Marie.”

“Guess I got the e-ticket tonight. I made it to the front of the line.”

“You caught me when I was most vulnerable, when I was lonely, frantic, and a little on the emotionally weak side, which is rare, and you made me feel secure, made me realize that my world wasn't at its end, and that was before sex. You made me like you. The sex, this swive, well, you just made intercourse feel new. Like it was my first experience. It was magical. The way you held me was magical. I felt like a princess. I want to wake up with you. I want to stay in this room with you and never have to leave.”

The room phone rang. The ring made me anxious. Sirens and ringing phones were unnerving.

Again we were a bit undone. Only the guilty are anxious. We were the guilty.

The phone stopped ringing, and right away it started ringing again.

I said, “Dude, you're in trouble. I think a distraught someone is looking for you.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“Wonder if the 7-Eleven thing has become a big deal.”

“Probably has become the talk of Hawaiian Gardens, if nothing else.”

“You left dude out cold. He could have a concussion.”

“Or be dead. He could be at that Disneyland in the sky.”

I whispered, “I hope there is a Disneyland in the sky. I really hope there is one.”

“I hit that guy as hard as I could.”

“I hope he's not dead.”

“That would be on the news, too.”

“Afraid not. If he is, he ain't white, so it won't be a big deal on the news.”

“He got what he deserved. You commit a crime, there are occupational hazards.”

I said, “I'm just glad his thug friends didn't have guns.”

“Damn phone won't stop ringing now.”

“The call is for you. Maybe someone saw your car, got your plates, told the cops, and they tracked your charge card to the hotel, and now they're calling here looking for you, for us.”

“If it were the cops, they would knock at that door.”

“I'll bet that's what happened. We were on the camera at 7-Eleven.”

“In that case, I wish we had gone to a fleabag motel and put the room in your name.”

“Love it when you talk dirty, but
fleabag
is just plain filthy. Dude, you crossed the line.”

My lover slapped me on my ass four times and I crawled toward the ringing phone.

I said, “If it's the police or the sheriff's department or the CIA or the FBI—”

“I'll get dressed, pour another glass of wine, go downstairs, and greet them.”

“If it's your distraught wife—”

“End the suspense. Answer the phone.”

I crawled across the bed, an anxious hunter chasing the irritating noise, and grabbed the receiver, answered in a soft voice laced with the deepest sarcasm, “We're done. I insincerely apologize for the noise that he made me make. Oh, and tell the people in the hallway to stop eavesdropping. Tell whoever is in the next room to stop hating. It's a hotel, for Christmas's sake. People come to this fornicave to stain white sheets. Look at the clock on the wall. This is the hour when people get busy. So now that we've had our round of who's your father, we'll sit quietly and chat about global problems, such as drug addiction, corruption, violence, racism, discrimination, and xenophobia. Or maybe we'll talk about how so many non-tax-paying assholes are allowed to come to America and live off the taxpayers' dime. From another country, never paid a dime in taxes here, drop a baby, your kid is American and entitled to benefits I can't get unless I get pregnant out of wedlock and live on Skid Row. Hate that part of America. Anyway, we're done with the intense pussy eating and hardcore sex for now. Merry Kiss-My-Ass, and have a good night.”