Flush

He didn’t want me; he wanted sex. And what was worse, he was my best friend. But I loved him because he was and so I let him stick his tongue in my mouth. At first, there was a pretense of softness, of possible romance. He swept his lips over mine, lacquering his wet kisses to my yielding face. I wished to God that I wasn’t there, that I was anywhere, that this wasn’t happening.

I was not new to sex. I’ve been poked and jabbed, rocked and pounded, thrashed and ground; I’ve been a pool for thick salty waste. I’ve obliged drunken fucks and charades of tenderness because just like all of us, I wanted love. I knew that his pissed-faced babbling wasn’t sincere. But I also knew that he could be grateful. I provided a warm, wet hole for him to pump frustration into.

I didn’t expect a Valentine.

And so he was unbuttoning my shirt, peeling back the blue cotton. My bra was plain and white. There was no lace, no ribbons, no frills; just paper-doll white. I studied the ceiling as he traced its virginal line over my breasts, stamping his soggy lips on my agitated pulse. I wished he would stop trying, and fuck me quickly.

He sat up and removed his shirt and jeans. He was that poor, lanky beautiful--that unshaven, boy-smell beautiful. He pulled me to sitting as he kissed me again, twisting his gluttontongue into my mouth. I felt the shirt slide down my arms and I shrugged it off my wrists. His fingers scratched my back while he wrestled with the three clinging clasps, violently holding hands, holding out. He won, and my tan, pendulous breasts were exposed. He had been interested in them ever since I had lost a bet and had to let him sign them. With a blue marker, permanent that he had spent his smoke money on, he scrawled the four letters of his name across them. After that, I had quickly covered back up.

Now he studied each one, laying me back on his bare mattress, inexpertly pinching and thumbing my nipples. I wondered which porno taught him to do that. He looked at me, looking at him. Again, he leaned his head in, kissing me on the lips aggressively.

I secretly wished for the love he had for my breasts.

He went back to my chest, scouring his cheek against my ribs. He took my right nipple between his crooked teeth; polished, it was his shiny penny. He was straddling my lap and kneading both tits; evaluating the weight and size like you would a basketball. He was so focused; I was beginning to want him and it was making me uncomfortable.

I noticed for the first time that his chest was wide and long, but overworked. His muscles were hard and lean like fish scales. They swam above me elegantly while he palmed my breasts. He asked me if he could, if we could; I made no promises. Unbuttoning my jeans, he unwrapped me like a Christmas present, yanking them to my knees where they stayed. I blinked slowly and he slid his hand between my thighs, tucking one itchy finger on the trigger. His nails were jagged. I shook my head. He didn’t stop though, just burrowed deeper and rubbed. Pressing his fingers into me, he lay down beside me and stroked faster. He kissed me; I kissed him back. He smiled.

I was close and he was my tour guide. My hips were waking up; my muscles were clenching and bucking. I reached into his shorts and found his dick. He was Formica-hard, ceramic, granite, and I traced a curving vein around it. He took his hand out of my panties and forced them to my knees, knocking my palm away from his body. He didn’t want me to touch him. He grabbed a condom from the windowsill and I open my legs like a phone book. As wide as I could with my jeans choking my knees, he fucked me, slamming me like high tide.

Tell me I’m pretty, I thought. Tell me you love me.

He fucked me and I came before he did. The bed frame steadily humped the wall, as he mashed my breasts, stretching, hurting them; I knew they would bruise, but I let him continue. His caterpillarhands inched up my shoulders and he pressed me into the mattress, grunting and struggling with his orgasm. I looked away and it was over.

He stared down at me and let go of my skin. I was a basin again. He panted for a minute, then reached over the window ledge, captured his soft pack of Newports and shook one free. He lit it without offering me one and inhaled deeply. Some of the ash settled on my stomach, burned and faded, leaving coal gray smears like winter shadows. He asked if I wanted a beer.

Yeah.