Son of a bastard-bitch! I am trying to do homework! I really am.
But images, images won’t leave me the hell alone: Erika, when I was gripping her thighs, mouth working between her legs—her grinding, bucking up, begging me to fuck her—her words, not mine: “Fuck me, fuck me!” Begging! So I did. But it wasn’t me fucking her; we were fucking each other, equals in the endeavor. Just one week ago. One week ago I was in her. Now when I see her she’s weird. Doesn’t want to talk. But after the sex she was sexting me the very next day about the way my face looked when she was holding my dick and sitting on it on a little, and then not, she was teasing, she was in control, and then neither of us were in control, we went with it. And then we cuddled! A great, wonderful, fall-asleep-together cuddle. And it’s not just the sex. The sex is amazing because she’s amazing. I love her smile, how when she laughs she throws her head back, when she laughs at jokes I make because I love the way she throws her head back to laugh when I make them. Days have passed; my body can still feel hers, I wonder if her body can feel mine—but she will not talk to me! I must have done something. I must have done something wrong. But I do not know what. I just don’t know.
Three months of friendship, three months before we kissed even, I thought she was getting me—I thought she got me.
So goddamn beautiful and she doesn’t even know it.
Okay, DO THIS HOMEWORK! This damn matchbox bedroom: tiny desk jammed in the corner next to that mirror—I usually love that mirror, how it spreads across the closet door, great for getting dressed, for when banging’s going on. But now I can’t not notice in my peripheral: me—sloppy, shirtless, belly drooping, hair messy, skin sweaty, cramming constant snacks in my mouth, pounding the keyboard because at least that bastardbitch responds.
Erika keeps talking about wanting to be friends.
We are friends.
Facebook friends. Maybe she’s updated her status. Some song lyric or something that will give me a clue where her mind’s at. Because when we talk in person she will not tell me. She will not tell me. She’s holding something back, just like when she was holding my dick. Teasing it. TEASING.
Or is it something else? Why’m I so clueless?
She told me I’m the best sex she ever had. And I believed her! Dear Moses, does that make me a sucker? She tell that to everybody?
She’s the best, dammit.
Dammit! The best!
And we TALKED about things!
And man, when you get her shirt off! That’s like the best thing in the world. So simple. I’m an animal! A simple, simple animal.
Took her shirt off, kissed her shoulder, took her bra off, kissed her breasts—so beautiful!
Kissing up, down, deep—now nothing, nothing, nothing nothing!
She’s a wonderful person! So hot. She bought special panties for me! She bought sexy panties, for me. And I pulled them off!
What happened to that?
And she isn’t on facebook and her facebook status hasn’t been updated even, and I am A LOSER! IT’S TRUE. I LOSE! Losing lose-lose lost loser losing things.
Homework! Homework homework homework.
An instant message! From: Dan, who says to me, “Hey stranger.”
Dan? Who Dan? Which Dan?
Dan, last Summer Dan.
I HATE instant messages.
I say “Wow. Hi.”
My wow apparently makes him lol, so I say, Yeah, this is unexpected. How you doing? He’s good, asks how I am, I say I’m good, and then he breaks in with how he was thinking about me the other day, hehe.
“Yeah? What made you think of me?”
Apparently, nothing in particular, “I was just remembering the fun times we used to have in your bedroom.”
Why sure, I say, “Yeah, we did have some fun times in my bedroom”, and he says, “Yeah, too bad its past tense.”
He says, “I wouldn’t mind a blast from the past.”
The thought of it’s pretty great. BUT ERIKA!—so I say, “I’m just in the middle of this homework, is what’s stalling my thought process.”
Dan says, “Stalled? Well drink coffee, then.”
Another chat window pops up—HER. She’s online now, she’s messaging me, and he’s messaging me, and my life has now become a Dudley Moore comedy of errors.
Erika says, “I woke up today and realized I’m being a crazy bitch. I’m crazy. You’re a nice guy. You don’t deserve my crazy.”
I say, “You’re not crazy.”
Dan says, “If you want to climb on top of me this week I wouldn’t mind.”
After being so close to somebody—still feeling that—I’m YEARNING to be close to somebody like that again. YEARNING!
Dan says, “I just want what you want: good, hot sex.”
I’m glad he thinks of me when he thinks of good hot sex.
Erika says, “I don’t want to make you hate me. I’m not happy, and I can’t be feeling like I need to try to make you happy.”
I say, “You don’t need to make me happy. Let’s just enjoy each other. You still like me, don’t you? Is that what this is about?”
Dan says, “Still there? What are you doing tomorrow?”
“Hold on,” I say to him.
Erika says, “I’m putting a whole lot on you with the whole yo-yo thing. I’ve been such a bitch, why would you still want to talk to me?”
“Because I like you! You’re not a bitch. Don’t talk like that.”
Dan says, “You think you can handle me again?”
Erika’s not saying anything.
What the hell? I say to Dan, “Oh I know I can handle you.”
And Erika says, “You’re cute when you tell me not to talk like that.”
She says, “I gotta go.”
I say to her, “Hope to see you soon.”
She says to me, “Well, we’ll see what happens.”
WELL WE’LL SEE WHAT HAPPENS!?
Well we’ll see what happens.
Dan says, “You’ve got my number, right? Text me.”
And I don’t respond, I stare at the little boxes and wait for them to log off, for the little green dots to turn gray.
If my heart wasn’t such a big muscle, my dick would get a lot more action.
There’s really only one thing I can do to solve this. I pull out my dick.
Spit on my hand.
Close my eyes.
I am trying to make a decision.
Playing back moments passed in this room.
Dan. On his knees. His head moves toward me, then away, then back.
Erika. Raises her legs, so fluid, like she’s swimming, one by one, rests them around my waist, locks the ankles together.
Dan’s legs rise the same, his ankles on my shoulders.
I knead Erika’s breasts, pull her hair, pull her head back lightly to kiss her. She’s pulling me where I’m rushing to meet that part of her, that part trying to connect us.
Dan’s above me, my hands tracing his sides, around his hips, down and around, my fingers grip his grinding—I love that wall mirror: the dimples above his ass deepen with each thrust—hands continue up to his chest, his little nipples, down his stomach, his tight belly, to his pretty, perfect dick-
Wait. His dick wasn’t perfect. Nice. But not the one I’m thinking about.
Nate. Nate had the pretty, perfect dick. Everything about him was beautiful and pretty and perfect. His blue eyes matched my blue. His mind matched mine too. Nate: miles away, another state, another town, back home. What are his eyes looking at now? What’s behind them? Those aren’t things you can see on the phone.
Just stop thinking about him.
That time we kissed in the wintry car, frost on the windows. That stocking cap, that silly little stocking cap, he looked so cute wearing it. I took it off, tousled his hair. Him looking at me and smiling that smile looking me in the eyes and I could look in his eyes and I could smile too.
The greatest smile, the greatest dimples.
Kissing, my lips feeling his lips, my lips moving down to that spot where his ears met his neck, the place where I made him squirm.
The best part was later on my bed looking down at him—no, the best part was when we woke up the next morning, finally waking up with him nudging in the nook between my arm and chest. Our feet intertwined. Unable to stop checking him out when he got up to go to the bathroom, still naked, so beautiful, I wanted to remember that.
I’m losing the clarity of that image.
I realized after that night: no matter what we do, even if we just walk around talking with nowhere to go, we can make it magic. The Christmas lights on the sleeping houses lead the way. We left boot prints on the thin dusting of frost. Everyone all around us asleep, just me and him awake. So awake.
My dick’s gone slack in my hand. But I need its help with this decision.
ERIKA: her breaths strobing my face, my neck. She grinds her body up into mine, pounding down. She tells me “deeper,” her legs lower, around my legs, locks them together, ankles to ankles, she whispers, “You are so fucking deep I can feel all of you.” She looks down where we’re connected, my eyes follow hers, then she looks back at me, her face so serious, so heated.
She looked right into my eyes. I never liked brown eyes until hers.
Nate wouldn’t even open his eyes.
(I don’t know if Dan did, I don’t care, I didn’t open mine).
I wished Nate would, I wanted him to, I think he couldn’t , it would’ve been too much. We were scared. I’d kiss his neck, and feel his tendons stretching into that wonderful, genuine smile. Even his eyes closed, smiling in their way too. Same when I blew him. Smiling the whole time.
Eye contact. That’s the thing. Eye contact can be creepy—so creepy; someone bobbing up and down on your dick, staring at you.
Or it can be the best. That’s the thing. That’s what I want: to be able to look each other in the eyes: before during after all the time whenever.
They say when you sleep with someone, you sleep with all their sexual partners too.
I think the same goes for when you sleep with yourself.
Fucking sex hormones hard dicks wet clits fuck everything up.
Sometimes it’s better sleeping with yourself, your stomach sticky. Let your dreams figure you out.