I didn’t think it’d end up being like this. He was never supposed to leave a scar. It was just a score; nothing less nothing more and some how is turned into falling head over heels. He was a friend of a friend, not exactly a random, not exactly an acquaintance. He intrigued me, dark hair, light eyes, a sarcastic wit, but nothing I hadn’t experience before. I crashed his house party; we shared a joint, while his current squeeze silently fumed. An hour of pot and banter later, I left. Early class the next morning wasn’t conducive to all night partying. I didn’t think about him after that night, until my girlfriend mentioned he wanted the story. Story? What story? Then I remembered the conversation about the project I was working: I’d written an account of my own deflowering and the idea of a true erotic story must have sparked his libido so I took the number and brazenly texted him for his e-mail address, without giving any indication of who I was. As expected the response was “who is this.” I wasn’t going to give in that easily, so I simply said that he’d find out when he gave up the e-mail address. Obviously his interest was piqued and the next text was what I’d wanted in the first place. I waited a while before I sent the story along with another text: ‘You’ve got mail.’

We’d been texting about a week, winding each other up on purpose, flirting when the mood struck. It was a rainy Monday night, miserable and cold; despite having a pile of work to finish up that week, we found ourselves involved in a philosophical debate over my screen name. We were both bored and procrastinating. I can’t remember who brought it up but the next thing I knew I was walking up to the Centra near UCG because he’d gotten lost trying to find my place. We drove back in silence, not an awkward silence, though not particularly comfortable either. It didn’t last long; by the time I put on the kettle for tea he’d made himself at home on my couch, wrecking my head about my abysmal taste in music: things were back to normal. I figured we were both expecting the same thing to happen, though oddly enough we ended up talking for hours. Mostly complaining about the work we had to get done, and then all of a sudden there was a look, a silence, and the conversation ceased. There wasn’t a distinction between who initiated what: we took each other. His mouth on mine, my hand fisted in his hair. The tank top sipping off, the jacket unzipped and thrown aside. It was as if there wasn’t enough body to touch or time to satisfy us both. I can’t say how it was for him, but for me it was rough and hard, fast and hot and I liked it, more than I should have. His hands were soft but his grip strong, and I wanted it to bruise. The world seemed to still and spin faster at the same time; I wanted and I wanted it all. Teeth, tongue, lips branded his chest and face. Hands and nails and tangled limbs. As always there was the pain, searing and intense, but in that moment I couldn’t stop. It wasn’t gentle. We drove each other mercilessly, pounding and arching in tandem. It was lust, pure and simple, and while there may have been sweet kisses and lazy caresses, there wasn’t much thought given to the morning after. Maybe there should have been.

I pride myself on making the one night stand an art form, whether it starts as a friendship or a random hookup. I knew the buttons to push to make him want, to make him crave, and I knew when to leave him wondering if there was any point to a pursuit. One minute I’d coyly flirt, the next I wouldn’t respond. When he’d call me on it I would accuse him of being paranoid. I knew he didn’t want anything serious, we were both in it for the craic. But then it changed; I’d find myself thinking about him, about that night, about things I shouldn't have cared about. I’d get upset when I wouldn’t hear from him for a few days and I’d find ways to make him jealous. He called me on that too. I didn’t have an answer. I just wanted. I wanted his body, I wanted his mind, but most of all I wanted the one thing I’d always known I’d never have: his heart. He made me as crazy as I tried to make him; somehow he walked away and I learned that there is such a thing as karma.
© Briar Rose

No comments:

Post a Comment