by Julia Peters
(12/1/99)

Troy rises, like a specter, out of my bed. It's Saturday evening and we've been here since Friday. I'm at the end of my rope but, somehow, can't let go.

"Troy," I say, "I'm exhausted."

"Then let me do the work."

The sun is going down again. The same old shadows stretch across the ceiling in a familiar embrace. My windows are cracked open and the deepening cool air curls in with the smell of tobacco as my neighbors smoke on the stoop. He runs his hands along my calves, massaging twenty-four hours of soreness out of them. Bending down, he brings his head to where his hands are. I can see the muscles in his back unfold and tense beneath the skin. His legs are stretched out behind him, dangling off the bed, beautiful and undignified. His brown, curly hair laps at my thighs and I'm waiting, hoping that his mouth will follow suit.

"That feels so good," I say, inanely. There's no way to tell him all of it: that he's bringing my calves to life, making them more than merely functional. He makes me feel the smoothness of my own skin. He makes me raise my hips up. I ask for things and know I can get them.

"That feels so good," I say again and he rubs his cheek along the inside of my right leg, mirroring the touch with his palm on my other leg. Long, taut minutes go by and then Troy is there, spreading me open and putting his mouth on me yet again. And it's just as exciting as the first time, all wet shock and comfort.

"Troy," I say, but he doesn't acknowledge me, except to kiss my whole pussy in one strong, open-mouthed suck. I say his name again and again, half to myself, and run my hands over his shoulders and into his hair. These gestures are routine. They're what I've done with every man I've been with. It's as if I can't give as good as I get. He slowly works a finger inside me, crooking it upward and gripping me with his palm while he kisses my clit. I roll lazily beneath him, too tired to moan, and just sigh as he pulls another dazzling orgasm from my body and I shimmer in the new darkness of my bedroom.

It's been a month of this, almost from the beginning. We met in the kitchen at a party, hiding out from love we didn't want. Troy was avoiding an ex-girlfriend, I was waiting out friends who were insisting on setting me up with someone. We sipped our free beers the same way, as if punctuating run-on arguments we were having in our heads. He caught that, smiled and pointed it out. I was caught by his smirk above the green bottle, his soft voice. I felt my pupils flare up involuntarily, spotting my target, knowing in that moment that I could have him and that I might want to. We introduced ourselves.

"As in Helen of?" He shook his head before I even finished the question.

"You get that alot, huh?" I asked, leaning on the kitchen sink next to him.

"I get that a bit," he said. "My older sister is Teresa, so I guess my parents had a 'T' thing. But it comes with a lot of preconceptions."

"Hmm. I always thought it would be a beautiful nickname to be called."

"Why's that?" He smiled warily.

"Well, because of the preconceptions. I guess you've heard them. Helen of Troy. Most beautiful woman in the world. Everyone wants to feel that way to somebody. And also, for a women to be called Troy, that would be kind of tough and butch, which is cool. I don't know. Beauty and destruction in one package you couldn't live without. Sounds like a love affair."

He looked at me for a long moment and then extended his hand. "What's your name again?" he said. I told him, and found him just like that, because I wasn't looking for anyone. How it always goes. A few days later we slept together. Also how it always goes. Then it went differently.

"Kate," Troy says into my answering machine. I'm in the middle of lining my eyes and didn't even try to answer the phone. My heart jumps, at once thrilled and guilty, because I want to hear his voice. It's been a week since our marathon and I've only seen him once since for dinner. I miss him and our schedules are all off. But I'm getting ready for a second date with someone else.

"I'd tell you to kiss me, Kate, but that's a little obvious. Fuck me, Kate, is funny but vulgar. So Kate. Um. Love me, Kate. Now's the part where I hang up in embarrassment. Ha. Okay. Call me. Bye."

The eyeliner has rolled off my dresser and onto the floor. I stare at myself in mirror, all made up. His voice. His awkwardness. The show tune reference and the sweetness. This man has me pinned to the spot. After about a minute, I put on my lipstick with a slow, shaking hand. I play the tape so the message won't be waiting when I get back and then head out to meet someone whose last name I keep getting wrong.

The doorbell rings the next day, cutting through my Saturday afternoon, my pleasant aloneness. I'm at home forcing myself to read up on troubleshooting Java for my job.

"Yes?" I ask the buzzer.

"Me," says Troy.

He comes up the stairs, bass guitar banging against the banister. He's on his way to band practice, where he's often going to or coming from.

"Hey, me," I say.

"Hey, you," he replies and kisses me simply on the lips. Then again on my forehead. "I brought a gift."

"Oh," I say, nervous and pleased.

He pulls out a somewhat ratty record of, of course, Kiss Me Kate.

"Original cast recording," he says brightly. "Thrift store. Did you get my message?"

"Yes," I say. This is the part where I'm supposed to say something. The easiest way to cover would be to take him to bed. But my pillows smell like second date man, who left here at 2 a.m. after I realized, and told him, that I'm not really single. Something I haven't told Troy, that I'm with him.

"So I know it's unexpected. And actually, I have to get to rehearsal. But I have time to kiss you."

"I have time to kiss you back," I say. We stand braced in the doorway, the bass and my textbook and the album forgotten on the floor. We kiss the same kiss again and again. What wasn't there with second date man, what hasn't been in my life for years and years, is there now, in the remolding and perfecting of this kiss. There's so much I want to give him, but I'm unprepared.

"Can I kiss you everywhere?" I ask him.

"Yes," he whispers, against his better judgment and time constraints.

"With everything?"

"Kate--"

"You have to go," I say. "It's okay."

"Not yet." We push the door shut together and I lead him into the livingroom. He sits on the couch and I make a comical leap on top of him. He slides out of his shirt while I work on his pants and mine. His body. My God. I'm at his broad feet, licking my way up to the dimple of his right knee as he lies lengthwise on the couch. Still kissing, I work my way up from crouched to spread over him like a blanket of limbs. We lie and kiss in this fierce press, grinding against each other, until he pushes me back and sits up, pulls me to him. My legs are around him. He paws beneath my T-shirt with one and through the pockets of his jeans on the floor with the other, producing the condom.

"Boy scout," I moan as I free his cock from his boxers.

"Always prepared," he says, rolling the condom on. He gets inside me and we move on each other, hard and laughing.

"Kisses for Kate," he says, kissing my neck and shoulders in time with our thrusts. He doesn't say the other thing , because I haven't said it yet. He came here to take me and I won't let him. Instead, I bounce in his lap and claw at his back. I start to move toward my orgasm, wanting to keep moving how he likes, but it's so hard and my clit is so tight. I come down for him in shallow movements with shallow breath.

"Come, honey, come on," he says and I do, full of him. I change it and move how I like, deep rotations, as he burrows into me, as my rhythm makes him come. He yells out, his head thrown back, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. He never muffles it or screams into my shoulder. It's right out there and I watch it with as much excitement as I feel it, his come kissing me back between my legs.

We make real plans a few days later and I meet Troy for a movie with a headful of doubt. The conversation won't work. We're talking about the book the movie was based on, but I didn't read it, so I don't agree with his argument against the movie. We're walking with no aim and I ask if we should go to his house and make dinner. He agrees. The minute we get inside, I give him a kiss to make sure things are all right, then try to kiss the disagreement away. We're standing in the hallway, and his shirt is off quick as a candy wrapper. I'm kissing him thoughtlessly and well, move down to his chest. He pushes his erection forward to meet my belly. He pants hard and undoes my blouse.

"I want you right here," I say. He says nothing. I keep kissing and it feels strange, like it's something he's allowing me to do. His palms sit on my hips.

"What?" I peer into his face with a raised eyebrow.

"Nothing."

"What, Troy."

"We were in the middle of a conversation."

"I thought I was continuing the conversation."

"By fucking me in the hallway."

I let go of him, step away from his arousal and anger. "Okay. You can come over unannounced and fuck me, but I can't do the same. Thanks."

"That's not it. I'm sorry to stop this cold, but--"

"What? I want you, all right? Why is that a problem?" Paris wanted Helen and accepted the consequences. The most romantic story there is. Or maybe he was an asshole. She ended up with her husband anyway, after all that war and death. Stupidly, I babble some of this at him and make no sense.

"Jesus, Kate. I'm not a myth. And I'm sorry, but I didn't like that movie. Why is that a problem?"

I can't see how I look but I know I'd hate it. Rejected in his hallway, my blouse unbuttoned and no shoes on. For a moment I push the scene further on to what could have happened: my leg braced against the wall, Troy pushing inside of me as we clutch each other's hands. What I can't explain to him is that I wanted to give it to him a present. He told me once that he'd never made love standing up and he fantasizes about it. We're close in height so it could work. I loved the record album. I love how he makes me feel. I love to watch how he moves through the world. I even love fighting with him, but I want to apologize, to give him something he'll love. But I'm unprepared.

"I'm sorry," I say. Because I can't explain it well enough to make it work. I turn my back and button up my shirt because I don't want him to see.

"Are you cold?"

"A little. I need a sweater." I stand there and stare at him like maybe he'll knit me one. He looks down at his feet. I realize what he must think, that I just want to screw him rather than deal with the fight. He doesn't offer me anything.

"Can I borrow a sweater?" I say softly.

"Yeah," he says. "Take what you need." Then he goes down to hall to the kitchen, to fix me a silent dinner.

The next day I take the train home from work, thinking "why learn new computer languages when I'm so inept at English?" It's the worst weather we've had in weeks, the worst since I've met Troy. Winter will not come quietly this year; it's rampaging and screaming already and it's only October. I think of his day job, booking tours for bands that are just barely of interest to the college crowd. Not what he was looking for but it's working out and he can be around people who love music, keep up with the industry, with his band. He picked the right thing and it's an impressive choice. I miss my stop and stay onboard until I get to his.

Walking uptown, I recognize the markers of a night at Troy's -- the bodega where we buy condoms and ice cream, the statue of the Blessed Virgin in the playing field of a Catholic school. A pay phone. For five minutes, I face off against it in the rain. My thoughts read, call him, don't call him, love him, don't love him. Why love wins is hard to say. Maybe because it already did, maybe because I think I might be too late. My quarters roll in to the slot and I wait, every pulse in my body stopping between rings. He picks up.

"Hello?"

"It's raining," I say.

"I can see that. You left your umbrella at work, didn't you?"

"Yes. I love you."

"What?"

"I'm two blocks from your house. And I swear to God, Troy, we can talk about it until it's time to go to work tomorrow. I should have told you before. But I just want to be with you right now. That's what it's always been for me, when we're together. Because I love you."

There's silence. I picture his hand gliding up and down the phone cord in thought. He does that sometimes with the mike stand when he sings backup. I saw it when his band played a local club last month. It made me think of other things.

"I'll dry you off," he says and I practically throw the phone into the receiver. On the dash to his apartment, I hit every puddle I can.

Troy is spread out beneath me, the bedsheets curled in a heap around him like a frame around a perfect photograph. The sheets were unmade when I got here and we're just going to keep unmaking them. Everything is damp and warm, from my boots drying by the radiator to his shoulders which got covered with my wet hair. I'm over him and I look down the length of my torso to take in all of our nakedness. My hips bloom out around him, so much rounder, and I echo this roundness with my movement, circling slowly like a belly dancer. I clutch at him sweetly with the muscles inside and a moan slides from between his lips. He reaches up to hold my breasts, rolling my nipples between his fingers, smoothing the rain off. I take his hands and bring them to my mouth.

"Just for you, now," I say, rising high, coming down around him. "All for you." His fingers part my lips and I suckle at them, hungry for his taste and his reaction. I ride his cock, deliberately slow so as to stretch out our joy. We chose each other with little thought and now I've stolen him, running off without a word of sense. The thing that always got me about Paris and Helen, maybe any story, is that they somehow know after one look. That could be simple lust, or a dramatic device, but it happens so rarely. All I can do now is try to do it well, and take turns with Troy, being lover and beloved.