by Sarah Parr
(07/18/07)
I told him no the first time, because I didn't want to look like a whore, but I did let him stick his hands down my pants and up my shirt and I did let him spoon me on his tiny less-than-twin bed. I told him yes the second time, because he kissed so well it made my head spin and because the way he said my name made me think of dirty dirty things.
He was British and he laughed at my accent, told me I could never say his name right. I didn't complain about how he said mine, but it certainly wasn't the way my mother said it. We met at a bar in Buda, and he took me back in a taxi to his place up in hilly Pest. Looking out over the river and the city, I'd stand naked at his windows and watch a spring thunderstorm or a bright red sunrise.
At first, I thought he was a little traditional, always wanting to be on top, my legs around his hips, my head hanging off the end of the bed. Then, after the 69 and the time when he asked me politely if I liked having my hair pulled while being fucked from behind, I realized that his affection for missionary was just a way to keep him from coming so fast. To be honest, I preferred to be on top myself. He was huge, I mean, the largest dick I have ever seen. I wouldn't have thought so of such a slightly built man, but there it was. When I was on top I just ached with it, but we'd both come so quickly that it wouldn't hurt for long.
Sometimes we'd meet earlier in the day and spend a few hours catching a film in English, because he didn't speak a single word of Hungarian, or getting a cappuccino, or browsing through bookstores, and just generally putting off sex until we couldn't possibly stand it anymore. Then we'd go home, have a cup of tea like civilized people, chat with his roommate for a little, go in his room, maybe talk about the book he was writing, or the research I was doing, and then suddenly -- always suddenly -- we'd be fucking. Silent, violent sex. He slapped my ass once, but it hurt too much so I told him to stop. I used to bite him on the shoulder, really hard, and once he brought his head up when he came and hit my teeth and cut his forehead so much it started to bleed all over the duvet.
He was always amazed at how easily he could make me come, and one time I remember he challenged me to hold off as long as I could. He asked me questions about the ethics of an oil-pipeline in Alaska while his right hand alternately dipped inside me and stroked my clit. I got through preservation of wildlife and dependence on limited natural resources and was almost on to global precedence when I came, shuddering and laughing, on his hand.
I used to suck him off once or twice a week, but when he came in my mouth, it would almost choke me. He loved to go down on me, putting my thighs on his shoulders and getting his lips all shiny. He loved the taste of me, the foreign, wild, American-woman taste of me. I think half the reason he fucked me was that I was American. He'd make me say words and just giggle with the pure joy of it. He liked my enthusiasm about art and music and frowned upon my ignorance of geography and general world issues.
The night I remember in particular, he brought me home earlier than usual because of the rain, and we had just gotten undressed when the lightning began. We ran to look at the show, and he took his camera and we stood there, naked as the day we were born, soaked in the open window. He got a chair and stood on it, one foot on the windowsill, to get a better shot. When he put the camera down, I took his dick in my mouth and wrapped my warm tongue around him. We stood there, his hands on the window frame and his head bent looking at me as I stood with my back in the rain, hands on his ass, making him come into the thunder.
He came hard in my mouth as always, screaming into the night through the window. Then he stepped down and told me to lie down on the floor. I did. It was wet and freezing and my nipples tightened, but then he was on top, hard again, in me, fucking deep as the lightning tore into the room. I could see the sky and the rain and clouds and feel him in me and over me and around me and then I came, loud as the storm, and again, and again, and then I dragged him with me and we both shook with the cold and the heat and the earthliness of it all.
It was nice to have someone in another country, where we both felt alone and had each other to talk to. It was nice to have someone to fuck to remind me that I was still alive, so far from my family for the first time. It was nice to have someone know that a soft tongue and a hard hand could comfort me as much as telephone call or a letter.
I don't miss him, because I see him almost as part of the city, or part of the weather there. If I do, it's like missing the sky glimpsed through the trees behind the house where I grew up.
