by Marie Lyn
(01/12/05)

The bag is transparent, of course, lying there on the futon, and I can see the contents: I see my toothbrush first, and then my deodorant, and the Noxzema, and a hairbrush. It's a little hairbrush, like for a doll. I don't even remember where I bought it. So I decide that I'm at least going to leave that behind, like Gretel with her crumbs -- hoping to find my way back someday. I know exactly what you were getting at, though. I know your mind as well as I know your dick. It's a thank you for the fucking, get out of my life kind of bag.

"You're too young," you'd said, "Too young for me to like you so much."

"Do I remind you of college?" I asked. You were already married in college.

"I wish," you laughed. "I wish I'd known you when I was twenty."

"I would have been thirteen."

"That's not what I mean," you said, stern like a teacher.

"What do you mean?" I asked that a lot, and you never answered. What do you mean? What do I mean? What do I mean to you? Explain. Explicate your thesis. I don't believe you yet.

You were freshly divorced when I met you, the bitterness of your last marriage still lingering, and I knew from the start that you just wanted me for a fuck. It was a tidy arrangement, really, and I thought it would work for both of us.

I loved a lot of things about you.

First and foremost your ass. Before you, before your ass, I never understood what it meant to call a man "sculpted," a real man, that is, not David, not a Greek, not a sculpture.

I loved your cock. I loved testing myself, loosening the back of my throat, seeing how far it could go before I lost my breath. You tested me too, your hands in my hair, dancing the fine line between holding and pulling. I loved you for telling me what to do and how to do it, for rolling your hand in a fist and placing it against your lips, going "See? Like this, have your lips on your hand, like this, up and down, and twist. Cover me, cover all of me."

I forgave you for your Patrick Swayze coif, for the two strands of grey in your nearly jet black hair, for your immaturity.

The first time you hailed a cab and told the driver 'We're going to Brooklyn," you didn't ask, even, if I wanted to come home with you, which was part of your appeal, that raw, unabashed self confidence. I gazed heavy and deep into your eyes, my cheek against the black vinyl, and you placed your palm on my neck, your thumb on the inside of my ear, while your fingers wove the thick drifts of my creamy-brown hair.

You pulled my face to yours. You tasted like beer (like college) and so did I, but as our tongues found their places in each other's mouths, there was no taste but the taste of anticipation. At that moment, there was no such thing as beer, or any liquid beside the ones secreted by our bodies; sweat, saliva, cum.

You moved your hand lower, cupped my breast, round like a tennis ball. You squeezed two middle fingers against either side of my tit and I gasped. It was the best kind of pain. I wanted to be out of the cab, in your bed, anywhere I could remove my shirt and be bare to your chest, which is glossy and smooth and smells like menthol, like Speed Stick.

My hand drifted south, and I closed my eyes as I thought of removing your belt. I thought I knew how it would go; how afterwards you'd run to the bathroom and I would roll over naked in your blankets, lean over the side of the bed to find my clothes and see your belt on the ground, supplicant, a wasted barrier, a useless contraption between your pants and your dick. I knew the beginning, the middle, and the end, and I knew all that without reading ahead. I knew where you were going. I started to unbuckle your belt in the cab, and first you moved your hand onto mine as if to resist, but I slung my right leg onto your lap, grinding my knee against your erection. You changed your mind and let me unzip your fly to extract your dick. It stood up like a mast from your boxer shorts.

You said later that you saw the driver's eyes in the rear-view mirror and that he looked entertained. I couldn't see him -- I was busy licking the length of your shaft, sliding my tongue up and around like your dick was a Dilly Bar.

I sealed my mouth around you, tight, like I was about to lean backwards and drink you like a soda, letting the cream fizz and drip off my chin.

"Jesus," you moaned, elated and surprised, amazed that I was willing to blow you in the backseat. Girls gone wild, and all that. "You suck it good, Stephanie." (Later I told you: don't talk. It's better that way. Don't talk unless you're asking me if I want it harder, but I can tell you already: I do, I always want it harder.)

I knew your wife hadn't been that adventurous, because you told me that, how you once suggested handcuffs and she looked at you like a you were a criminal, and sat on her hands.

You asked her to masturbate in front of you but she said masturbation bored her. She'd been your high school sweetheart. Maybe you just didn't know any better, but I was there to educate you. Intro to What You're Missing. Room: Bed. 11-2am, Friday nights. 3 credits. Prerequisites: Jerking Off in the Bathroom while She Sleeps.

When you told me your wife had never seen a porn flick, I had rolled my eyes and said "No wonder you guys are divorced." I laughed, and you laughed too, but not as hard as I did, and not for as long either. She has a Ph.D in Statistics. "Statistics," I said, "might be the least sexy subject in the world."

In your apartment, there were three pictures of the two of you, one from the wedding, one in Hawaii, and one cheesy Christmas portrait When I came over, I'd flip them down, flat on the mantel, knock, knock, knock, like playing cards, hiding their faces.

Oh, how you writhed in the seat of that cab, my handsomely hung gentleman. What a waste of a cock, I thought to myself, what a waste of a beautiful eight-inch cock, with veins like a roadmap of everywhere you should have been.

The cab lurched and my teeth grazed the head of your cock -- but you seemed to like it. You certainly didn't complain. I've always had this freakishly long tongue -- you know, I was one of those kids who liked to show off how I could pick my nose with my tongue -- and it savored your dick as my full lips pumped it.

Then I pushed my free hand into your boxers and cupped your balls, rolled them in my palms like play-dough, and I extended my middle finger to press hard on that space between your ass and your cock. Judging by your response, I don't think she'd ever touched you there.

I didn't finish you in the cab -- maybe the driver intimidated you, or maybe you were saving it, because you threw him a twenty and ran with me, frenzied, up the steps of your apartment. I felt like I was chasing you, almost, but I guess that's how I felt with you all the time, not just then, not just on the stairs.

Panting, you fidgeted with the lock and I stood next to the door, my back pressed against the wall, trying to look as seductive as possible, doing my best Lolita. I took off my shirt while you were still feeling for the deadbolt, revealing my bordello-style pink bra, and you glanced my way: "Holy fuck, Steph, you're so fucking hot."

I raised my eyebrows, feigning surprise. But of course I wasn't surprised. I knew every inch of my body -- the curve of my stomach, the arch of my foot, the spot on the small of my back that you lingered at, your finger dangling like a fishing line into the wetness your actions caused. I was new. You were unwrapping a present, and the present was not her. I could have been anyone, just not her. I could prove that. The anti-thesis.

I knew she had bigger breasts than mine. So you seemed fascinated with mine, with those soft handfuls of flesh, perky like a teenager's. Alpha Sigma Tau, Alpha Sucka Tit, you sucked and bit like you'd never seen tits before, ever, greedily explored and nibbled, one hand down my pants, the other holding my breast, pushing my nipple forward into the wet expanse of your mouth.

When we lay in bed that night, basking in the glow of instant sexual chemistry, you kept talking about all the things you wanted to do, and you gave examples, detailed examples: "I've never done it in a bathroom, I want to do it in the bathroom, I've never done it in the law library can we do it in the law library..."

Your wife sits on her desk when she lectures, did you know that? She levered herself up there like a kid on a fence, and when she talked I never listened. I took the course twice and still was failing. Failing to show up when I'd rather be fucking. Like a teenage boy, I stared, hoping for a glimpse of her panties under her skirt when she crossed and re-crossed her legs. I imagined you removing them with your teeth (this is how things happen in my imagination) and lowering yourself to her fire-engine-red bush. I imagined you having to rouse her when she wasn't willing, I imagined you on top, lunging like a lumberjack. And then her cunt would melt quickly, once your cock was there, inside, like a glass filled with water.

"Before you write your thesis," she said, "I want you to think of what I like to call the 'anti-thesis.' You're making an argument here," and she would grip the chalk with her fingers which were pale and littered with red freckles, fingers I could summon in my sleep, fingers I sometimes imagined encasing your cock, sneaking between your lips, "So if you cannot argue the opposite of your thesis -- it's not a thesis."

I wondered if you ever nestled between her breasts. I wondered if they were soft like a pillow, if you could fall asleep on them, those mountains with peaks of nipples, the tips as big as bullets.

Remember when we used to bother with dinner? Dinner was extraneous, but I think it made you feel decent, or maybe you just liked watching me drink San Pellegrino from the bottle, even though that wasn't particularly polite. Maybe that's why you never took me anywhere nice, or anywhere in my neighborhood (downtown, the dorms on Eleventh Street) or in yours (Park Slope, the prized apartment, littered with the remains of her, your first draft.)

Stuck in traffic, hitting afternoon rush hour, I would make you play games with me, like I used to do as a kid on long car rides. The alphabet game. Animals. A is for Antelope. B is for Bear.

"Um, anal sex," you stuttered,

"You have to say A is for anal sex."

"A is for anal sex."

I patted you on the head. "Good, good. B is for blow job."

"C is for cunt!" You were proud of yourself.

"D is for....down. For going down on me."

"E is for eating you out."

"Uh-uh. Repetitive. So now you have to do it."

We made it home before "X." X was always a tricky one (unless we did "Musical Instruments"), but I think it would have been easy for us.

"You owe me an E," I said as soon as we got inside. I stepped into the kitchen and stripped. The sun through the windows illuminated my swan-white skin from behind as I lifted myself to the counter and sat, spread-eagled. You pulled up a chair in front of me, your eyes at my pussy. You jabbed one finger inside, then two, fluttering, flicking my light switch, my walls quaking and tightening around you.

You removed your hand to churn the tip of your tongue up and down my clit, then shot your ring finger back inside my hole and I felt that rush I always get when your cock first enters me, that legendary shockwave that roars heavy and lucid through my limbs.

When friends ask me what I'm doing with you, that old man, I tell them. It's men like you -- men who've spent years with only one woman -- who have practiced, perfected, developed, who know exactly where to press their fingertips, who know how hard to bite the lobe of my ear, when to hold back, when to push through. But I did teach you a few things, just a few.

There you were, thumb inside my cunt, a pinkie grazing the rim of my asshole, rousing me with the only kind of pleasure I'm still ashamed of. And the thrash of your tongue --with it, the counter grew slippery, a different kind of spill, and not one to cry over.

You undid your pants, and rose for the fuck.

You always moan: "You're so tight," and I give you that sly smile, the one that tells you I work my stronghold (the gym, it's predatory, all those bodies, all that exposed skin, it makes me crazy, makes me go home and tremble to the chatter of my vibrator), that I can clench those muscles around your cock like she never could (she's soft, you tell me, and I say, no, she's not soft, she's fat), and it's the same smile I give you when you ask if I've ever read the Kama Sutra.

I haven't, by the way.

But back there, on that counter, remember? When I pushed you away with the heels of my feet, reeled you into the living room, shoved you onto the Oriental Rug, straddled you like a see-saw, controlling the palpitation of my thighs, almost accepting your dick and then lifting away from it, and then riding you, my breasts bouncing in the air like a cheerleader's, your eyes rolling back, nothing but hard hard hard and do it harder, harder this time, can't you do it any fucking harder? and when you came inside me you went "Steph -- Oh! Oh God! Oh oh oh!" and I grabbed your arms and said, "O is for orgasm."

Which was only a week before you asked me why I didn't tell you that I was in her class, that you were "appalled" when you saw my name on her class list When? How? When did you see that? and I sat there listening to you, my face blank as a sheet of paper, my arms crossed. We were having dinner (dinner!) in the Village, and when people passed by I just looked at them instead of you.

I wanted your wife to walk by, and I wanted her to recognize me. I wanted her to give me an A, an A for ashamed.

For a week, you were "busy," and then one night I saw you right where I met you the first time. I was leaving your ex-wife's class. You were sitting outside smoking, sitting on my smoking bench, back when I used to smoke, when I used to smoke and fuck you. I stood in front of you until you looked up.

"Hey there, fuck-buddy," I said, squaring you, my target.

"Stephanie," you smiled. "I'm meeting her, in five minutes. We're having coffee."

"How amiable of you."

"I almost forgot how fucking hot you are," you said. I shrugged. "Meet me after? Meet me outside your place, at nine?"

"I'll be there or I won't," I said, clicking my heels, and of course, I went there and waited with baited breath, a young sexpot waiting for her lover, all shaved and showered with a short skirt, no bra, black tank-top, almost transparent. No underwear.

The no-underwear part came in handy when I mounted you in the cab.

And now the bag. I imagine you coming home the night you confronted me, feeling uncertain, still full of me but knowing, knowing, knowing that you had to get done with me and be an adult and somehow did it make you feel better, putting all my stuff in a bag like you were going to mail it to me? Like you were going to bring it to me -- or give it to your wife, this belongs to Stephanie from your Research Methods class, you know her, she sits in the back and stares at you, and she is failing? These are her things. Don't give it to her in front of the other students, okay?

The shower water is still running as I began to dress myself again, but I take your shirt (you won't miss it, it's stained and fraying) and your socks (black, suit socks, I'm sure they were good for the office, now they feel good on me), and I take my pre-packed bag (how kind!).

I leave the brush. I walk out. I walk out and I walk the twenty minutes to the subway, my pussy still supple from the memory of your cum.

Luckily, there are many functions for a soft-bristled toothbrush.

I pump away in the bathroom at my dorm, thinking of you, of the statistics of fucking one's ex wife instead of one's hot young thing, and I think about the pie-chart of who will graduate and who will fail, a list of lovers, all of mine, a list of odds. I think about your point and your evidence, and I think about the opposite of that here is a space for your things, come back, here is a space for your soap, I have a new hairbrush for you, do you want me to brush your hair? I need you, I need you, too.

The odds of her putting two and two together, the odds of orgasms, the odds of our bizarre love triangle, the probability that I'll seduce everyone I want to seduce, the chance of finding meaning, of stopping, of paying attention, the odds that you'll ever stop being scared.

In her office I stare at the place in her shirt where one button has failed to button, where I can see the purple satin of her bra, a wisp of cleavage, as she's trying to tell me how to pass her class, how to get a C, at least a C, how to write a thesis, how to use evidence. I play with my scarf and stare at her breasts and feel dumb.

She reaches into her Birkin bag, pausing in the conversation she's trying to have with me. She pulls out a brush and begins to run it through her hair, and it is small, like a doll's brush, you look like the kind of girl who bites her nails you look like the kind of girl who brushes her hair you look like the kind of girl who bites her nails during sex and brushes her hair afterwards.

She asks me if I understand, asks if I have any desire to pass, do you have any desire at all? and I look in her eyes and everything drains from my pores. I feel void because I constructed sloppily, because there was no point, because nothing added up, because my thesis disappeared somewhere between point A and point B, and point B.

"What are you trying to prove?" She's talking about my paper.

Can you get a C? A D, as in, Do you want to graduate? You won't get an A, not from me, I have no As for you, A is for Why don't you apply Yourself?

I'm angry and she's happy, and I want to tell her that I can teach, too, and that I did.

A is for admire,

and A is for Already the opposite of now, the opposite of the point.

B is for brush, brush, brush.

A is for anti-thesis. A is for After All. A is for Alone, Again.

When I leave the office she stays at her desk, and I turn back one last time to look at her, brushing her hair with my brush B is for bitch and I think, when will I pay attention? When will I get it right?

A is for apology, A is for admit it, admit it.

Admit it, and harder this time.

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