December 7
December 7
So I’m f*****g his face, I mean really f*****g it. Long harsh thrusts that take in all my anger—the lousy job, the rattling bank account, the lost boyfriend, the twelve hundred dollar Manhattan rent—all the rage I keep sunk in my desperately shaped-up little gym ass. I’m rage-shoving it easily into his mouth. It’s all I can do not to say “take it fuckhead,” because I know he’s dying for me to say it and I want to but, honestly, the look of his big white eyeballs and lips and fat dog-like slobbering tongue is almost enough to get me off.
We’re ten minutes into it, on the floor of my kitchenette, and I’m flagging a little, speaking in hushed tones because my studio shares a wall with the apartment of a sweet twenty-something couple. Through the wall I can often hear them chatter about Pottery Barn and Cheerios. I imagine they will hear me yell “Suck my white c**k with your hot black lips.” So I whisper it and he—let’s call him Bing—Bing seems to really like my softer tone. But I can see his knees hurt. I touch his shoulder as he groans in what I think is pain.
Bing’s skin is slick from an elegant mix of dewy perspiration and funky Ethiopian oil. Of course it could be baby oil for all I know, but I imagine it more exotically. Truth is, I know squat about Bing. We typically talk as he exit-dresses, never before. During our second f**k, it came out that he was a jeweler by day, a painter by night. Disappointing, because I had fantasy tagged him as a 22-year-old brain-damaged drug dealer on parole.
Bing has shifted, panting, with my c**k in his mouth. He’s losing momentum as he lifts his knees and leans back on his haunches. I am meant to follow, to stray forward to keep our fifteen minute rush of wild s*x moving. Because in too long a pause, the whole delicate fantasy collapses. I do lean forward, but hesitate, realizing Bing’s knees must really ache. I wonder if I’m being cruel or a bad host, which opens a peep hole into my bland, non-sexually charged thoughts and in milliseconds I wonder if the floor is clean enough to be kneeling on and if Bing could ever replace my ex-lover and why this s*x right now is so mind-numbingly hot and so much better than the rest of my awful day.
I tilt my head back and for a split second glimpse, on my kitchenette wall, a yellowed image of the exploding USS Shaw battleship. Scrawled in the image’s corner is Pearl Harbor, December 7, 1941. I need to take it down at midnight and put up my dead mother’s advent calendar, something she did religiously on this date when I was a kid. The calendar kicked off her three week build to Christmas. My father, also dead, served in WWII, which is why they hung the Pearl Harbor thing in their kitchen the rest of the year. The advent calendar is cheerful and has little gifts that stick onto days of the week. This whiff of nostalgia is having a dreadful effect on my hard-on.
If I linger here, I will fall dangerously close to the s*x death spot of uber-realness. Before my c**k slackens and melts out of the side of Bing’s mouth I thrust mega-hard and speak loudly the lines we both love: “Suck it! Love the white c**k! Say you love it, fucker!” And he does say it, and I c*m as expected. Not “in your f*****g black mouth,” but safely on his soft cheek, a few drops on his shoulder as he falls back and then. Bing leaves.
