Tres DĆas y Dos Noches en el Dos Mil 16
(Somewhat) one sided, angst, college au, x (fem)reader adjacent, cunnilingus, vaginal sex, drug/alcohol use
(Sorry for the long wait you guysss as it turns out grad school is really harddd)
He arrives to pick me up around 10:30, itās Saturday night. He shows up with his disposition in a full one-eighty from when he dropped me off last night. Heād then gone full silent-treatment on me from the moment weād gotten in his car again until heād pull up outside my apartmentāa shared, studio-sized, but three bedroom apartment above a Chinese restaurant in the middle of Santurce.Ā
Ā Ā Heād only tell me to have a good night and grab my bag for me out of the back seat before looking right back down at his phone to ignore me while I got out and headed inside. Iād shoved down the sick feeling in my throat and locked myself in my room for the rest of the night, telling my roommate not to bother with dinner for me and making up an excuse about an early morning. I spent several hours trying not to cry every time I thought of the cold shoulder he was giving me, staring at our messages; my last sent text from the afternoon still on read.
Nothing has been resolved since, we havenāt talked it over, havenāt texted. In the morning I woke up, showered, and left on a walk before the sun even came up just to clear my head. I listened to music and ignored the nausea in my stomach. I thought about school instead, about what Iāll do for a small upcoming project for my creative writing elective.
Ā Ā I laughed to myself as the headlights of a car passed and I thought about writing a short story about a girl who was in love with a boy from one of her classes. Just vomiting all my feelings up in a Word document, changing the names to those of my favorite characters from TV, selling it like itās not just my current lived experience. Itād be an easy A.
The typical time heād wake up in the morning came and went with no usual good morning text, and I didnāt send one myself. I got no apology or explanation for the awkward situation at his parentsā place. And in return, I didnāt reach out either. Never told him what the problem really was. Not because I donāt care, obviously I careā¦ but because I donāt want to push if itās just going to topple everything. Deep inside I know itās patheticā¦
I was cleaning up in my kitchenette from where Iād gotten Subway after being hunched over a word document, writing a research paper all morning, when my phone buzzed on the tile counter. First text back from him since and heād simply asked if Iād go out with him and some friends tonight. No acknowledgment of how I may feel or what happened. No sorry.Ā
Ā Ā But I agreed. For some reason, I agreed. Told him it sounded good when he said heād come get me later tonight.
Maybe it was the way I always have to try to fix things before breaking them off. Maybe itās that I swear if I just keep coming back heāll admit thereās something deep there. Maybe itās just the fact that he asked and I have my own desperation to feel. A need to chase any affection Iām shown. Find that feeling that surely felt like love the first few times we hooked up.
Now here he is, holding a bouquet of flowers out towards me on the stoop like thatās all it takes to get my forgiveness. Long, white strappy petals of zephyr lilies and watercolored pink magnolia flowers with babyās breath tucked between every long, green stem. Heās dressed in all black; button up shirt undone to his sternum, tight jeans, chains on his neck. Sunglasses low on the bridge of his nose, messy eyeliner, dripping in diamond encrusted jewelry. Rings on every finger. He even smells of something herbal and vanilla, some expensive cologne.Ā
Ā Ā He looks like someone youād see amongst backup dancers in an old, kinda bad reggaeton music video on MTV or TCVāmeanwhile I stand on my front steps in sweatpants, half ready, hair still damp from an earlier shower. Heās shown up a few hours sooner than Iād expected of him.Ā
He smiles warmly when I finally take his bunch of flowers, but my expression doesnāt change from the blatant confusion that first crossed my face when I opened the door. I invite him in while I get ready, despite the fact that all my roommates are asleep. We hardly speak aside from me telling him to be quiet as I palm the doorknob at the top of the steps. When I fill a vase from the kitchen sink and put his flowers in the middle of the counter to rest, he sits on my couch and stares at his phone with his sunglasses pushed up on top of his head. One arm draped over the back of the couch, legs spread out wide.Ā
Ā Ā I later catch a glimpse of him texting when I come out from putting on makeup, dressed with my shoes in my hand. Long blue and grey text bubbles take up sections of his screen. Heās messaging in paragraphs; something out of character for how I know him.
He thumbs the home button when he feels me beside him, and presses his knuckles into his lips like heās too focused on staring at the nothing on his home screen to look up at me. I make a point to look away. At this point, itās none of my business.Ā
Ā Ā I was considering washing my hands of him. Letting this fizzle out the way it should. But when he texted me, I couldnāt leave him on sent like my instincts told me to. Like I tried to for thirty whole minutes after his message appeared on my lockscreen.
Instead of doing whatās rightāwhatās good for meāI picked up my phone and I responded. I told him to come over.Ā
Ā Ā Thatās probably my second mistake.
Anywayā I havenāt dressed up. Not extensively. I have on nice, black jeans with purposeful holes blown into the knees and tears up the thighs. A cute cropped tank with some dainty gold jewelry. My fit doesnāt taint his, nor does it show off. Itās just my average, street clothes. I sit to tie my shoes beside him on the couch. I can feel his body heat up my side as he shifts to the side to pocket his phone.
Ā Ā āHueleā bien rico,ā he says. Quietly, so that maybe the rest of the house wonāt overhear.
His hand finds the gap of exposed skin on my curved back, the cold metal of his rings imprinting there. I prickle with goosebumps as I wrap my laces around my fingers and cinch the knot. He doesnāt move his hand, just keeps it resting there like itās some kind of reassurance for him. Probably not for me.
āGracia,ā I reply, mostly just breath into my knee.Ā
As I lock the door and turn to walk down the steps beside him, I realize I have no idea where weāre going, who weāre meeting, or why he decided to invite me along. I think about asking aloud but when we reach the last step I feel his hand snake into mine, fingers lock around mine, warmth of him seeping into me.
Ā Ā It flips my stomach so bad I almost freeze in place. Beni looks over at me, a smirk slow-rising like he knows just what the small gestureās done to my insides.
āYou know, tĆŗ siempre te ves muy linda,ā he tells me, voice low as he leads me to where he parked across the street, āpero esta nocheā¦ā
Ā Ā He trails off, pulling me closer until our feet stop moving and heās no longer just beside me and suddenly weāre pressed chest to chest and stalled in the middle of the street. His lips fall open as we make this, sort of, deep eye contact like heāll continue the thought, but instead he cups my face and drags me in for a kiss.Ā
I can taste whatever chapstick he has on, something sweet like coconut. It mixes with the waxy, sugared film of my lipstick and the subtle touch of smoke and vape in the back of his throat. He grips around my waist and leans down into my height, I rise onto my toes and cup his face. He pushes against me, pulls me in tight.
He, in fact, breathes me in through his open mouth like Iām the first breath of fresh air heās had in all his life. Holds me like Iām the last bit of the shore in his claw as heās being cast out to sea. His teeth bite and pull at my lower lip, dragging us apart. I catch the thin slits of his pupils behind half shuttered lids and curtains of his eyelashes for just a moment before he goes back in. His fingers tangle in my hair and I grip onto the sides of his shirt under his arms; he huffs a sigh out against me so heavy itās vocalized in his throat and vibrates in my weakened knees.
When we get to his car, he watches me walk around and get in from where he settles into the driverās seat. Before I have even found my seatbelt heās lit a joint, put his sunglasses back on, and is pulling away from the curb so fast his tires squeal against the weathered, city asphalt. The car shucks as he straightens the wheel and the tape in deck sputters and I canāt help but laugh a little to myself at the lunacy. The ease grows back slowly as he seems to act like his same old self.
Instead of Yandel, now itās Rasta y Gringo. The song cuts out with every boquete he hits on my old, never repaired roadābass buzzing out of his overused, tinny sound system.
Ā Ā He clicks his tongue at the way I put the seatbelt on all fast at his reckless driving and passes me the joint. He only glances my direction under his glasses, I hardly catch it as I pinch the crutch and draw smoke in from the glowing orange ember. I take a hit or two before passing it back, I breathe the smoke out of my nose. And this time his eyes stay on the road.
The incoming wind blows my hair like crazy through the cabin, the weed in my system makes the cold, saline air feel like gentle care caressing my face. His hand finds my knee every now and then, warming something within me.
Ā Ā I watch passing dark waves beyond the highway sparkle in the moonlight, and suddenly, I can hear the bass of the music before I can even spot where the party heās taking me to is.Ā
The sound is low and constant through the car doors, thrumming against all else. Like a scene from a movie as it comes into view around the corner. Misty LED lights from atop this building, strayed and lonely along the coast. Thereās people spilling out onto the sidewalk, leaning against cars, perched on stoops with red cups and loose limbs as we roll up. He slides into a tight spot on the curb like the space between a large, lifted truck and the honda civic behind him was kept just for him.Ā
Ā Ā No hesitation nor circling back, just kills the engine and cranks up his window. He sits there for a second with his hand on the wheel as I follow. When I turn heās looking at me, but before I even have a chance to ask him whatās up, heās pushing out the door.
He comes around the car before I have even touched the doorhandle. Already, heās there, opening it for me, reaching out to help me step up onto the cracked, abandoned sidewalk. Instinct, his hand fits into mine, warm and careful with attention. His fingers slot between mine when he shuts the car, like theyāve been waiting all day. Like him pushing me away yesterday was some weird fever dream.
Buildingās nothing special. I presume an old few apartments, since left to rot like the rest of the concrete shells around here that mend with the sand and sink into the ocean. Degrading concrete cracked and broken, old rusty metal door he holds open for me, stairwell lit in an old, flickering yellow light that makes things feel a little sickly.Ā
Ā Ā Voices chatter insideāI can see people sat on a couch and stood around in the nearly dark, smoke-filled room as we walk throughāa few phones lit up on faces I donāt recognize. As we climb the stairs, our footsteps echo in the tiled hall. The strong scent of cheap perfume gets stronger; juuls and weed, spilled drinks, maybe fried food from somewhere nearby. But when we open the rooftop door, it hits me full force.
Lights strung overhead over clothes lines and electrical posts in lazy lines. The biggest speaker I have ever seen set up on a plastic table with a mess of cups and bottles and plates of food around it blasting trap music so loud the vocals distort. People everywhereādancing, talking, pressed together in little clusters that break and reform like waves. People in the back in a (surprisingly, filled) in-ground pool, ground lights on, people scattered along the concrete patio, down on a decaying wooden deck, all the way down creepy looking stairs and around a fire on the beach.
I drag my heels as he pulls me with him into the clustered crowd of intoxicated bodies. My own vibrating like a live wire with the weed high peaking. This is a whole different world than I am used to and I have no idea what the fuck Iām suddenly doing in the middle of it. I can see myself here very soon just tucked away in a corner trying to distract myself with my insta feed and twitter and wishing I could be at home finishing my homework.
Ā Ā But his hand tightens around mine and he glances back over his shoulderāeyes lidded, glasses on his head, lips parted with that lazy confusion. And he smiles, just a little. And he reaches around my waist and our hips meet and suddenly I am pressed very close to his chest.
His body heat bleeds from the unbuttoned top of his shirt as he tugs me forward, āven,ā he reassures, āte tengo, mai,ā like thereās no version of tonight where I donāt remain attached to him.
Ā Ā We step into the heavy traffic together, my hip stitched to his, hand gripping his bicep. He finds the edge of the table and parks. I keep my eyes down as he pours up a weird concoction of whatever liquor is there into a solo cup, and passes it to me. I take a sip and wince at the sharpness on my tongue, the bitter burn of whiskey and rum and maybe tequila or something all just poured on top of each other. No mixer. No chaser. No lime or salt rim cocktail glamour. Just shocking, straight alcohol.
Heās nearly poured a second one for himself when across the way someone shouts in our direction.
A man with medium-brown skin, scruff on his chin to match his fluffy hair, and bright white teeth. A look in his eye like he might be high on something harder than anything Iād ever touch. The sweat practically drips off of him and soaks into a tight, red T-shirt. He weaves his way through a group of women beside us and settles beside Benito, giving him a hearty bump to the shoulder with his own. So much so the liquid in Beniās cup sloshes and he almost spills what heās pouring.
Ā Ā āĀæQuĆ© es la que hay?ā He returns, not even looking up yet. And as he begins talking to this guyāwhen he cranes his neck, pushes his glasses up back on top of his headāthis is where his demeanor changes.Ā
But now, unlike times in the past when I have been somewhere with him and his friends, he doesnāt grow distant or cold. In fact, as soon as his hand has parted with the bottle of johnnie walker, itās clasped over mine on his arm and pulling me into their conversation.
Ā Ā Heās warm, open, and alive in a way that feels almost generous as he smiles and laughs at whatever theyāre talking about.Ā
āEsa es mi jeva,ā he introduces me, and my heart grows full. Mi jevaāmy girlālike itās so obviously the right choice of words. It sounds established, like we share something deeper than just sex. Something greater.
Ā Ā I slip my hand out from under Beniās arm to switch which one I hold my red little plastic cup of death in and reach out to shake his friendās hand. He grins at me with those bright white teeth and calls himself Micheal. Benito mentions he was one of the guys he worked with on this song he showed me last week, a song with the working title of Polaroid. It wasnāt my favorite, but I listened to it in full off the file he E-mailed me and later sent him a paragraph on everything I liked, nonetheless.
He tells his friend, Micheal, all about how Iām into film, sort of running off at the mouth. How I have a Sony camera of my own and have produced several passion projects for school and as a hobby. His friend doesnāt look too interested, but nods along and keep smiling at me, jokes that maybe I could film a music video for them. I kinda laugh along, but deep down my stomach is still turning from Benito calling me his jeva and my heartbeat is loud in my ears. Every thought I dwelled on last night has left me. And I canāt decide whether any of itās the fault of the weed or the anxiety or the implication that I mean more to him than I do and the kind way heās acting towards me.
We follow him over to a group sitting in a semi-circle in a conglomerate of plastic lawn and metal folding chairs. I recognize a few faces, maybe from class or in photos Beni has shown me, but I know none on a personal level. Just a bunch of guys around our age who, presumably, all know each other. I watch Benito make rounds of side-hugging and fist-bumping most of them, simply waving to a few others; Micheal hands me a chair and then he pulls his own up beside a guy with his face buried in his phone and the brim of a baseball cap. He reclines back in the metal chair and pulls a hefty-looking blunt from a pack of Swishers.
Ā Ā Benito slumps into the spot next to me, our knees brush, and he raises his cup like a salute to the next smoke.
āYo,ā he drags out, like heās already wasted out of his mindāand he might be, āpĆ”same eso ahĆā¦ā
Ā Ā Mike lights the end and takes a few puffs before leaning forward and they exchange the blunt through two fingers.
āAchoā¦ā he croaks, long, while turning it over like a prized jewel, āesto estĆ” cabrĆ³nā¦ā
Mike nods and lifts just his fingers up off where his palms are planted on his knees. Like saying a humble thank you. Benito takes a drag from it, thick smoke trailing from his lips, then passes it my way, to the left as they begin talking aboutā¦ whatever.
Ā Ā I take one hit off it, still feeling the joint from the car, holding the hit down without even meaning to. As I cough out smoke, Benito flicks his thumb at me like telling me to keep passing it. So I pass it to the guy sitting next to me whoās already leaning in with his arms on his knees and pull my phone out quick to distract me from the fact Iām out of place.
I scroll through my twitter feed, not even really paying attention to the videos I click on and like. Just thinking, trying not to feel like Iām intruding on his social life. I can feel the weed soaking into my skin, a deeply seated warmth within me. That slow dragging feeling turning into something flowery and floating. I take another sip of my drink, one that might be too long, and tap to expand some silly cat video.
I zone out most of the conversation; just a circle of guys I have never met chatting on about music, video games, girls, the new Star Wars movie coming out this year, how they think itās going to taint their fond childhood nostalgia. Something deep suddenly in my ribs settles with the weedāanxiety dissolving into the air with the smoke, melting into something that almost makes me feel sixteen years old again. Not quite comfort or contentment. Just something familiar.
Ā Ā For a few moments, the years between then and now collapse like a house of cards. Folding into one another. The sticky feeling on my fingertips and the residue on my nailbeds, a sour aftertaste on my tongue. The strange phenomenon of being young enough to believe ever night might become a story worth telling later.
Ā Ā The warmth almost aches. And when I glance down, I realize why.
Benitoās hand rests upon my knee as he speaks, takes turns, nods along. Palm warm over a frayed slit in my denim. Thumb idly stroking back and forth, fingers lifting as he talks. And maybe heās nudged his chair in closer, or maybe he set it like that initially, but his thigh radiates heat into the side of mine with how close heās sitting.
It mixes as another intoxicant in my bloodstream. And I canāt help but smile at the fuzzy feeling circling in my belly. Welling in my chest. But deep down I know the comfort is not him. No, heās the splinter. Heās the ripple that disturbs my soft blanket of ease.
Ā Ā I scroll to the next video, take another sip, try to ignore the sick feeling in my gut which I know stems from last night, then heās turning to me. Leaning in close, talking low when thereās a gap in his conversation. Heās in my personal space now, looking to me with those big, brown, doey eyesā¦Ā
āTodo bien, mi amor?ā he asks, tone gentle. Warm and softly, he speaks, like a hoodie heās pulled off his body and placed onto mine to warm me in the cool breeze that brushes the palms. To pacify the chill in those ripples he vitalizes through my bones.
Ā Ā I blink at him, feeling slow and dumb. The words take a second to hit me through the haze. His hand reaches my thigh. The weedās made everything syrupy; colors blur at the edges and heās so close to me now I can see flecks of amber in his deeply brown eyes. Feel his breath as his chest falls. I think about kissing him, feeling the softness of his lips like pillows between my teeth. āĀæAh?ā
āYeah,ā I force out, voice coming scratchy with the taste of smoke lingering in my dry mouth, āsĆ, todo bien.āĀ
He smiles at me, leaning in to press a quick kiss to my temple. His thumb drags a slow circle on my leg. Just once, like heās assuring heād linger longer if we were anywhere else. Then heās pulling back, turning away, rejoining the conversation as if nothing happened. But his hand stays. Seeping warmth: buzzing, but solid. In its right place.
Ā Ā And thatās the thing about Benito. When he wants to, he makes you feel like the only person in the room. Even in a room full of people he knows. People trying to talk at him, get his attention. Even when youāre trying to sink into social media, trying to disappear. He can grab you and anchor you right backā¦ if he wants.
I stop pretending to be busy on my phone and just watch the way his mouth moves. Watch the way he laughs at whatever Micheal is laughing at, too. The way he leans into the conversation with ease and confidence, but his thumb passes an occasional rhythm on my leg.
Ā Ā Mine, I think, yearning. My weed-brained stupor supplies it. Heās doing it just for me.Ā
Ā Ā Ā Stupid, stupid, stupid.
I know I should be smarter about this. I should remember how cold it felt when he pulled away from me yesterday, how he hardly looked at me when he dropped me back at mine. That this is casual and doesnāt mean what I want it to. He doesnāt love me. That itās just convenient. Him and I are just fleeting pleasure, nothing else.
Ā Ā But Iām high. Iām buzzed. And heās being so fucking affectionate. I canāt help but fall into it, I donāt think anyone else could, either. Not with how tectonic this sudden tenderness feels.
And when he catches me watching him, he doesnāt call me out like he might usually. Teasing and poking fun, or even just acknowledging aloud. Instead he holds my gaze a little longer than is probably necessary, lips tilting into a slight smile. A shy grin. Like a secret shared between just the two of us.
Eventually the group slowly disperses as the blunt goes outāmaybe an hour, maybe two, maybe only ten minutes laterāand weāre as alone as we can be once again, by the old rusted handrail near where the roof overlooks the pool. I have started to feel the mixture of liquor spinning in my temples and my cup contains maybe a mouthful at the bottom.
Ā Ā We have been talking about nonsense for quite some time. Heās been rambling about some TV show from The States I have never seen, telling me the plot and all he dislikes about it. Seemingly just go fill the air. Honestly, I have been zoning most of it out in favor of the debilitating thoughts that keep coming to mind.
Now, he lights a cigarette, something he seldom does, as I lean onto the railing and watch a couple in the corner of the pool eat the lips off each other. A broad shouldered man with sleeve tattoos and a backwards Cangrejeros de Santurce cap, skinny, french-tipped fingers cupping his face. The edge of a sleek bikini lifted by the imprint of hands, every now and then being obscured by the water.
Ā Ā Something in it has my thighs tightening together and I try to ignore the way the orange glow of the lighter off Benitoās face in my peripheral adds fuel to the fire. The way he pinches the cigarette between his lips, cups a hand around the flame, with his glasses up on his head again, eyes narrowed, head ducked into his shoulders just enough to tip the end into the lighter. I swirl the off-colored liquor in my cup. Try to look anywhere but the public display in the pool thatās giving me flashbacks to the backseat of Benitoās car in the rain, to my bed when my roommates have been gone, to the university bathrooms.
Soon my eyes have drifted to leave me wholly staring at him. The orange light falls dark again and he stuffs the lighter back into his pocket. When he catches me looking his way, he offers his cigarette, smoke bellowing out of his nostrils. I go to put a hand up to deny the offer, but instead he takes my wrist, thumb pressing into my pulse. He places the cigarette between my lips for me, eyes locked on mine.
Ā Ā My stomach twists and I take a drag, I breathe out slowly as he pulls the cigarette away slowly. His eyes stutter around my face and he shifts closer. And, here I think I should say something to let the silence between us dissipate, even just a little, but then he dips forward and meets me halfway to catch my bottom lip between his tongue and his teeth.Ā
His hand holds at my waist, cold rings meeting my skin again. He tugs me into his body, his leg almost presses between my legs but hesitates and instead he grips a hand on my ass through my jeans. I open my mouth to him and the kiss gets messy, his tongue against mine, my hand in his hair. It feels like the rest of the world obscures then and there into nothing. Like everything else goes black behind my eyelids as I grab him like a lifeline, tangle fingers in him, drag him in. It's a push and pull. Breathing each other in and out. His hands on my body as much as they can be in public, with a lit smoke between his fingers.Ā
He pulls back slow, lips wet and eyes hazy. A little sexy darkness to his expression as he takes another hit off his cigarette, close. Hand still wrapping my body. Close.
Ā Ā The world slow-fades back in from a flash of light. The loud laughter, splashing in the pool, ocean far away. Ginza by JBalvin. The shifting hue of string lights above Benitoās head swaying with the commotion of the crowd. The smoke shrouding his silhouette.Ā
I watch his eyes search my face. The pad of his palm passes over my back, fingers dragging longer than they should for something so casual. I donāt know what comes over me, maybe I see it replay in his eyesā but I feel an urge hit me like a tsunami and I feel the words come from my chest, to my throat, to my tongue, and out my mouth.
āYou know, you were kinda an asshole to me yesterday,ā I say, feeling the liquor in my cheeks. Right as I say it, I do wish I could shove it back down. But I watch his brow furrow, his eyes squint, that confused little grin crinkle up on his face. And I decide maybe itās better to talk.
Ā Ā Itās instant, so he replies, āay, Āæotra vez con eso?ā
I feel that white hot feeling in my arms the second he says it. That welling up anxiety and heart break heās been seeming to flick on inside me a lot lately. I try to hold back the emotion in my voice:
āĀæCon quĆ©? Como quĆ© otra vez?āĀ
The confusion drops from his face into something flatter, something almost bored. Like he canāt believe I donāt know what heās talking about, like he does when he thinks Iām trying to start something. He shifts, pulls his body from mine, turns his away, leaning on the railing, taking another puff off his cigarette, staring out towards the sea.
I stand there, cup in my hand. Feeling stunned.
āĀæSabes quĆ©?ā I push anyway.Ā
Ā Ā He looks back at me. His eyebrows raise and he glances towards the floor breathing in a sigh. His shoulders shrug and drop and he looks away again and shakes his head.
āEsā¦ no fue naā, pichea.āĀ
āNo es nadaā¦ā I shrink, he drags long on the cigarette and his eyelids fall heavy.
āBueno, fue ayerā¦ no quiero hablar de esto aquĆ.ā
āIt was yesterday. Just move on, please.ā He says, like he needs to translate for me or something, then shrugs again, flicking ash over the ledge. I stare at him for another moment. Another long, painfully long moment. Just waiting, like maybe heāll say something else. Maybe something will click and heāll realize how he hurt my feelings. Maybe heāll get it.
Ā Ā But he doesnāt, he just stands there, slumped over, staring at nothing. So I laugh, just lightly. A sharp little sound.
āSo thatās your answer?ā I try not to sound bitter as he fucks my train of thought, feeling my chest hollow.
āAnswer to what?ā Benito glances back again. Eyes never staying fully trained on me. āWhat answer?ā
āTo what happenedā¦ā I say, fidgeting. āNo sĆ©ā¦ me hubiera gustado un poco mĆ”s de compasiĆ³n. Aunque fuera un mensajito de buenos dĆas. Por lo menos. Me ignoraste.ā
āY sobreviviste, Āæverdad?ā He says it like itās almost a joke, but it falls flat. āTengo una vida tambiĆ©n, tĆŗ sabes?āĀ
Cold. As cold as his response yesterdayāmaybe colder. I feel my face fall just as flat as his attempt at lighthearted sarcasm. I feel it ache inside me, just as it did with his disbelief yesterday. When I said I didnāt want to fuck him anymore.Ā
āDeja de hacer un show por eso, okay,ā he mumbles.
Ā Ā Ā I feel the sting bubble up to my throat and to my eyes. That sharp feeling in my hands and in my chest like Iām about to cry as his splinter grows. As he rips away that softly lined hoodie and tugs away the blanket. As his voice echoes that āfine, Iāll drive you homeā in my head. The same tone that had me choking back my emotions in his car, hiding my face as I walked in the door, dropping everything to the floor in my room and burying my head in my soft pillows. Pretending nothing was real but my bed.
And his eyes flick back to mine and instantly I see the recognition in them. I see it in the way they widen, just enough to even notice. And instantly I feel insecure and self-conscious.Ā
Ā Ā Itās an instinct of mine to want to hide, but my mind scrambles like a feral animal and I canāt think of any way out, so when his arms come around me and his hand pushes my head into his chest, I just take it. I let him do it, let him comfort me.
I stifle back tears, I try not to let my breath stutter or my hands shake against his body or the liquid in my cup. I try not to let my face scrunch up as I feel it threaten to tear out of me anyway.
Ā Ā He presses lips to my hair, my forehead against his shoulder. His arm around my waist again, where it usually fits.
āI didnāt mean it like that,ā he mutters into me, hand stroking my hair. I feel overwhelmingly little and in my head I try to picture that he loves me, not that heās just trying to soothe wounds he picked in me.
When he pulls back, I donāt want to go. But he takes my face in both his hands, smoke from the cigarette dangling in his fingers stinging my eyes further. I try to contain my sad look but the seemingly genuine concern brings the tears forward until theyāre glimmering under my lashes as he wipes them away with his thumbs.
āBebĆ©,ā he hums, voice dropping lower. I look away, try to turn my head but he doesnāt let me. Iām embarrassed now, the high amplifies it for sure. Iām embarrassed I let myself get emotional, embarrassed I showed him this is a big deal to me. āMiramĆ©, mama.āĀ
And for a moment he just looks back. We donāt say anything to each other, neither of us able to find the right words. Iām feeling humiliatedā and he probably is too, if anyone looks this way theyāll see this guy with this flossy gangster persona having to comfort this high maintenance, distressed girl.
āYouāre really upset, arenāt you?ā His tone has softened, heās genuinely trying to comfort me. To smooth over these wrinkles and mend things.Ā
āNo shit,ā I let a laugh slip me in place of a whimper. Defeated. Iām unsure what Iām feeling, undecided what I really want right now. I want to melt into him and forget all these negative feelings. But, concurrently, I want to push him away. Find my own way home just so I donāt have to face him with this heavy bullshit. Make my way back to my front stoop, climb the stairs, lock all this outside. Go to bed and dream of better things, wake up with temporary amnesia for why last night was a drag.
āEso no era lo que querĆa.ā he smiles gently, but winces, shakes his head. āDe verdad, no quise hacerte llorar.ā
āNo estoy llorando,ā I insist, bringing a knuckle up to wipe my nose. He lets me go then he takes half a step back.Ā
āSi tĆŗ lo dicesā¦ā He flicks the ash off the end of his cigarette in a way that might read angrily if it werenāt for the fact I know him. I know heās not easy to anger or frustration. He takes another drag before speaking so quietly Iām not sure if I even hear him correctly.
āWe can leave, you know,ā he tells me through a plume of grey bellowing from his nostrils. It blows out of his face in the wind, ribbons of silk dissipating into thin air, āif itās too much.āĀ
And I do think about leaving, but I bite my cheek instead of opening my mouth. I try never to be so selfish, even if all I really want right now is to go back to bed for the evening.
āBut your friends are here.ā
The wind blows harder, cuts out the music. A bottle breaks against concrete, like the breeze rolls it off a table and onto the ground or something, I donāt know. A group somewhere laughs all at once, a game of beer pong is destroying friendships on the patio in the opposite direction. Thereās a brief silence between us before he answers.
āI honestly just came so Iād have an excuse to invite you and to see you.ā
ā¦So we make our way out of the party. Slowly, albeit. He drags me around to a few people. People heād told heād see, I guess. I down my drink, pour some more whiskey in the bottom as we pass the table of booze, down that too. I let him hold my hand or put an arm around me when he feels like it. It all feels against my better judgement, but anything to numb that underlying festering blister. Something like every step I take threatens to burst it.
I donāt feel the tension leave my shoulders until weāre long down the highway and he pulls his last joint out of his cigarette box and hands it to me to light. That first hit of weed feels like with the air out my lungs it takes all my upfront worry. I pass it back to him after just the first hit and he doesnāt pass it back.
Though, itās not long after that he pulls into the parking lot of a strip mall. He passes through the large lot, through stacks of cars, cranks the wheel with one hand into a stall at the far end of the parking where weāre isolated. I watch the stream of smoke drawing into the air from the joint pinched in his fingers as it lights up in the rising and falling light of streetlamps.
He kills the engine of the car under a stretch of tall palm trees, takes another hit off the joint before finally passing it back to me. The music dies with the rumble and heās already reaching around his seat into the back for his bluetooth speaker.Ā
Ā Ā He really canāt sit in a single moment of silence. Itās almost a bad joke.
I take a hit, french inhale. The weed tingles in my nose and in the back of my throat but Iām so high now it doesnāt burn and I donāt cough. He sets the speaker on the dash as it connects, scrolling through whatever music app he uses to find what he wants to listen to. I donāt think I pass the joint back but it ends up in his hand, smoke illuminated in the white light of his phone screen as it passes out his nostrils.
He puts on some light indie bedroom rock, tossing his phone and his glasses and all the rings on his fingers up with the speaker. He takes one more hit off the joint before ashing it out on the dash and tossing it to the cupholder once itās stopped smoking. In an instant after, he climbs over the seatāshoes on the upholsteryāthen flops himself down backwards into the back. I watch as he slides his body to fit against the door: one leg stretched out on the seat, the other on the floor. It leaves not a solid moment for anything in between the driving and getting physical in the back seat.
I follow his lead, more dazed and crossfaded than Iād like to admit, slipping between the front seats into the back. His hands reach to guide me, fingers brushing my waist as he pulls me into him. My knees sink into the bruised leather, my hips aligning overtop of his. He tugs me forward, harsh into his chest, my palms place flat to the curve of the door behind him.
As I sink into him, his mouth is on me quick. Teeth dragging over the exposed part of my stomach, tongue brushing my skin. His fingers slide under the bottom hem of my cropped shirt and glide the fabric upwards until heās pulled it up and over my chest, exposing my lacy bralette for him to put his hands on.
Ā Ā He thumbs my nipples through the lace, the effects of the weed make the warm embrace of his hands cupping each breast feel like warm honey, like heās slowly engulfing my body in tender heat.
I shift my hips forward to plant myself over his hard-on, I grind denim against denim and he presses his forehead into my collar, lips on my skin. His shallow breath there inspires my body to press into his and he opens his mouth to me.
Ā Ā āMami, te voy a chingar,ā he huffs against my skin, mouth never actually leaving. His lips speak the syllables into me. āDĆ©jame hacerte sentir tan bien, make up for last time ĀæsĆ?ā
I suck in a sharp breath through my nose, lips parted, fingers already at work unbuttoning his shirt. Once I have untucked the black silk shirt and opened it fully, I let my fingers skim over his chest. Over the ridges of his pectorals, the motion of his breathing, down to his navel.
Ā Ā He just watches up at me, waiting. Eager, waiting.
āĀæTe gusta eso?ā Beni mutters, eyes full through his lashes and his brow, hands still on my breasts. Softly stroking, encouraging. Willing.
Ā Ā He truly looks beautiful like this. When heās begging and pleading without saying much. When he lets me take what heās offering. I bring my hand up and cup his face, his jaw, just beside his chin. When I am his focus, heās looking at me. Not over my shoulder, at his phone, the road. Not when his mind is elsewhere. But when his pupils are thick, glazed with something like desire, and his attention is wholly on me. When heās deep in my eyes, when things shift and heās getting what he really wants out of me.Ā
Something that we can both agree on. Us alone, our bodies conferring with one another.
And, personally, itās not that his hairās a sexy mess, that his hot breath is urgent on my skin, that his shirt is exposing every part of him Iād like to caress and nibble and kiss. Not even the hard ridge pressing just right between my legs in a way that warms my lower belly or his thumbs working my nipples to slick me up.
No, itās the need. The want. The desire for me and only me. Even if just a moment in time, on a clock that never stops counting down the seconds left. It doesnāt matter how fleeting.
Ā Ā Itās the way that if I do everything rightāif I give him all he wants, all his body craves of mineāhe may feel that little twinge of something in him that says I want her. I was wrong. Iām lying to myself. This is where I want to be.Ā
āSĆ,ā I affirm, slowly nodding, āplease, no me hagas esperar mĆ”sā¦ā
His mouth opens like he wants to reply but ultimately, instead, he cranes his neck to reach me, kissing me again. His body pushes against mine, moving his arms around me to gently put himself on top of me. My back hits the leather seats, his arm tilting my spine up into him. His thigh presses between my legs as our tongues meet and I wrap my arms around his neck.
He huffs a breath against me and tugs my tits out of each respectable lacy cup, touching me bare now.
āFuck,ā a smacking break in the kiss, āeres jodamente sexy,ā he whispers like he has to keep his voice lower than the music, āyou donāt know what you do to me.ā
I give him my best seductive, into-it giggle as I lend my lips to him again, our teeth scraping as he moves on, trying to unbutton my jeans without upsetting our rhythm. Benito makes a sturdy one handed tug to my jeans, other hand planted firmly on my breast with no plan to let go. I shift to help, and he still struggles, but eventually Iām bare assed on the seats. My jeans and panties around my ankles with my shoes, him shifting to move out of the way as the clothes come off.
Ā āNo he podido dejar de pensar en este totito perfecto desde ayer,ā he continues, moving down my body as he thumbs my folds, āno puedo creer que no me dejaras terminar. No habĆa terminado de sentirte, tan calientitaā¦ tan apretadita.ā
He bites at my navel, skin in his teeth as he pulls. My head falls back into the door, a huffy moan leaving me as he palms my thighs open.
āMe dejaste arrebatao. No podido quitarte las manos de encima en toda la noche.ā
Heās all breath and saliva and sharp teeth all the way down to where his lips then meet his thumbs, spreading me open.Ā
āNo podĆa dejar de pensar en estoā¦ exactamente estoā¦ cada ves que me mirabasā¦ fuck...āĀ
He licks me with a flat tongue, goosebumps raising on my skin. I reach for a handful of his hair with one hand and let him lace his fingers through mine on the other. One thing I have always really liked about him is the way he eats me out. The way heās gentle and soft, building pressure, kissing, sucking, nipping, then works up over time.
Ā Ā My stomach twists but I donāt think itās got anything to do with the way his tongue moves now; not with how he sucks my clit into his mouth, laps his tongue over me in soft circles. Nah. Itās because of his words.
āQuĆ© mojada,ā he mumbles into skin. I shift my hips into him, ball my fist tight.
Itās because every moment I let myself feel less and less usedālet myself feel reassured by himā¦ when we were at the party and he put his hand on my thigh, when he tucked my head under his chin, every time he put his hand around my waistāhe was actually just circling me. A shark in the water, sniffing out where the blood was coming from. Me, a wounded baby seal. Uncoddled by my environment. Unknowing of my searching predator.
Ā Ā He was guiding the night to this moment. To having me in the back of his car again. To getting to fuck me again. When he sensed I was pulling away he pulled me back in and I fell for it.Ā
āFuck, please, papi,ā I groan, letting our laced fingers tug apart as I brace the door above my head, āĀ”ay, sigue, asĆ! Fuck!ā
Ā Ā He slips a finger in, almost like he just wants to feel the way I throb. His head bobs as his tongue works me, grip under my knee with the awkward position the small car provides.Ā
I want it so bad but part of me begins to feel mentally detached. As good as his mouth feels, sucking me off, Iām unsure if I can finish like thisāwith all thatās buzzing in my mind.
Ā Ā Nevertheless, I grip his hair until he hums against me and tense my muscles like if maybe I can just force it, something will click. I close my eyes and again I envision being in another situation. Something different where heās on me and it doesnāt feel like this does.
Where heās touching me with love and care and not like he just canāt wait to fill me up with himself. He adds a second finger, they only slightly pump in and out of me, for the most part they curl upwards inside and try to press my orgasm to the forefront of my mind. Try to urge it out of me. His grip on my knee subsides to find itself reached and outstretched back up at my breast, doing anything to will me to cum for him. Around his fingers and in his mouth.
I take a long breath, something like a sigh falling back out. Arch my back against the leather seats, let my hips sway every time he jolts something in me, gets me closer.
I envision myself and him, back at my apartment, where I have the control. Itās my space, my bed, my body. Heās not just asking for sex, heās not wanting to get off, to fuck me hard, fill me up or pull out and spill across my lower back, then kiss me once before moving on to whatever he has to do next.
Weāre in my bed after heād taken his time to hold and undress me. The soft mattress gives way to our weight, everything is tidy and organized how I like it to be. Weāre alone, invisible to the rest of the world. Even the pictures of friends and family on my dresser are turned over.Ā
Ā Ā Heās making love to me. Clinging to me with everything he has as he makes me feel this good. Kissing down my belly and inside my thigh with grace, not urgency. Building the heat in my belly just off his affection alone. With his attention all over my body and his skin close to mine, not with oral sex and his fingers fucking my cunt and pinching and tugging on my tits. His words poetic in nature by the emotion they hold, something devotional he couldnāt hold back if he tried because he does love me. He wants me. I am capable of being loved and wanted.
When he fucks me he fucks me slow, kisses and talks me through it. Mutters his praise against me, and not just about how good I feel. His hands touch my body, not to force the high but to savor the feeling of my skin. To drink up the moment. And when itās over he stays present beside me. Holds me, continues to talk to me, tell me he cares for me. He cleans me up with something that isnāt a dirty T-shirt and we cuddle. I get to keep kissing him, naked and close under my soft silk comforter and in a bed that doesnāt sometimes feel like plywood. Thereās more than one pillow and the sheets are clean. I donāt dissolve back into that girl he has classes with, who he met at a party, who he has nothing in common with, who he keeps around because her self-worth is so low that the sex comes easy.Ā
āĀæYa casi, mi amor?ā
Ā Ā His voice pulls me out of my head. Out of my bedroom, out of my unrealistic fantasy and back into a parking lot in the back of his beat-up, unclean Honda filled with weed smoke and the stench of cigarettes, after a night I tried to let myself leave him.Ā
I look down, his big brown eyes are looking back up, my hand still fisted in his bleached hair. Itās so damaged it feels dry, like straw. And something in all of it cracks through me like a whip. I feel the sharpness of my orgasm, simply from being overworked, rip through my body. My hips press hard into his lips, grip instinctively pushing his head down, spine bowing as it floods out my mouth.
Ā Ā His tongue presses against me, working slow, dragging out and prolonging the way I pulse against his probing fingers. And fuck, heās so good at that. It feels like hot lava rushing up my legs, through my lumbar, up my chest and into my head. I try to control how hard I grind up into him but I donāt have much ability to control anything, it seems.
āThatās it, nena,ā Benito coos as he comes up. When his fingers leave me I feel empty, so empty and almost cold. He sits up straight and climbs over top of me, sucking his fingers clean of my cum. Heās quick to undo his belt, pulling his shirt up to tuck under his chin, exposing the lines of his torso, unbutton and unzip his pants, pull out his stiff and already leaking cock. He pumps it a few times, thick in his hand, foreskin peeling back to expose the perfect curve of his tip.
We meet eyes and I feel my insides ache, yearning to pull him in and hold him around the neck and let him fuck me so hard he breaks my neck against the door. But deep down inside me thereās fear. A sinking feeling somewhat like doom. Like if I let him fuck me, heās winning and Iām losing.
I almost stop him, I almost put my hands out and push him away despite the guilt that would eat at me for that. He bends over top of me, forehead meeting mine, and he speaks:
āHablame, mami,ā he says, ādime que tĆŗ quieres esto.āĀ
And it overrides my good sense because heās just given me an out. If I truly donāt want it, I can say so.
I believe heās a good man. I believe his intentions are pure, even if sometimes it doesnāt feel that way. Thatās not what stops me from saying no and from telling him that Iām unsure I want to have sex with him. Itās not even that Iām afraid heāll ignore me again, because at this point if he did maybe I could take that as my true sign that this isnāt worth chasing and I could let this die.
Ā Ā No, itās the feeling his words invoke that turn me on. The knowledge that he at least cares enough to ask. That pushes the edge just enough that suddenly my muscles clench and my gut tells me I do want this.Ā
āFuck me,ā I tell him, breathless, feeling my eyelids waver with the heaviness, ālo quiero, papi.āĀ
He smiles lightly and breathes out a shaky sound as I feel him kiss his cock to me, ready to slide in. I feel his heartbeat against mine where we connect. The need to pull him down into me and feel his breath and his skin and hear his strained little quiet sounds in my ear as he fucks me is burning me alive. So I put my arms back around his neck and he pushes the tip in, easing slow with the glide I provide.
Ā Ā Before he presses any further he leans his head down, eyes flickering closed, and he presses a gentle kiss to my nose. One that lingers and then pulls away and comes back for a second and a third up the bridge and between my eyebrows. Itās something that, if I didnāt know any better, Iād think would say I cherish you.
I feel dizzy at his sweetness, sickly, almost, in the way it knots my stomach up. Nauseating like a sugar rush. He brushes hair out of my face then leaves his palm on my cheek as he sinks into me. He rests his forehead on mine and laces our fingers together again. His eyes stay closed but I watch his face twist on the first few strokes, feel his fingers twitch in mine and at my face. His shaky breath on my skin, the tiny cursed out sounds that he presses against my lips as his pace quickens.
Ā Ā I slide my free hand up under his shirt and place it flat to the middle of his back, feeling his muscles tense as he thrusts. When I dig my nails in, they flex and he shifts into me with a low groan and I find myself grinning into his mouth.
Heās beautiful, even in this close proximity. With his eyes shut and his face contorted. Like a renaissance painting, waxy brushstrokes blending the color out on his cheeks. All the dramatic, iconic beauty of a romantic masterpiece. Sunny and luminous like a Monet, something almost gothic and brooding underneath like a Caravaggio. The moon, crescent glow in his eyes of Grimshaw, opening into thin slits that catch me staring. Perhaps itās just a streetlight or the headlights of a car, but the way heās lit above me is stunning anyway.
Ā Ā His hand wraps the top of my head, pulling me in to kiss my forehead once more. I hadnāt even realized he was slamming me into the door until his fist is suddenly softening the impact.
He pulls back to look at me, barely-there beads of sweat on his face and his chest. We hold eye contact, jaws hung, breathing stuttered and gasping. The windows are fogging at the corners, the car is surely shuddering from the outside, weāre vocal enough to be heard through the doors. Iām feeling him swell inside me, watching it grow through his expression, the way he squeezes my hand tighter. And I can only hope that somewhere deep in this action, this space Iām dangling in between adoration and sexual ecstasy is somehow shared between the both of us.
When he finishes, he finishes inside; throbbing profoundly, with his head snuggling deep between my neck and my shoulder, hands on my body clutched in non-intimate places. He stays nestled inside for a while longer, coming down in me, breathing in me, just huffing it off. Letting me feel the expansion of his lungs with each breath, the race of his heartbeat in the pit of my ribcage, the moist afterglow that soaks him.
And when he pulls away itās not so cold. Instead, I sit up, Iāve hardly pulled my clothes back on while heās adjusted himself and grabbed his previously abandoned joint. He pulls me into him, slumped against the door, into his lap.
Ā Ā He smokes his joint, rakes fingers though my hair, hums along to the soft music I had otherwise zoned out. His heart beats against my ear, shirt still open as I lay my head to his chest. He passes me the weed and I pinch it between two fingers, closing my eyes as I draw in smoke. He doesnāt say anything and I donāt either. It just feels like heās guiding me back into him. Back into reality and into life. Out of my head, whether thatās a good thingā¦ or not.
discoholicmusic
ellievsbear
annaxmalina
stormborns
pixelskylines
snowghoul
theartofmadeline
