Who do you love? He sang along crazy to the Bo Diddley song and looked at me over the candlelight. His eyes were deep, a brow strong and kingly. Who do you love? I wiggled, under the duvet and safe. He smiled, a mouth, kind. I wriggled, giggled; he made me feel like a little girl. I sensed that was how he wanted me to be. He was clean and smart in dark blue, navy t-shirt, dark blue trousers- clean cut yet a rough chin and dark around his eyes. I liked this. It looked as if he had lived. He held the joint in his fingers, shadow on his chin, which jutted out as he sucked deeply on the roach. He was strong. I felt overpowered. A demonic smile. Sexual danger.
“B”, he sounded like a black man, looked like a black man in the shade, his brow smoothed and puppy dog eyes as he put out the spliff in the ashtray. He pulled down his tracksuit trousers and stepped out. His erection smoothed from his body, just another taut, tanned muscle. He held it in his hand, started rubbing, rubbing. Held it against his hard body builder’s stomach and let go. It sprang out, straight and smooth. “B”, he said again, looking at me, puppy dog eyes. Warm candlelight mixed with a heavy feeling of sexual stimulation and fear. A strong man, a disciplined man, weight training equipment in the corner of the room. A sexy, street fighting man.
He walked up to me where I was lying on the bed and pulled up, and off, his t-shirt. A wide chest, firm and defined from his workouts. And such a handsome face. Such a handsome face. Eyes dark in the candlelight. He transformed again. Italian eyes like a gangster from a movie. Holding his dick in his hands. He looked down at his erection then up at the ceiling with an exaggerated horny expression, comical. He flicked his dark, sexy eyes upwards as if he was doing something wrong. I laughed. He looked so naughty. He wanted it. I wanted it. He looked at me like an animal then smiled. Taut muscles like he wanted a fuck, like an animal. He pulled back the duvet. Still warm in the candlelight, I twisted my body. Lay on my side, wriggling my toes. Looking sexy for him. For him. Little woman, for him. I looked at him from beneath my tousled hair and we both smiled.
Naked, he lay next to me. I gently touched, then kissed his strong chest. “Get on top,” he said. Not nasty. I jumped up, straddled his chest, pussy in his face. “Get on.” My hand was next to his temple; the other guided the smooth muscle into me. Down, up, carefully. Moving slightly. I moved up and down, up and down and began to relax. I leaned forward; let him do the work, a thrusting pelvis as I moaned against his ear. Penis. Vagina. Cunt, prick. Indistinct, together, merging until androgyny, male, female, as one. I have a prick and he has a cunt.
I rode him, big strong man; his arms were behind his head. He was moaning softly, like a woman...
...“Don't flick ash on the bed,” he brushed it off with his finger. Fussy.
“I didn't, it just fell,” I leaned, dreamed, one arm against the pillow. When he is angry he is like an Italian, I thought. I like it when he makes love to me. He likes me to wear make-up in bed. He likes my bleached blonde hair and red lipstick. I brushed the bed where the ash fell.
“Don't do that, you're making a mess, B.”
“Do you like me?” I asked, him, suddenly, intensely and put the cigarette out in the ashtray on the side, whilst the feeling of rejection, an old wound flared up, sore.
It's just sex. Just sex. I like his body, he likes mine but now I'm looking for something more. Love? And I don't even know him, he hardly knows me and I feel used and dirty and low.
“Do I disgust you?”
“Do I disgust you?” he repeated, not asked, “what are you talking about? Taking the piss aren't you?” and he lay back staring at the ceiling, “just get out.”
He has had me, now he doesn't want me. Just a doll to play with and put down, a rag doll. Used, abused and all the old clichés.
The wound, rejection, flared up and bled; it bled into every crevice that could, should contain love, or at least an intimacy or warm high from sexual enjoyment.
The old cliché- he's just like all the others. Just get out? Used and abused. The bastard. God, I could just be anyone. Any old tart. Who the fuck does he think he's talking to?
I turned around and swiped his face, smack, then hit him hard in the chest. “You silly cow!” He grabbed hold of my arm. I fought back.
We’re fighting. We're out of the bed, I’m naked, he’s wearing his navy t-shirt and he’s weaving, dodging, pulling me to the ground and I’m hitting and angry and dirty and used. I grab the stem of the yucca plant from the top of the television and flail it at him and we fall, fall.
I was lying in the corner by the door, him half on top of me, the soil had come out of the pot and the plant was next to me, roots exposed. I was crying. “I was never loved by my dad,” I cried, “never felt loved by my dad.” He had his hand on his chest, facing me, close.
“I was never loved by my mum,” he said, voice straining.
And it’s over. Too depressed to say sorry, to say anything really and it's over. I just get dressed and walk out, back into town towards my flat. Hollow and useless. It is over.