You (You #1)(26)

“Lie down,” I command.

“Yes, sir,” you say and your cheeks flush and your nipples harden and your panties are soaked right now. You lie down. I want to grab on to you but there’s no way I’m even kissing you tonight.

“Put your hands on your head.”

“Are we playing Simon Says?”

“No,” I say and imagine if we fucked in here. Imagine. The air smells like beer and bacon and Murphy’s Oil and I breathe it in and you put your hands on your head and there is a God because a little old Bowie plays now and you smile and I watch you smile and think about you naked and because I’m a little drunk I stand up and you hear my chair move and you open your eyes.

“Close your eyes, Beck.”

You do what I say and you speak. “I was just gonna tell you about this album.”

“I don’t wanna know about this album,” I say. This is me training you to treat me special. I’m not some Ivy League asshole who’s gonna respect you because you know about an obscure David Bowie album and I sure as hell ain’t gonna let you tell stories you told Yale guys. You’re mine now and you’ll do as I say and Bowie sings about strangers coming, staying, and you murmur along to prove that you know the words. What a horrible time you’ve had with the Benjis of the world who care about shit like that.

I walk around the table and sit right next to your head. You giggle and keep your eyes closed and you’re not murmuring anymore and you’re throbbing with want. I slouch and kick my feet up on a chair. My cock is inches from your head and your mouth and you can smell it and your little nostrils flare and you swallow, nervous, and I look down at you with your eyes closed and your mouth just slightly open as Bowie crows as if humans are a letdown. He sure wasn’t singing about us, Beck.

“This is nice,” you say before the song is over. “Maybe they’ll forget we’re here and lock us in.”

“Yeah,” I say and fuck it if my brain doesn’t go right to Benji. I want to stay with you forever and yet I have to feed my new pet. Even locked up he’s getting in the way of us.

“Hey,” you say. Your eyes are wide open and the song ended and it’s Led Zeppelin now, too loud for where we are and you know how to give an order. You learned from friends who grew up with maids. “Walk me home.”

“Yes, miss.”

We walk two blocks without a word and both of us have our hands in our pockets as if they have to stay there, or else. We’re both too turned on to make small talk and the night is quiet down here and there’s nobody around and we reach your stoop and you walk up two steps so that we’re standing face-to-face. But I would know that you’ve done this before even if I hadn’t seen you do this with my own eyes. This is your bullshit game. I’m not gonna kiss you, Beck. You’re not gonna tell me what to do with your body.

“This was nice.” You purr.

“Yeah,” I say. No purr. “You got an early morning so you better get in there.”

Conflict suits you, Beck. You see a high school graduate who, in theory, should be trying to jump your bones. You also see a guy who’s read more books than everyone in your workshop. I rock your world and I won’t kiss you and you nod, what choice do you have? You’re pissed and your green pillow’s gonna take a fucking beating tonight and you’re gonna think about me and you’re gonna wait for it, and get sick with want for it, for me, the same way that toddler screamed and waited for his ice cream, the same way America waited for Stephen King and I waited for Curtis, and Benji’s across town waiting on me. You’re gonna wait.

“Sweet dreams, Beck.”

“You want a water for the road?” you say while you’re standing at the door and holding it open, your invitation to come inside, your last attempt.

“I’m all right,” I say, and I don’t look back. You are fucking obsessed with me and honestly, I’m kind of relieved that I gotta deal with Benji and his organic apples and club soda right now or I might follow you inside and wait for you to unlock the door and throw you onto the couch and give you what you want, what I want. But no. You will give me water, but not a fucking plastic bottle as I’m hitting the road. When you quench my thirst, it will be after our first fuck, in your bed and you will bring me a glass of water and we will share the glass and it will be the first of many. I don’t have the strength to turn you down when I want you so bad, but I do have a pansy in the cage.

Fucking Benji: a savior. Who knew, right?

I smile all the way home and at home I tell my typewriters about the night and I rub one out in your honor and shower and slather up in Kiehl’s and download Bowie’s Rare and Well Done so I can listen to it on my way to the shop. I have to go out again. How the fuck am I supposed to sleep when I’m waiting for you to e-mail your little friends about our date? I stop at the deli and pick up Cheerios and milk because Benji deserves a treat too. I’d whistle if I knew how and I enter the shop and trot down the stairs and find Princess Benji pouting and picking at his fingernails. I can tell by one glance at Doctor Sleep that he hasn’t even opened it. I am a professional. I slide the Cheerios to him through the drawer along with a pillow. How nice am I, right?

But the princess sniffs the bowl and backs off. “Is that almond milk?”

“Just read your book and eat,” I say. “The test will be on the first hundred pages. Go.”