Sex is all about the before and the after – who actually cares for sex in this economy? After ten-hour workdays and a depressing glance at the news one hardly feels like getting sweaty. One would hate to waste their time in someone else’s home, or God forbid invite someone over to yours. The dishes undone and clothes still piled on your floor.
Still, there’s a boy I like to see, and he is in fact a boy, because even though he has two years on me his mama who he calls ‘mother’ pays all the bills. He’s my neighbor in the sense that the walk to his big ol’ townhome with a chandelier in the entryway is only about five minutes. He asks me sometimes why I walk instead of drive, and that just shows that sex for him is all the during. I walk so I can inspect cicada skins and snakes soaking up the last of the sun’s heat on the sidewalk. I walk to listen to the lone killdeer that’s made its home in a barren flowerpot call out to no one except myself. I walk to feel anticipation heighten between the stop sign and the creek I cross into his yard. Avoiding the sidewalk – where there’s a mean dog whose lead goes twice as far as his yard – is just a habit now.
My boy, who ain’t my boy – mostly because he’s some false blonde college girl’s boy – he always has his little show ready for me. I walk in without knocking and he’s got his A/C running and jazz he doesn’t appreciate playing. He pours me dry wine in a crystal glass that I’m much too clumsy to be holding. I don’t like dry wine at all but that shit’s expensive and I’ve learned how to lie, and to fake enjoying luxury even if it never holds up. I prefer rough towels and I’m unable to take any of his talks about stocks seriously. He has stocks because of his daddy, but mentioning that only makes him angry and I’m here for games and mean-spirited observation, not honesty or connection.
He pours me the wine and tries to say all sorts of pretty things that I don’t care for. He’s far from charming or poetic but I entertain him even knowing he’ll never impress me. He’s always impatient watching me drink my wine, so I draw it out just to displease him. He’ll smile tightly through it and try to catch my eye, because as he’s been told eyes are the window to the soul. I don’t let him, happy to remain soulless. I don’t like eye contact anyway. When he starts fidgeting, I usually decide to get moving, because if I don’t, he’ll start telling me about his time studying abroad, and I’ve no interest in stroking my tendency for envy. I pull him by the arm up the stairs in a farse of an excited rush. His bed is always immaculately made and I always make him open up the window. He complains that it’s hot and I complain that I’m cold. It’s not true and even if it was we both make our home in the north. I could handle a slight chill. Really I just can’t stand that it’s nearing eleven and his damn walls are too thick to hear the coyotes singing.
The sex is like anyone else’s. It’s all spectacular to him and a way for me to waste my time. He says sweet things and uses a polite amount of gentleness. We play the game again where he tries to meet my eyes and I avoid it at all costs. Regardless, we fuck and I pretend he’s good at it. Afterwards, he gets exhausted and soft. He runs his fingers through my hair and rubs my back if I ask – though I tend not to. He doesn’t like to smoke, but I’m a bad influence that he likes, so when we’re done, we light up. I have to light his cigarette for him because his hands are always shaking. He blames low blood sugar and I blame anxiety. It doesn’t really matter. We kiss between puffs and he always coughs. I laugh at him on good nights and stay so terribly quiet on bad nights. Sometimes he’ll go downstairs and bring me up a bottle of dry wine. I drink it all. The first time I did he laughed and teased – telling me I wasn’t very lady-like. I wonder if he’d care that I’m not much of a lady at all? He probably wouldn’t remember it, if I spoke it. He drinks scotch the whole time I’m there and I pretend I wouldn’t rather be chugging that.
Sometimes his blondie calls and sometimes his mama who he calls ‘mother’. When that happens, I bother and tease him for the first half of his conversation. I watch his frown turn into a smile when I kiss his cheek, his thigh, or sometimes places that are more intimate, but only when it’s his blondie. I’m not a complete degenerate. He’ll eventually move to the office without me to finish in peace and I’ll make a mad dash to the door, barely sparing a moment to make sure I haven’t left anything. Other nights he gets drunk earlier, receives no calls, curls himself into his sheets, and watches me through heavy eyes sitting across the room on his velvet settee. He falls asleep without saying anything, and I take my time tidying his room and putting our glasses in the sink.
Either way when I leave I don’t lock the door, because I don’t have a key. I walk the path back and then past my apartment, walking alongside the cornfields that line the highway. At this very late or very early hour few birds sing and few cars are out. I spend my time trying to find constellations or Venus. I usually manage to find Ursa Minor and Cassiopeia, but rarely Venus or much else. I go until my feet are numb and my eyes start to burn from sleeplessness. Only then do I find it right to turn back, sometimes making a short two-mile journey take a century with my dragging feet. Going back is hard because approaching streetlights hurt my eyes and there’s always some asshole driving by with their music playing loudly right as my headache becomes a migraine. I get into my apartment and check the lock twice. Then I finally lay in bed, but rarely sleep even under the weight of exhaustion, since I always forget where I’ve left the ibuprofen. Still – I lay at least somewhat satisfied. My walks have done me good.
Create Your Own Website With Webador