The Weekend

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It’s late, that’s why you texted instead of knocked. You didn’t text me to say you were on your way over, or to ask if you could come over. Just a furtive text sent from my doorstep, hoping I’m coherent enough to hear it and answer. You know I’ll be awake; it’s not even midnight yet. I let you wait as I turn off my TV that I wasn’t really watching. My phone beeps again as I go to unlock the door. You are just as impatient as I am.

“I didn’t wake you, did I?”

Your grin is barely contained.

“Nope.”

I shake my head at you and let you in. Compared to the smells festering in my apartment, you smell clean and vaguely like food. Cookies, maybe. You’re carrying your little black bag and a plastic shopping bag. Walking to the kitchen first, you unload some things into my fridge: bottled water, Gatorade, a small block of cheese, and a tub of salsa. My lone bottle of orange juice now has company.

The bag is almost empty when you take out a few more things and set them on my kitchen counter. I’m used to this, even if it’s mildly insulting. You like what you like, and I’m lazy. My attention is more occupied by the black duffle bag you’re carrying. Your overnight bag.

You see my eyes glance down at it, and you bat your eyelashes at me.

“It’s just clothes.”

I don’t really care; it actually makes me a little happy. But I try to keep my face fixed in this expression, to keep you on your best behavior.

While you use the bathroom, I dash into my bedroom. I kick the dirty socks and other discards under the bed, then straighten out the sheets. Leaning down, I give them a quick sniff; they smell a little. I don’t think I have another set clean, and before I can check my closet, I hear the bathroom door open. There isn’t enough time to leave my room when I hear you call out my name in a sing-song way.

You’ve taken off your jacket, but you haven’t changed into anything else. Not that I expected you to, that’s not how we roll, but sometimes you surprise me. Instead, you stride into my room wearing the clothes you probably wore to the gym. Maybe that’s what you told him you were doing. He’ll wonder how long you can work out when you don’t come home tonight.

I can’t help but grin back when you stand in front of me, tugging on my shirt. In the old days we would’ve pretended. I would have offered to make you a drink, attempt some banal small talk first, pretend that we have a civil interest in each other’s lives. We are long past formalities and conversational pleasantries.

My hands go to a neutral space and rest on your hips, not so much holding you as keeping you steady as you kiss me. It’s that playful pucker of your lips, then a pull away to give me an apologetic pout with your hazel-green eyes. I notice a little redness in your eyes freshly lined in a dark brown kohl, a strain that’s hiding in there, but you’re smiling. A genuine smile.

“I’m sorry I didn’t text first.”

I roll my eyes at your apology. You know I really don’t care. But you’re already worried about me, and I don’t want you to worry anymore.

I pull you into me and kiss you. A kiss that keeps going as my hands find the hem of the snug t-shirt you’re wearing, pushing it up and off, a maneuver you return by pulling off the t-shirt I’ve been wearing since the day before. I’ve got my hands on your hips, ready to pull down your leggings, but I wait and let you undo the button-fly of my jeans. You like to pop the buttons apart, tugging the material open with a satisfying jerk. A pause from our kissing so you can grin at me, letting me wait.

“You want me, baby?”

I don’t answer when your hand is already clutching me through my underwear, verifying the absolute hardness of my dick. I just kiss you as my fingers start to curl down the waistband of your leggings, but you sink down onto your knees. You give me a devilish look when you get me free, a pause before you open your mouth like a snake unhinging its jaws, and swallow me.

My brain only gets a nanosecond to worry about how sweaty I am from working in a stifling garage, that I should have showered earlier, but my dick doesn’t give a shit when you keep swirling your tongue around it. I close my eyes, I feel the pleasure silencing my brain, until you make a sound, a happy little moan as you work.

I tilt my head down and look at you. You are tossing your hair back as you move your head, keeping both hands wrapped around the base of my shaft, eyes closed in this focused effort. When you feel my body posture change, you open your eyes and look up. Only you can grin while doing this, a look of complete joy on your face when our eyes meet. You are happiest when you make me happy, but it’s more than happiness, and I can’t stand to see it. My throat gets tight, my eyes burn. But I’m not going to break down. Not yet.

I push your head away and gasp for air. You’re giggling as I drag you up onto your feet, staggering while I get an arm around you and toss you onto my bed. The giddiness is silenced when I kiss Mamak Escort you, draping my body over yours, being sure to pin your hands above your head. With one hand I yank your leggings down your thighs, taking your panties with them in a roll of fabric that secedes to my movement. I lick the index finger of my left hand, and make my non-dominant hand an implement of torture.

You gasp when I stroke across the folds I am well acquainted with. You gasp even louder when I push my way in, your body flinching. I know I’m being rough, trying to take control as I leverage my weight to keep you pinned beneath me. But you thread your fingers through my right hand that is still gripping yours. You lean up to kiss me and then you make me look at you. I’m such an asshole. I’d rather be angry than feel this way, but you won’t let me be angry.

You writhe into my movements, you moan with a lick of your lips. And you keep looking at me. I look away and dive down to take your breast in my mouth, knowing that makes you weak. I stroke faster, plunging a second finger into your wet depth, trying to make you squirm. As usual, you are in control, even when you’re not.

“Fuck me, baby. God fuck me…” you coo into my ear.

I kiss you savagely, silencing you, blocking the view of my face when it’s pressed against yours. You moan into my lips, getting louder, telling me that my trick hasn’t worked because you are about to come.

I wonder sometimes if you fake it when you cry out, your body convulsing. Except there’s that almost shocked look on your face, a little wrinkle on your forehead that can’t believe how good this is. We’ve purposefully forgotten this ecstasy, or at least I’ve tried, but it never works. My wrist is a little sore when I take my fingers back, licking it off in front of you. You make a face, narrowing your eyes at me.

“He still has to fuck me. You know that, right?” you state with a glance down at my crotch. Meaning I can’t pacify you with just my fingers.

I smile in acknowledgment, another roll of my eyes. Of course, I know. Everything in my body knows this, but my mind still avoids the repercussions of our actions.

Eventually, every part of us has been used and abused for pleasure. I fall asleep covered in sweat, my arms around you. I know this was intentional, to go so long and hard that I’d pass out. To fall asleep to your sweet scent that reminds of something from a bakery.

I wake up to the sound of your teeth crunching, and then I smell cilantro. You’re sitting cross-legged on the bed, my sheet tucked over your chest like a bib, dipping tortilla chips into salsa. Your eyes brighten as you see me stir, and you dust your fingers off, being sure to keep them inside the bag rather than litter crumbs on my bed. Even though my bed has been doused with enough bodily fluids for a forensics team to have a field day.

“Morning, sugar.”

You lean over to kiss me, that sly smile on your face as you stay hovering by my lips, waiting for my response.

“Morning.”

You kiss me again, scanning my eyes, assessing my mood.

“Hungry?”

One way or another, you’re going to get food into me. “Sure.”

You make a quesadilla with the cheese you brought, and the tortillas you left from your last visit. I’m famished and thirsty, so I easily down this and the Gatorade you brought. The orange juice catches your eye and you wisely sniff it before pouring a glass. The look of disgust is apparent when you dump it down the sink. I tell you I don’t remember how long ago I bought it.

I watch you putter around my kitchen, checking and dumping things, cleaning and wiping. I pull you away from this task and tell you to rest. I want you to save your strength and kiss you. We finish snacking on the couch, lazily dunking chips into the salsa. There’s an old TV show we watch until our eyes get heavy and we drift off to the soothing sounds of wise-cracking jokes and canned laughter. You fall asleep in my arms, legs tucked up next to mine, your head resting on my chest, and before I lose consciousness, I think that I want to die this way. I want to die with my last vision being you. Your hair down and messy, your fingers sticky from food that you’ve fed me, your legs bare and soft. I think of how much I want this every day and tell myself to shut up.

When we awake the second time, the setting sun is hitting my front window and making my tiny apartment even warmer than it is for a spring day in SoCal. You stretch your arms with exaggeration, and tell me to take a shower. I don’t get annoyed at this unnecessary instruction; I know our routine is that I shower first so you can be last and use up all the hot water. It’s just the way we start our evening, a brief step in the steps to going out.

I shower briskly, keeping the water a tepid lukewarm. I know you like my hair to be unruly, so I don’t mess it up with any gel or hairspray, I just leave it wet for your further assistance. I only shave Masaj Yapan Escort under my chin and around my jawline. My scruffy whiskers will come in handy later, as I know you also prefer that. Wardrobe is easy, but I’ve got to wait for your preparation to take place, so I just pull on a t-shirt and my baggy boxers you hate.

Your shower is long and steaming. You hum quietly, and you swear when you drop things in my ghetto shower that is already chipped and stained. You keep the door closed while you dress, but you open it up while you do your hair and makeup. Sometimes I watch this fascinating process, and other times I want to be surprised. You don’t need any artifice to be more beautiful than you were in an old t-shirt stained with drips of salsa, but you -as usual- achieve a level of perfection that takes my breath away.

You’ve taken your dyed black hair and curled it into loose waves that you flip over to one side. Your eyes are large and hypnotically rimmed in eyeliner, and your lips… oh jesus, your lips are these things of crimson that pucker and pout. A shade of glossy sex that comes to life when you speak.

The ultimate piece is the short dress that clings to your body, barely covering your butt. It’s a black sundress covered in tiny flowers, its skirt flares out when you turn or move. The front laces up over your breasts in this way that makes me think of a corset. Laces that can be cinched up tight or left partially undone so that your breasts can be seen pushing their way out. It’s my favorite dress and you know it.

You let me gawk at you as you spin around in those high-heeled boots. Paired with sheer black stockings. I can feel my body responding and you see it in my eyes. You giggle with satisfaction and tell me to get dressed. In less than a minute, I come back out in a slightly nicer t-shirt and my darkest denim jeans. I sit down on my bed so you can run your fingers through my overgrown hair, spiking the strands up. I let you die it black once and it came out in spotty blotches on my dirty brown hair. We laughed and you called me skunky. I’d shave my head if you told me you like it, but you prefer my longish hair that I can still tuck behind a welder’s mask at work.

“I’m gonna wear your jacket,” you say, grabbing my ancient leather that reeks of a mixture of smoke, beer, B.O. and cologne.

I shake my head at you when you sniff the inside, inhaling deeply with a close of your eyes.

“You like the smell of B.O.?” I tease.

“I like the smell of your B.O.”

I chuckle, but I know you mean it. And I again feel a painful squeeze in my throat. I can only grab you and kiss you, running a hand over the curve of your hips. You warn me not to ruin your lipstick. Knowing I will ruin it in a matter of hours, long before you ever get the slick red on my cock.

Despite your warning, I’m getting carried away when I press you into me, my body all too ready to be liberated from my clothing so that you can be naked with it. You break free of my grip, wiping the edges of your lips. The look in your eyes is tempted to cancel our plans; you realize your outfit might be too effective. I move back in and clutch your bottom, asking if you really want to go out. Asking if we need all the bother, if we need to leave this room. If you need me to just fuck you right then and there.

You bite your bottom lip and I swear I can smell you. I want to ask if I’ve made you wet but you sidle out of my grasp, whining that I need to be good. You say we have to go out because it’s been too long. I know you’re right, but my body is telling me to just pick you up and carry you off to my bed before you can really protest. Really, I’m playing your favorite game; the game of seeing how much we want this, how much debauchery we’d like to inflict if given the chance. I could keep playing, I could keep suggesting more crude activities, until your soft eyes convince me of the other thing you want. The topic I avoid even when we act like this. So I pretend not to see it. The temptation is temporarily calmed, and together we leave my apartment.

We take my car, but I ask if you’re sure. My car is a manual, and you can drive it but it makes me a little nervous when you grind the gears of my vintage baby. You nod yes, knowing that you’ll be driving it home later. When I can’t.

On the way there, you ask me to stop at the mini-mart down the block. You say it’s for a pack of cigarettes, but your voice is a little higher than usual. We’ve both tried to quit multiple times; I’m the one who always cracks. You don’t smell like smoke anymore, you don’t chew gum all the time. But I make the stop as requested.

It’s a little neighborhood market that’s not a chain outlet. You click inside on your high-heeled boots and go over to the long wall of glass doors. A few bottles of Gatorade, some mints and a candy bar of dark chocolate. The cashier waves at me, a familiar goofy smile on his face.

“Long time no see, Moldovyalı Escort you guys,” he says in his mellow voice, bobbing his goateed chin.

“Hey,” I reply, feeling you tug me closer to the check stand, intimating I will be paying.

“How’s it going? I haven’t seen you in ages, bro,” he states, mindlessly ringing up our items.

“Good.”

“I was gonna say I got a new bike. Not really new- my girlfriend’s kid got a new bike and gave me his old one. Needs some fixing up, new tires and a few other things, but it’s in pretty good shape.”

“Cool.”

“You still got your bike? I was gonna say if you need a place to work on it, you could bring it over to my house and take it apart next to my parked junkers. Nobody gonna say anything in my neighborhood.”

Now I know why you made me stop here.

“I keep my bike at my work, but thanks for the offer. “

“Good to see you, hermano. Take care!”

I make a beeline for the door and drag you with me. I sigh to think of how you try to get me out of my apartment. You know I keep my bike at my work, and you know I don’t work on it anymore. You think you’ll change my mind, that maybe I’ll get back on that horse after it kicked me off.

“Why don’t you want to?” you ask, your eyes genuinely curious. “You not like free beer?”

I don’t answer, I just hold the car door open for you. You frown in frustration, and get in.

We make the rest of the drive with just the radio playing, on the oldies station you like. You laugh at the corny love songs, and repeat the call sign catchphrases. You snuggle up to me, trying to lighten the mood. I try not to brood, I tell myself you only do it because I’m so goddamn stubborn.

We bypass the hustling downtown full of bars and make it to the outskirts of town. It’s about a 30 minute drive each way, but it’s worth it. Our favorite dive bar nestled in the woods, an old jukebox and two pool tables. The beer is cheap, and the wait staff is mostly lifers who know everything about everyone that comes in. You and I are long-time regulars. They like you more than they like me, as it should be.

We settle into the little round table tucked in the corner by one of the pool tables. We don’t always play, but I see you mean business when you pay upfront with my debit card. Meaning I will be watching you bend over a table in that criminally short dress for the next two hours.

You take off my jacket and rack up the balls. It sounds dirty enough, but you make it dirtier when you lean over with exaggeration, being sure to shake the triangle in a way that shakes something else. You break, and sink a ball. I wish I could take credit for it, but you knew how to play before we met. I still love watching you play, the way you saunter around the table, pausing with your cue in hand, making sure that I’m watching you when you lean over. A flick of your eyes before you take a shot.

You sink another ball, and I’m sure you could keep going when you biff an easy shot. Maybe because I’ve started to drink the beer you paid for. I take a shot, and miss. You shake your head at me, telling me I’m out of practice. I say that I’m distracted.

We finish our game, and you, of course, win. And rightfully so. I’ve finished my beer and now ready for a second. I paced myself, the second beer for a second game. The bartender, Rick, is an old guy who’s known us as long as we’ve known each other. He knows the rules you set for me, and I know I can’t make him break those rules. Even if I come in without you, he’ll keep me to them, and I can’t really fault him.

This time I rack up, and break, when a group of college kids come in. Two pairings of a guy and a girl, each of them looking shiny-faced and tan. I can tell they’re gonna be obnoxious just by the way they move up to the bar. They order with the giggles of amateurs, and Rick gives them a roll of his eyes. At least he agrees with me.

You’re taking your shot when they set up to play on the pool table right next to ours. I doubt they have any idea how to play, but god loves to fuck with me, so why not shove a couple of pricks and their dates right next to us. You give me a calm smile when you catch me taking a deep breath in. I’ll try to ignore them, if nothing else, for you.

Within ten minutes, they have started to mutter comments about us. The two girls are whispering about your dress, they giggle over your dyed hair. This is easier to forgive because their dates are also whispering about you. Except their whispers are paired with hungry looks as they swipe a hand over their lips.

Your seductive posturing only occurs when you’re on the side of the table closest to me, out of their view. You even slip my jacket back on, saying you’re cold. I know you’re trying to keep the peace, trying to reduce my combustive nature. And somehow that pisses me off. I don’t want you to be anyone other than yourself just because of a couple of limp-dicked kids.

On your next shot, I come up behind you. It’s a trickier shot with the cue ball blocked by another ball, and I suggest how you should aim for it. I’m wrapping my arm around your middle, leaning in, whispering in your ear how one should achieve this shot. I’m also pressing myself into you, teasing. You take the shot, and sink the ball. And then you kiss me, muttering into my lips how awful I am.

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