Weekend One

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First Weekend

I sat in my office, trying to find the ending. The film was stuck, like its protagonist, in a state of limbo. Either it was the ending that we shot—four months ago, almost—or it was something I’d need to create, in the edit suite, there on my computer. Using an extension cord borrowed from my roommate Jose. Something that had yet had to exist.

I had been sitting for an hour, making no progress. My thesis film would be the death of me. I saved. I quit. I left my office, which was actually a closet, because I couldn’t afford a place with a den.

I needed one or both of two things: sex or alcohol. Both were doable. I’d arranged to see Courtney the next day, a Saturday. I was halfway through my twenty-fourth year. I had two months of grad school left. And lots of life.

I drank about three beers, masturbated first to pornography, then to the memory of the last attractive woman I’d fucked (before semi-attractive Courtney) and went to bed.

Saturday evening I found myself ringing Courtney’s buzzer. It was cold for April. The leaves were holding off, just like how I was holding off. Then someone opened the front door. They exited, I thanked them, I entered, and realized I was already hard. And I had seven floors to go. Courtney never came downstairs to meet me. The first time we’d gone to her place, we’d met at a nearby café and gone back to her place. Otherwise, it seemed that she never left her lonely studio apartment.

I took the elevator. Seven floors with an erection in my boxers. I thought about movies, probably. When riding elevators with an erection, I was always thinking about what I did: movies. I never thought about the woman I was hooking up with while riding elevators with erections. Does any guy?

I knocked on her door. When she opened the first thing she said, before I could make any move, was “take off your shoes.”

Courtney was particular. She was possibly obsessive compulsive. It may sound strange or reactionary, but I could never picture women having OCD before meeting Courtney. It felt like a male thing. With Courtney, she always had a rack full of wine. Never half full or three-quarters full. She watched the same shows on repeat, day in, day out. She was dirt-phobic. She did not seem to enjoy kissing.

She was a successful person, a year younger than me, who worked in sales for a clothing company. We’d met on OkCupid. She worked from home. She was lonely. Not just semi-lonely. Real lonely.

We sat on her couch, sipping wine and watching some rerun of Friends. She mentioned that how sad it was that Matthew Perry became so thin that season.

“Isn’t it because he was a cokehead?” I said.

“Don’t say that,” she said.

“What? Cokehead?”

“Yes. That isn’t nice to say.”

“Okay. Sorry.”

“It’s something that probably stays with him. It stays with you your whole life.”

I looked at her. She glanced at me. I decided not to pursue that line of conversation any further.

I took off my watch. I wanted to air my wrist out a little. I put my watch on her bedside table, knowing both of our heads would be near to it rather soon.

Half an hour later, she bobbed up and down on her pillow, staring up in to my bobbing face and breathed in squeaky exhales. One exhale ended in the word, “Daddy…”

My lips were already caked with her wetness and a couple pubic hairs. Her lip gloss left a taste in my mouth that mingled with the taste of her labia in such a way that they almost canceled each other out, but not quite. Her mouth was opening wider and her mascara was flaking, like it was begging me to stay inside her at all costs. Her legs were spread and my thumb wedged in and out of the folds of skin on her left inner thigh. My bare cock thrust in and out of her right beside my thumb. I felt her legs kicking into the air every few thrusts.

“Daddy…” she said.

“Daddy…”

“Daddy…”

I kissed her. Her taste was fading into total gloss. I should mention now that I wasn’t wearing a condom. I hated condoms. I loved birth control. Courtney was on birth control, roger that. I shifted two of my fingers between our gyrating stomach and down to her crotch. I caressed them over her pubes—my own pubes scraped them in the process—and dipped a finger into her clit. I was still fucking her. I was just fingering her, too.

She made a squeaky-breathing noise that sounded like the dog whistle at the end of Sargent Peppers if it were having sex. She said,

“Daddy!”

Somewhere outside, a leaf budded out from the tree branch. I felt a tingling that I couldn’t hold back.

I stood in her bathroom, wiping off my junk. The pros of sex with a condom: no babies. The cons: your cock felt stale and latex sticky. If you raw-dogged a girl, your cock would have an organic, body fluid-sticky-ness, an earned stick-ness. It was a risk I was willing to take. I looked in the mirror, as I tend to do after sex. You can call güvenilir bahis it narcissistic. I thought about Courtney’s final “Daddy.” How would her real father feel about me giving his lonely daughter unprotected and fairly rough sex without staying over, without taking her out, without making any gestures towards a relationship? I hoped he didn’t become a grandfather.

I left shortly thereafter. While I was on the train home, passing over elevated tracks that passed third floor apartments and, at one point, gave way to a view of the lake, I received a text from Courtney:

6:06: You left your watch here!

6:07: Shit. I’ll have to get it next weekend I guess.

Of course, my guess would be right. I also guessed that the following weekend I would have Courtney on her back, again, saying ‘Daddy’ again, while my cock moved in and out of her, again. Maybe I’d have my watch on that time.

Everything got dark with and there were speeding tiny light beams all around me. The train had gone under a tunnel.

The next day meant more editing. More cuts, so little time. I was on my way to piecing together a new ending altogether. I had two ideas about it. But the film had to be picture locked in early June. It was late April. How on earth was this going to work? My software slowed down a few times and crashed once. It didn’t help.

I leaned back from my desk and looked at my wrist at one point. I saw only arm hair and skin. I thought about my watch. I thought of it, sitting on Courtney’s bedside table, alone. I hoped she hadn’t sold it online or thrown it away or masturbated with it. I acknowledge that I am a man of habit. Always have been always will be. I saved the project and quit.

It was about 8:15 and I’d decided to go out for one beer. Just one. I’d made a spring resolution to cut down on the alcohol consumption. Anyway, did I have money? The answer was always No. I thought about where to go. They had $4.00 beers at the Corvington Tavern. Okay, that would do. I put on my jacket and shoes and left.

Walking to Corvington Tavern, I felt all cares lift. It’s nice to be in a state where you don’t care. I didn’t care about picking someone up there. I would just have a beer and go back home. I had a job script supervising on a set the next day. I had to get to bed early.

Nonetheless, I got in to the bar and sat down at the one unoccupied seat beside a female that I could spot. Why did I do this? Because there was a part of me that needed to sit beside the first woman I saw; that needed a shot at her attention. She chatted with a guy sitting next to her. I thought that perhaps there wasn’t much of a chance. So I sipped my beer and didn’t glance at her. I was surprised when she turned to me and asked how it was going. I looked at her straight on. Her hair was a silky dark brown. Her freckles stood out. There was an Irish look to her. She wore a loud purple blouse. It made her look somewhat old fashioned. Her scarf was purple too. Her pants were a more modern black silk. Her thighs were thick and her legs looked strong.

Like all men, I internally objectify attractive women when I first encounter them. I’ve gotten more subtle about it over the years.

“It’s going okay,” I said. “How about with you?”

She said she felt all right. It was somewhere in this collection of moments that I tried to gauge her age. For a moment, I thought she might be in her thirties. As we kept talking, I figured she had to be younger. The things she spoke of—the documentary her and her friend had just watched at the Logan Theater, her affinity for craft beer—and also the adult-ish clothes she wore, made me put her at thirty-four. Her face was heavily freckled and when she smiled it seemed she still had dimples. But there was something weary there, too. Something aged in her smile. She said her name was Anna.

“Any plans for the summer?” she asked at one point.

“I’ll just kick it around Chicago and probably go home at some point to see my dog, and my parents,” I said.

I laughed.

“I love it how I mention my dog first…” I said.

She chuckled.

“And then there’s my parents also…” I said, imitating myself.

“Are your parents still together?” She asked.

I nodded. I asked if her’s were.

“No,” she said.

I realized then that I was trying to seduce her.

All the while, the guy sitting beside her was just minding his own beeswax. He drank and looked around and exuded an awkward acceptance about what Anna was doing. He got up and went to the restroom.

“So who’s this guy with you? Is he a friend of yours…?” I asked.

Anna nodded.

“Yeah, that’s my friend Pat. We went to see the movie together. We’re supposed to go for sushi after this bar.”

Oh, well maybe that’s actually not happening.

I did not say that out loud. I thought it and Anna thought it back.

I finished up my beer.

“I’m thinking of heading over to the Rocking Horse Tavern,” türkçe bahis I said. “Want to come with me?”

Anna considered. Pat had just returned. She said she’d have to check. But it was more a formality than anything else. She conversed with Pat a bit and I waited for her to decide to accompany me. She turned to me and said,

“Okay. Let’s go.”

At our booth near the back of the Rocking Horse, I ordered a Gin and Tonic. She ordered some kind of cocktail. I paid. We did less talking. We did more staring. She told me at one point, after taking a sip,

“You make good eye contact.”

My eyes are larger than normal and have a hazel color most of the time. When I look at people it can be very intense. I’d figured this out in High School.

“Thank you,” I said.

After a moment’s silence, she asked what I was thinking about. I said,

“So I’m thinking about the fact that if I wanted to kiss you, I would have to lean all the way across the huge table. It would be so much easier if I could sit next to you. Then I could kiss you really easily.”

She smiled at this. She didn’t say anything. She blushed. I moved over to her seat and kissed her on the lips. She didn’t resist. She did not return it, exactly, but when I pulled away, she was still smiling.

In the restroom, I thought, what if I come back and she just isn’t there? It had happened once before. But when I exited, there she still was, sitting at the table, staring ahead and letting her thoughts run free. She was not staring at her cell phone. I liked her better already.

“Holy shit, you’re still here,” I said.

She laughed.

We walked back to her place in the dark along Milwaukee Avenue and she said,

“Full disclosure, I’m actually divorced.”

This didn’t matter. But it was kind of interesting. I wondered about her age again.

“That’s fine,” I said. “It doesn’t really make a difference.”

We crossed the street side by side. We weren’t holding hands. We went down Armitage and I let her lead the way. She slowed down suddenly and took me by the arm and pulled me close to her at the sidewalk’s edge. She bent her head back and kissed me. It was a long, tongue heavy kiss. It lasted for a while. She moved away from me, eyes shut for just a moment in that thing women do that I love. We walked on, holding hands.

In her bedroom, perhaps twenty minutes later, I pulled my face away from her exposed pink pussy lips and stared at her wetness and swallowed a tiny bit. She was less shaven than Courtney and she tasted better. I moved back in and laid my tongue back on her labia and swished it around before realizing I’d forgotten about fingering her. I slipped one finger back inside her folds where they bloomed out under my chin. I rubbed in a circle around her folds, gathering up her wetness. She pressed her hand on my head and bobbed my head up and down vertically. I moved one hand up her stomach, over her tits and her neck, and up her chin. I rubbed several fingers across her lips, perching them above the open cavern of her moaning mouth. She closed her lips around my fingers and sucked them. Just like I knew she would.

I pulled my face away. Her labia was all red and shiny. She was ready for me but I had to confess something.

“Anna,” I said, moving up to face her. “I’ve got to confess…I don’t have any condoms.”

“I have some,” she said and kissed me.

All right, fine. Safe sex; check.

Those nails. Anna threaded her fingers through my hair and down my neck. As I slowly edged my cock deeper into her she breathed a breath that turned into a moan. As this transformation happened I felt her nails claw my back. She moved them down almost to my ass. Her hand flattened out on my butt cheeks. She expressed herself with her nails. It hurt. I let it happen.

We were on her queen-sized bed, her cats our only voyeurs. Perhaps they saw, in black and white (cats don’t see color, right?) me slowly gain speed with my lower body and slowly gain traction with my arm as I shifted my body further above their owner. Perhaps they saw their owner with her mouth open, jiggling back and forth and up and down on her mattress and pillows while she scratched his back with her fingers once again and thought, when this is over will she feed us?

I looked away from the cats. I fucked Anna steadily and let the tang of her pussy evaporate from my mouth while she moaned and scratched.

She suggested she lay sideways on her bed. We repositioned ourselves and I re-entered her. I pumped harder than before. I watched her head tilted over the side of her bed while her hair draped down to the floor and her head bobbed back and forth against the mattress rim while she went, Ah ah ah ah ah ah…

But she could no longer scratch.

Her body jolted forward on the mattress with each stroke of my cock and I realized we were both going to fall off the edge but I didn’t care. I had stamina from the gin and tonic and from the güvenilir bahis siteleri fact I was wearing a condom. So condoms were good for something.

We careened off the bed. We landed on her floor and we both cracked up. An image flashed through my mind of this same thing happening years before, with another girl. Anna got to her feet quickly and lay lengthwise on her bed. I entered her again and thrust in to her all the way up to my nuts.

She held my shoulders. Whap whap whap. Her fingers dug in to my shoulders. Whap whap whap. They dug harder. Whap whap whap whap.

Ah Ah Ah fuck Ah Ah Ah

She was halfway through her next fuck when I blew my load.

In her tiny bathroom, I flushed the condom down the toilet, which I’d read you weren’t supposed to do. As I watched it flush I was reminded of an experimental film I’d watched some time before called “Moments.” It was a film comprised of snapshots of moments from an average person’s life. One of the snapshots was a condom being dropped into a toilet.

I returned to Anna’s bed. We cuddled and made small talk that led to her making an apprehensive hum at one point and asking me,

“How old are you?”

“I’m twenty-four.”

There was a pause. She’d thought I was older. It isn’t uncommon. I said,

“I know it’s not proper, exactly, but now you’re just begging the question. How old are you?”

She didn’t come right out and say. She thought about the answer.

“I’m in my mid-30s…” she said.

We dozed off. But this twenty-four year old was keyed up. I wanted her again. Her cats, in this sense, were a blessing in disguise. They wandered around the room, meowing, jumping on and off the bed, waking us up. Anna let them out at some point and they started scratching the door.

Which led to us both lying awake at something like four in the morning. She apologized for her cats. I remarked at how surprised I was when I’d woken up to one just sitting on my face. Just sitting there. She thought this was funny. I rubbed her cheek and this turned into my hand stroking her tits and her stomach, which led to my hand sliding into her pajamas.

Which led to her riding me. Hard. I looked up at her face. Her hair tossed in her face and her eyes were squinted. I felt a tingling in my cock, a massive tingling, but I wasn’t shooting off just yet. I clasped both sides of her waist and helped guide her up and down and looked up into her face and let her moan down at me. Her moans were like her ten commandments. Except there were more than ten. Her face was lit by the moonlight.

When Anna bucked her thighs around my waist and belted out her greatest hits collection, my eyes were shut. I held myself back. If I looked into her face I figured I would just get off then and there. So I opened my eyes and looked at her tits. Her jiggling, hard-nippled tits. She squealed. I was looking at her tits. She belted out a falsetto solo. I was looking at her tits. She hyperventilated. I was watching her tits bounce. They were indifferent to the breathing movements of her chest. Her eyes were probably shut. She was too busy feeling other feelings to be disappointed by the fact that I was looking at her tits. Her jiggling, bouncing, erect nippled tits.

Let’s freeze on the blurry image of those bouncing tits. Let’s cut out the high pitched audio. Allow me, quickly, a detour of sorts…

How did I learn about sex?

Goldeneye.

Is Goldeneye an appropriate movie for a nine-year old? Absolutely not. It’s the crudest, most nihilistic, possibly most violent and definitely most sexually explicit James Bond movie. It’s a Bond movie for Gen-Xers. It’s over-the-top 90s. But I’d been introduced to James Bond recently, via Goldeneye and Doctor No. And I was hooked. So I was dying to see Goldeneye. My Dad wasn’t sure it was appropriate. But he wanted to see it, too. I had already broken the trump card with PG-13 rated movies. Jurassic Park had been the first. My Dad had watched that one himself and at first thought it was too scary. But all the kids at school raved about it. Why couldn’t I see it? Eventually, my parents acquiesced. I saw Jurassic Park and loved it. So by this logic, my father thought, sure, he’s already seen a PG-13 movie, why not? (Again, Goldeneye is one of those mid-90s PG-13 movies that should have been rated R. Little did my Dad know).

We watched the movie at last, on VHS, in the living room; my Dad, my brother (my younger brother!) and myself. When we were introduced to the femme fatale Xenia Onnatop, something happened inside me. To say I was transfixed is one way to put it. She sat at a table in a casino, wearing a green dress. That green dress alone stirred me in a way I hadn’t quite been stirred.

Then we got to the bedroom scene. This was a sex scene. What I was watching was two people having sex.

It was not normal sex.

It was Xenia Onnatop, shrouded by a curtain hanging across the rear side of the bed. She was a silhouette. But it was still clear that she was not wearing her green dress anymore. She wasn’t wearing anything. Neither was the guy. He was nude, bearded and making strangulated noises in bed with her legs wrapped around his waist.

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