Artwork by Timothy Johnson
fuck
You get me closer to God
Nine Inch Nails
You had me so fucked up leaving your
apartment that night, I went the wrong way.
Yep. Five blocks of Brooklyn brownstones
later and I was still just saying “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Everything about you is cool. Do you know that? Seriously though, seriously. God. I
love your dog, I love your place, I love the view of my home—the greatest city
in the world. I love your hair and that
mouthy smile/head tilt that’s had me saying “damn” to myself for the last year
and a half…and that body…that body, baby, god damn. I could eat you whole, woman.
And I am only avoiding a nauseating list of
all the fucking reasons I actually like you, (the you you), in an effort to
avoid sounding corny; but it’s who you are that’s driving me wild, keeping me
all fucked up in the head. It’s your
mannerisms, your posture, your lexicon, your multilingual tongue, the fact that
you play piano and most importantly can sing, your general disposition and overall
outlook on life. That gorgeous fucking face
and your magnetic eyes. These are the
things that have me constantly consciously killing the urge to grab my phone
and text you, call you, annoy you.
And you knew what you were doing when
you kicked me out, you knew. Flittering
around all nonchalant about loving sex and being a serial dater with no inkling
to settle down; only to shove me out your door and protest that you “aren’t
that kind of girl.” You knew. You knew I would be floating down those Park
Slope streets, sliding sweetly on the slick December freeze. Sliding and saying fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck! Seriously, woman.
You haven’t the slightest idea as to
what could have, should have happened in that room. And don’t deny the fact that if I wanted to
fuck you, I would have. All I needed to
do was make a strong move, and darling, I’m the fucking king of strong
moves. Had I grabbed your pussy—you like
that word, right? You said so
yourself. Had I grabbed your pussy and
pushed you onto your bed, your legs would have parted and I would have had
those tight black jeans on the floor and my tongue and fingers would have been
inside you so fast you wouldn’t be able to do anything but moan and dig your
nails into the back of my head. You
would have become so overwhelmed by the ecstasy, the rapture I would have moved
in you, that you would have wanted nothing but more, nothing but to continue.
But you were smart enough to know, I
suppose, the chances of experiencing more would have greatly diminished had it
went down that way. And I do like you
too. That’s why I didn’t make that
typical me, strong move. I still insist
I was right when I told you if I had been trying to seduce you, we would have
made the bed already. But I have nothing
but respect for you. Which, honestly, is
rare.
One day soon though. Soon woman.
The next time I “pin you down,” I am only going to begin to make you
regret dismissing me so quickly. And I
aim to make you regret it over and over for quite some time.
***
Or so I thought, until you lost interest
or got in your own way, in your own head, or whatever. And it stung; I won’t lie, I still think
about you from time to time. Why you
stopped answering my texts, why you stopped giving a shit about my writing,
about me. I don’t know. I know I never should have been there in the
first place, but that’s me—always somewhere I shouldn’t be. It must be the “I don’t give a fuck”
attitude.
Whatever, it was your loss; honestly
honey, I could make you feel things you didn’t know could be felt. And I can hear you now in your feminist tone
tuning up to argue—“Just another self-absorbed man who thinks he’s God.” Well, love to break it to you baby, and you
know my penchant for honesty: there’s a reason why I write this way; why I talk
this way. And I know the things I could do to you.
But whatever. Honestly.
God.
I was dating pretty heavy around our
first date, so moving on wasn’t that hard.
My problem is that women bore me.
People in general, but especially women.
You did not. That’s why I’m still
scratching my head and this legal pad. I
went on a few more lack-luster dates, which usually ended in sex—some of it
incredible, some of it average…I find it’s almost impossible to have “bad sex.” And every time, I couldn’t shake you. Fuck.
She’d be on top of me, and I’d have my hands around their hips, and my
eyes would be shut tight thinking about yours.
Wishing I was inside of you.
Picturing your voluptuous frame spread out over my body and your thick
curls covering my face. Goddamn, the
thought alone leaves me breathless. But
whatever.
***
I started seeing this chick Lisa for a
bit. She was alright—tiny little gymnast
from out on the Island. She had the
skinniest frame, but the biggest ass; I mean a fucking donkey. I’m still trying to figure out how she stands
without tipping over, let alone does back-flips on balancing beams. And she was a sweetheart, and she was really
into me, and she had even read the book, offered some decent insight. But jesus-fuck-me did I not give a damn about
almost anything she ever said.
The sex was pretty marvelous, as it
always is with a spinner. She was
obviously tight and flexible; but it’s more about the ability to engage in
acrobatics: throw her legs over my arms, and let her hold onto my neck as I’d
pound her standing up. Suspended-fucking
is always hot. You’re no gymnast, love,
but we already know I could pick you up and spin you nonetheless.
It was Friday afternoon and it was
raining like a bastard. Lisa was over
and I was smoking my brains out to an old Bruce Lee flick. She was reading a magazine on my love seat
and we caught eyes and smiled. I felt
fake.
Why don’t we go out tonight?
Out?
Why? It’s miserable out
there. Let’s just hang in.
Great, Nick. That’s what we always do,
whether it’s raining or not.
What’s the problem?
We always just watch old movies at your
place or mine, fuck and smoke. This is
not how I like to be treated.
What do you mean? How am I mistreating you?
You’re not mistreating me, but I’m a
girl goddamnit. I like to get pretty and
go out. Be seen. Dance.
We never do anything fun. We get
fucked up and you fuck me.
Woah, Jesus, lady, I wasn’t aware I was
the only one doing the fucking around here.
Excuse my lack of sensitivity.
Shut up, Nick.
No.
No, I’m serious. Am I not making
you cum, love?
It’s not all about sex, Nick. It can only take you so far.
With you?
With anyone. I need more.
I could see she wasn’t
bullshitting. I did used to take her out
a lot when we first started hooking up.
She wasn’t my girlfriend, but she was pretty much the only one I
tolerated enough to keep regular. I
didn’t want to make her upset, and she was right, she deserved a night out.
I’m sorry, Li, you’re right. Amy’s reading in Brooklyn tonight, would you
like to go?
Yeah, Nick. Poetry reading sounds like something I’d love
to do…
Fucking women. Ok, doll, how ‘bout dinner at Peter
Luger’s? Sound better?
Peter Luger’s? Really?
Yeah, babe, sure.
But I don’t have anything to wear.
We’ll stop off at Express and get you an
outfit. Who knows, maybe it’ll stop
raining and we can bounce around Williamsburg after. At
least she couldn’t say I didn’t know how to treat a lady. Sometimes we just need to be reminded.
Oh my god, Nick, thank you baby!
She practically dove into my lap face-first,
from the love seat. She had it out and
down the back of her throat before I could put my bowl down. It’s a sad state of affairs, but I almost
never cum from blowjobs anymore. Don’t
get me wrong, I love them, my God do I love them, but they just can’t get me
there anymore. Her technique was pretty
solid—she had a firm hand wrapped around, and massaging my balls, and no
gag-reflex whatsoever. It wasn’t the
first time she’d gone down on me, but it had always just been for a few minutes
before sex. She was trying to reach the
finish line this time; she was trying to do something nice for me. She was a sweet kid on a mission doomed for
sure-failure. She tried for a solid
twenty minutes, before getting annoyed.
(They always get annoyed).
Are you gonna cum?
I don’t think so, babe.
Something I could be doing differently?
No, you’re doing a fine job.
What is it then?
It’s nothing. It’s not your fault. They just don’t work anymore.
What do you mean they don’t work?
Very few women can make me cum with a
blowjob.
So some can?
I could feel
myself wince…what an idiot. Look, Lisa,
I’m sorry babe. It’s just not going to
happen. I slid my hand down her back and into her leggings. She pulled it out immediately.
Just forget it. I want to grab a drink, and we should really
get going.
She got up and walked into my
kitchen. Goddamn it. I went to the bathroom and jerked-off. Funny, I could always make myself cum within
two minutes. Maybe I am the narcissist
Anna’s always saying I am. My sister…I
love her…I miss her…maybe I should call her later…
***
She picked out a slinky black dress, and
I must admit it, she looked fucking sexy.
She had on some big black heels which made her head come up to about my
shoulder. If you had these things on,
we’d be eye-to-eye. But her gymnast legs
looked stunning and defined in her stilettos, and I could certainly now
understand why they say every girl needs to have a little black dress in her
closet.
When we got to Brooklyn it was around
eight o’clock. The rain was not pounding
the pavement nearly as hard as it had been an hour before. I pulled in front of Peter Luger’s and told
her to go inside.
Why don’t you just valet?
Why, so the valet guy can steal my pot?
You’re such a child.
Jesus.
Jesus—that’s all you ever say.
She left the car. I don’t know why everything needs to be so
fucking difficult. Why does it matter to
her if I valet or park the car myself? I
was trying to be a gentleman and let her out right in front so she wouldn’t
have to walk in the rain, and yet even this is a problem. I could feel the pulsating under my skin,
could feel the red rising in my brain. I
just will never understand why women need to make a problem out of everything.
I parked the car a few blocks away in
front of a bar that had a mural on its side dedicated to quitting smoking. It was like a gigantic truth campaign. I love street art, and the mural was
beautifully done. I lit a cigarette and
opened my umbrella. I walked the seven
blocks considering the phrase “smoking kills,” as I blackened my lungs and
brightened my psyche.
Peter Luger’s is an interesting
place. The food is certainly exquisite,
and it better be—you can’t leave that fucking place without dropping a few
hundred at least. But it’s the process
by which they make the food so exquisite that makes it interesting. Even more so when one considers how few
people know the secret. The dining room
is elegant, and has an air of old money.
The place exudes sophistication, and obviously because of the exorbitant
price tag, the clientele carries the same air.
But beneath that imposing room, well below the ancient-looking
chandeliers, lies the truth. If you ever
walked into the basement of Peter Luger’s you would throw-up from the smell alone. The ceiling is lined with cow carcasses,
rotting. What? How did you think they make that Steak for 2
melt in your mouth like butter? The end
result is magnificent, but the process is putrid. And I assure you the stench of that basement
is unrivaled. I play with that image in
my mind—the fancy diners and daters upstairs, the rotting cow carcasses hooked
to the ceiling downstairs—just delicious, no?
This revolting yingyang. High
class society chowing down on the rot from below. Just delicious.
I reached the front door at the same
time you did. I flicked my cigarette and
opened it for you.
Nick?
M?
Maia!
Wait for me!
I looked to the street and caught this
tool stumble out of his Mercedes. He was
valeting. I wondered if you made him do
it…nope, this guy was definitely a valet kinda guy.
Nick, how are you?
We moved into
the restaurant and closed the door.
I’m fine, nice to see you’re still alive
and well, love.
Why wouldn’t I be?
I don’t know. I mean, I know how busy of a woman you are
and all, but when was the last time I heard from you? A month ago?
Two?
Huh, yeah, sorry about that…work you
know.
Maia, so not cool to leave me out in the
rain like that. Who’s this?
Maia gestured towards me and said: This
is Nick. He’s an old, old friend of
mine.
Old, huh? Like what, high school?
Yeah, Ari. Me and Nick go way back to high school. Nick, this is Ari.
I shook Ari’s hand—weak grip. I felt the red again; you were with this
chump? You preferred his company to
mine?
Well, M, Ari, nice to see you. I need to go tend to my date. She’s already pissed off.
Wait, Nick, you’re here with someone?
You don’t go to Peter Luger’s alone, M.
Perfect, let’s all get a table together!
What?
Ari and I said it at the same
time.
It’ll be fun, Ari. Let’s do it.
I haven’t seen Nick in a really long time, and I miss him. He’s a good guy.
She grabbed my hand and smiled at Ari.
Uh, ok, babe. Ok, yes, how ‘bout it Nick? Let’s say we make this a double date.
I don’t know guys, like I said Lisa’s
pissed already, I don’t know if this is the best time for that.
Ok, we under—
No, don’t be silly, Nick. It’s been too
long. I’d love to sit down with you tonight.
Your eyes were sparkling. I knew those eyes.
Yeah, sure guys. Let me grab my date and we’ll get a table.
Lisa was already on her second Merlot,
which worried me—she was a two beer queer if there ever was one. She was texting furiously, and when I put my
hand on her shoulder she shot me the death glare.
Twenty minutes? I was in here alone for twenty minutes?
I’m sorry, Lisa. I had to park like seven blocks away and then
I ran into an old friend outside.
You should have just valeted.
I know, you’re right, I’m sorry. Hey, listen, we’re gonna move to a table for
four so we can eat with my friend and her date.
Are you fucking kidding me? This is our nice night out together? You shouldn’t want to spend it with your
friend! You should be all about me right
now. And wait, your friend’s a
girl? I know the type of girl “friends”
you have, Nick. When’s the last time you
fucked this one?
Never fucked her, I swear. Hey, I
wasn’t even lying. Come on,
lady. I wanna go show you off in that
black dress. You look so fucking sexy
tonight.
She smiled briefly, then narrowed her
eyes again.
You listen to me, Mr. Virgin. I am not very happy with you right now, or with
how this whole night has gone at all.
But I will put on a face and be charming for you with that bitch and her
date. But after we get out of here, I
want you to do something just for me.
Understand?
M’s not a bitch—
Fuck, Nick, just appease me for
once. You’re such an asshole, God.
Fucking women…Yeah, babe, no
problem. To be honest, I wanted to just bounce and leave all three of them
there.
We sat down somewhat awkwardly, but we
did it on purpose; we did it without even realizing ourselves. The couples sat next to each other, but you
and I were across from one another, making unwavering eye contact. Conversation started off slow and dull, but I
wasn’t paying attention to it at all.
Ari was babbling on about securities or insecurities or some shit, and I
was feeling for the first time in my life like Mina and not Dracula—you had me
in a trance, love, stuck in your eyes. I
was the charmed snake and you knew. It
was the first time I could remember feeling like the prey instead of the
predator. You could consume me and you knew. You know.
Ari said something to you, and he
grabbed your leg. We finally broke eye
contact and everyone else came back into focus.
I slammed my Seven and Seven in two gulps and motioned the waiter for
another. Drinking—that’s how I was going
to combat your hypnosis. After my third
drink everything was loose and we were all starting to laugh.
So where did you and Lisa meet?
Christian Mingle.
You spat your wine back into the glass.
Uh, I’m Jewish, thanks.
Yeah, Li…I think we’re all Jews. Unless Ari over there is a Baptist in hiding.
I thought you were Roman Catholic.
By designation, maybe. Certainly not by practice or faith. And when I said “we” I meant the collective
room; we are in Williamsburg after all.
Lisa looked
annoyed. You looked amused. Who
gives a fuck how Ari looked.
So, Nick, what is it that you do
exactly?
Well, Ari, I smoke a ton of pot and
people pay me to tell them things they should be able to figure out
themselves. It’s a glorious life.
Nick’s an author, Ari.
Thanks M, that’s a swell way to put
it. I’m an author, Ari.
What kind of books?
Fiction.
My second novel is forthcoming.
I’ve worked on a few TV shows, edited a few things, published a few
articles, a few short stories. Nothing
crazy.
You make money that way?
Money’s nothing, man.
Like hell! It’s everything.
Ha!
Everything? I feel awful for you.
Why are you being such a jerk,
Nick. Ari’s right, you should probably
care about your financial security more.
I almost forgot Lisa was even
there. Goddamn I couldn’t take my eyes
off of you for a second.
So if you’re “not about money,” Nick,
what are you about?
The rapture, baby. I
wrapped my foot around your ankle and ran it up the back of your leg. Your eyes went wide. The rapture, my dear boy.
I could tell that Lisa wanted to kill me
and Ari was starting to get uneasy, uncomfortable. Not many people get me, and it was clear
these two to my right thought that I was from Mars. But you stayed with me the whole time, and
this is when it dawned on me what you were doing.
I’m going to head to the ladies room,
I’ll be right back. You slid your hand between my knees as you excused yourself from the
table. I counted to thirty seconds in my
head.
Jeeze, guys, you know what, these damn
Seven and Sevens ran right through me.
I’m going to need to excuse myself as well.
When I turned the corner to head towards
the restroom, you grabbed me around the neck and pulled my face to your
lips. I’d say I forgot how delicious you
are, but I’m no liar. I pulled your body
off of the wall and pressed you into me.
You stopped kissing and looked me in the eye.
Did you drive?
Yeah, love.
Valet?
Fuck no.
Thank God. You
kissed me again. You wanna make a
run for it?
We ran right past our table and both of
our dates, diving headfirst into the rain.
We held hands the entire seven blocks and when we found the car, I
grabbed your waist and kissed you hard on the mouth. We were soaked through, but nothing could
bother us. I pushed you against the car
and let you feel me against you.
Get me home right now.
We jumped in the car and continued to
make-out and grab at each other. Our
hands were so hard and wild, running over the others’ body; it was animalistic,
primal, carnal.
Get me home, now, Nick. You breathed
out again.
I put the car into drive and started
navigating Brooklyn. I thought back to
that first night when you asked if I was circumcised.
Fuck no. Does that bother you?
No, a lot of the
foreign guys I’ve dated were that way.
But most Americans are…Jewish or not.
Well I have a
beautiful, uncircumcised penis. My
father told Doctor Cohen we’re keeping him Italian.
You laughed.
I thought again about my lack of strong
move the first time. I’d say this time
you gave me a fair opening. I grabbed
you between your legs and shoved my middle finger into you, over your
pants. You made a face and jerked your
head forward. I unbuttoned them and had
you unzipped within half a block. I
shoved my hand down the front of your thong and parted your lips with my ring
and pointer; utilizing my middle finger to play with your clit and spread the
slick sweetness. I massaged you, before
sliding my middle finger in first. You
grabbed my hand and pushed me further inside of you. You moaned, but weren’t obnoxiously
loud. And I had the most raging hard-on;
I couldn’t wait to show you my beautiful, uncircumcised penis. You laid across my body and started kissing
me at a red light. I fingered you harder
and reveled in your nails digging into my shoulders. Made me hopeful I would wake up with red raw
claw marks drawn down my back.
We pulled up to your apartment and there
must be a God, because there was a spot right in front. We ran in and up those four flights of stairs
faster than I ever could have imagined possible; yet the road ahead still felt
infinite: the anticipation, anxiety, curiosity and wonder rising with us, with
each step. You fumbled with your keys
and I kissed you again. You shoved your
hand into my chest, pushing me off of you.
The door was finally open and we
practically fell inside and on top of each other. We were kissing savagely. You turned to head towards your room, and I
grabbed your waist and swung you around.
I yanked down your pants and grabbed your pussy again. You fumbled with my belt, as I pulled my
jacket off. I picked you up and slammed
you into the wall. You didn’t miss a
beat. I thought again of that first
night—it was picking you up that made you push me out your door. Tonight you seemed to enjoy it just
fine. I grabbed my cock and put it
inside of you. Your long legs were
wrapped tight around my back, and I had my right hand grabbing you under the
chin and around your neck, forcing you to keep kissing me, while you struggled
to pull back and gasp. I put you down
and turned you around. I guess you knew
this position, because you dropped your head between your legs and arched your
back against the wall proper. I pushed
into you hard, slow and long, and with every thrust, you:
oh! Oh!!
OH!!! OHH!!!!ed
When I finished, I pulled you up and
turned you around. I pushed you into the
wall, and fell into you a little, kissing you—still hard, but with a certain
tenderness. We walked slowly to your
bedroom shooting each other glances and smiles.
You leaned into my left side and grabbed my hand, bringing it up to your
mouth and kissing it. We found your bed
and finally laid down. I grabbed you and
pulled you close, kissing you. Soft at
first, softer than I ever had. As our
making-out became more intense, I pulled you closer and slid my hand down your
side, pushing your left leg away from the right. I started playing with you again.
More?
You asked.
I just kept kissing you, fingering you,
watching you react. Arch your back and
head. I started nibbling. First little bites on your chin and cheek,
moving to ear to neck, down your entire side.
I came to your stomach and continued down until my head was between your
legs. I put each hand over each leg and
opened you up. Lightly at first, licking
your lips and flicking your clit with my tongue. I licked the length of your vagina and stuck
my tongue inside of you, swirling it around.
You dug your fingers into the back of my head and moaned some more. I latched onto your clit and started making
circles with my tongue. This is the
thing most guys miss when it comes to cunnilingus—they try to get fancy, when
the truth is that it takes consistency to make a woman orgasm. Sure, I am all about variety, and the same
thing gets stale—that’s why it’s always good to have a plethora of weapons in
your arsenal, but one at a time, guys.
I started kissing back up to your lips
and I slid back inside of you. I pumped
long and slow, and we were kissing again.
We rolled over onto our sides, starting to move in quicker rhythm; all
the while staying in perfect sync. You
pushed my shoulder and rolled on top of me.
You sat straight up and proud, owning your body, loving my eyes on
it. You moved your hips something
incredible, and I had my left hand firmly on your ass, and my right hand over
your cunt, helping you to keep time. You
had that wonderful ability so few women possess to control your pussy and keep
it working, pulsating around my cock. It
takes a lot for me to cum, but you had no problem.
We collapsed breathless and haphazardly
draped over each other. We kissed once
and you said:
What am I going to do with you?
I never answered.
I’d like to say that I thought about
Lisa and Ari and felt at least a little bit bad about what we had done. I didn't though. Honestly, the only thing on my mind right
then was: I wonder what you’re doing tomorrow…
Fuck.