I turn my head to look at him and see that what he sees in me that’s different than any other girl in the room is the one thing that he didn’t like

on

My head spins back and forth like a top that’s in the air and everything I
see and hear keeps spinning in circles until an idea just grabs hold of me. That
one thought is everything. It’s the one thing that I can’t fight, a brain
twisted into a million different directions that won’t stop spinning until I
fall into a quiet trance. “Hey Babe, wassup.” He makes fun of me. He pretends
to be angry with me. He makes a mockery of me.

“Hey Babe, wassup.”

I don’t answer. I think, You know what my problem is with you? You never give
me a chance to explain myself. I know you will answer questions before I answer
them, but you never allow me to. I never get a chance to tell you how I feel.
Like you said, we do everything differently. I just have to learn to trust
myself.

“Hey Babe, wassup.”

“Yeah,” I finally say. It kills me to say it, but just the idea of him answering
me is a relief.

“Yeah, what?”

“You know.”

“What?”

“I got a hard-on.”

And there it is. That one thought that will save us both. I am going to
explain myself to him. I am going to let this go. One way or another, this is
finally our chance. I give him a little smile. He’s been waiting for this
chance. And like last night when he came in with no makeup, ready to strip off
his clothes, my smile makes him feel like he’s the only one who got away. I
turn my head to look at him, letting the one thought take control. Then I look
him up and down and see that what he sees in me that’s different than any other
girl in the room is the one thing that he didn’t like. I smile back at him.

“Yeah, what?”

“Well,” I grin, trying to be cute but don’t succeed, “I like it when you
fondle”

“You really like it when I do that?”

“Yeah,” I smile, but I am not trying for a smile. There’s nowhere to go with
this, this line is running out. “I mean… I like it when you touch me when you
fondle me,” I say simply. I just want to get this over with.

“You mean, like when you stand up and take your clothes off in front of me
or when you take my clothes off or when we make out or when you do all kinds of
things that make me feel good, you like when I take your clothes off?”

“Yeah,” I say, feeling a lump forming in my throat. I am suddenly filled with
an overwhelming feeling of panic. Panic that I don’t know how to explain.
Panic that I look like a complete freak.

“Babe,” he says softly, “if you like when I take your clothes off I’m going to
be upset with you but you don’t know that. There isn’t a word for what you
expect to happen and even if there was, I’m not going to try to explain it to
you.”

“Oh come on,” I say with tears starting to sting my eyes and the urge to cry
flooding over the top of me. “It’s just sex. It’s just one thing I don’t understand
but I don’t feel like it’s wrong. It’s just what happens sometimes.”

“And you love that?” Kevin says calmly.

“Yeah,” I say, trying to make this an excuse for me. I don’t believe in sex
with a stranger. I don’t believe in being with someone for the sex when that
person is actually a stranger. Hell, I don’t even believe in a stranger. I just
like it when he touches me and looks at me like he will never do that
again, but who cares. He likes it, that’s all that matters.

“And you’re going to be upset if I don’t do it right?” he says softly.

“No,” I say. “I’m going to be more upset than I already am.” I realize that I’m
saying this out loud and am suddenly ashamed. I can’t have him upset with me. I
can’t have him upset with me. I can’t let it happen. God, I am going to die.

“Well, it’s nice when it goes well,” Kevin says, “but it’s still sex and you
don’t have to like it to have it.”

He doesn’t leave. He stays right there, not moving a muscle. I feel as if I
am going to slide off the couch. I feel as if he is moving me on the couch.

“That’s what’s wrong with you,” he says, finally putting me to my back on the
couch. He reaches for me and for the love of God it feels like he is going to
press the head of his dick against me.

“Don’t you want it to be good?” he says softly, “I mean the way you like it. The
way your pussy likes it.”

He knows what I am thinking.

“Well it’s just like all the other times,” I say quickly, wanting to keep him
talking. “It’s just sex.”

“Well, what does that mean?” he asks, not following through.

“Nothing,” I say, but the truth is I can’t stop the tears. The truth is, I
wonder what I am doing with him.

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