Was there another Troy for her to burn?

I’m afraid I shouldn’t be posting this. That should tell you something right away. I couldn’t care less if most of my conquests/violators find out I’ve been talking about their weird fetishes/small penises/stupid pets on the internet, but this one is different for two reasons: I actually like him, and we didn’t hook up in any traditional sense. But if ever there was a tale whose clear telling might benefit the teller, it’s this one. So if you’re reading this, dear boy, I hope you’re not mad at me. Nobody knows my identity, let alone yours, and I’ve changed around certain details. Your secret is safe.

I run into him at a neighborhood dive bar. I’ve seen him around a lot and find him attractive in that boyish, skinny, unkempt indie-nerd way I tend to favor in my partners. But I know he has a girlfriend, and as such I’ve always bolted from our conversations as soon as possible so as not to inadvertently flirt with him. When I have a crush on someone, I feel like there’s a big scarlet “C” blazing on my forehead, and I don’t want our mutual friends to think I’m attempting a home wrecking. So after exchanging the usual pleasantries, I begin looking for a way out like always…until he starts beckoning me towards the bathroom.

Is he for real? Maybe there’s someone behind me. I live with a Carrie-esque fear that every boy I like is secretly mocking me. I give him a few chances to not actually be beckoning (maybe he’s got a tic?), but when he says “come back and talk to me,” I can no longer give him the benefit of the doubt. As we wait in the bathroom line, he starts asking me deep questions about myself: “What’s your outlook on life? Are you social? Do you like to party?” This confuses me until I realize he is coked out of his mind.

“Yes, I will do a line with you in the bathroom.”

Once inside, he continues to interrogate. “You seem like a pretty social girl,” he says. I tell it to him straight:

“I’m actually pretty shy and frightened of people. Sometimes I think I have a social disability of some sort. But it must be mild, because I’ve managed to overcome it in most situations.”

He looks surprised, then sticks the end of a coke-filled cigarette up my nose. I take it.

I feel like I should write a small aside here about how I’m not a cokehead, but that would probably just convince you that I doth protest too much. I only do other people’s coke, and only on special occasions like weddings, funerals, etc. Luckily, it was a Saturday. Feel free to draw your own conclusions.

“You’ve got a little here,” he says, picking a few grains off of my tits and putting them on his gums.

“Yeah sorry,” I say, “I’m messy.”

“Let’s go buy more.”

“Ok.”

Once outside, our conversation goes something like this:

“I don’t do this that often. Hardly ever at all, really.”

“Oh, me neither.”

“I hate the drug’s aura.”

“I hate the drug’s enthusiasts.”

“Cokeheads are the worst people in the world.”

“Oh, totally.”

“Yeah.”

Then he calls his dealer on speed-dial and buys another bag.

I ask if we should go back to the bar.

“Nah, they’re probably all gone by now…let’s go to your house.”

At this point, I am coming along for the ride. He has managed to surprise me several times already, and I want to see where he is going with this.

Back at my house, we sniff some more drugs, then start having one of those coke conversations that lasts forever and covers an impressive amount of ground, both wide and deep. I don’t need to be on coke to have this type of conversation, but it seems almost everyone else does, and maybe that’s why I like it; it makes everybody more like me. It puts them on my wavelength, usually a lonely place.

Then he drops the unspoken ruiner of our night together: “You know I have a girlfriend, right?”

“You fucking live with her, don’t you?”

“You know we’re not doing too well?”

“No.”

“Blah blah blah coke blah problems problems blah what am I doing here with you?”

“You tell me.”

I tell him all about my last relationship, which ended partly because we weren’t ready to live together. We both knew this and put a time limit on the arrangement, but once we moved out, it felt so much like a breakup that a breakup was inevitable. It’s taken me a long time to realize that just because you love someone doesn’t necessarily mean you should be with him at all costs. It wouldn’t have taken us a whole year to become friends again if we had ended it when we should have instead of dragging it out into a messy, bleeding half-dead thing just begging to be euthanized. I don’t tell him all this, but I give the jist of it:

“I’m arguing with my boyfriend about groceries, and I’m twenty-fucking-one years old. This isn’t right.”

He asks me if I ever want to do crazy stuff that I wouldn’t have the freedom to do if I was still in a relationship. Like what? Have sex with some random person you met in a bar? That’s not crazy, people do it all the time. Kill yourself? Move away? What?

“…what would this conversation be like if we were both completely naked?”

Before I can say “Excuse me?” he’s taking his clothes off to reveal a deliciously nubile physique and a bad case of coke dick. I take a moment to enjoy the power dynamic of being fully clothed while a cute naked boy stands shivering before me. Then, at his urging, I disrobe as well. We continue our conversation fairly unaltered, him sitting on my bed, me lying on the couch in a way that hides my naughty bits somewhat. I’m trying to maintain eye contact but he makes me look at his penis, and the first word that pops into my head is “dainty.”

“Did you seriously just call my penis dainty?”

“Oh shit, did I say that out loud? I’m sorry.”

I give him my schpiel about how I actually prefer small penises, which is true. As vaginas go, I’m pretty tight, and I can’t take a giant cock too well…I’m more into clitoral stimulation than getting fucked, and I will be forever jealous of girls who can get off from penetration alone. It’s not the first superpower I’d choose if I met a genie (I’d much rather be able to fly or turn invisible), but it’s certainly somewhere towards the bottom of my top five.

We’re cold, so I get in bed with him and we cuddle. He asks about the tattoo on my back, and I tell him it’s Yeats.

“Holy shit, I love Yeats!”

“Me too!”

I start reciting Yeats poems that I know, then get the Norton Anthology of Modern Poetry off my bookshelf. We dork out on that for a few hours, taking turns reading to each other from it. It’s hard to describe how intimate and erotic this is; I get wetter than an English major with a naked boy in her bed reading her Wallace Stevens. Or equally wet, I suppose. I’m too horny thinking back on it to even make up a metaphor.

This continues for hours, as does our conversation. I look down and see his dainty coke dick has given way to a nice, average-sized erection. He tells me he’s going to move out of the place he lives in now, but hasn’t told his girlfriend yet. We ask each other what’s going to happen next, and neither of us has an answer. We continue to cuddle; his skin is warm and smooth and I feel relaxed despite my rapidly pounding pulse.

Eventually we put our clothes back on and go up to the roof to watch the sunrise. He tells me he’ll be back, and no matter how unlikely it seems, I believe him. He hugs me, hard, then sets out to walk home in the early morning light not often seen by Brooklyn’s young inhabitants. I feel the coke wearing off and go back to bed, but I’m so turned on by the weird wonderful thing that just happened to me that I have to masturbate twice in order to fall asleep. The second time I come harder than I have in recent memory, then lie back and wonder with a hint of sadness if he’ll ever make me come like that. I wake up eight hours later with one hand on my pussy and the other in my poetry book, and even though I should probably feel unsatisfied I feel fucking awesome.

To be continued?

–Eve