Their dingy, third-floor attic apartment smelled like cigarettes and sexual hysteria. I’d gotten lost on my way over, had somehow found the right street name in the wrong town. Calling from a borrowed cell phone at a Domino’s, I listened to the woman I’d soon be fucking give me impatient directions.
It was a cold night, and I almost turned back. Their place was just off the ocean. Once I got there, the first thing the woman did was place my hands under her sweater onto her floppy tits so I could “warm them up.” My hands, she meant.
Something was wrong with the couple. They alternated between cooing and viciously attacking each other. The atmosphere was toxic, dangerous, with everything on near tilt. The ceiling came at you from strange angles, eating up the space; it was hard to breathe.
After they left her tits, the woman commented on how beautiful my hands were.
“Look at his hands, hon. Like an artist’s.”
The guy lit a cigarette and narrowed his eyes at her.
“In a minute, this asshole is going to totally humiliate me with the size of his dick. You have to praise his hands too? You have to take everything away from me?”
“You don’t want me to take big dicks, baby? You don’t want to see his dick in my pussy?”
That seemed ugly. The guy looked down silently.
“Then shut the fuck up.”
She turned to me.
This article appears in Apr 15-21, 2009.