Losing Johnny

by Rachel Dunning

  “You’re a freakin genius, Nic.”

  “And who says high school don’t teach you shit?”

  -4-

  After a good twenty minutes, Tiago left the dancefloor in a vacuum and strode toward me like a cheetah. Before I knew it, I was in his arms and he smothered me with a kiss so tender my legs almost buckled. His chest heaved with exhaustion, and he tasted like sweat.

  “Why didn’t you join me?” he said.

  “Oh, y’know, I’m not much of a dancer.”

  Nicole winked at me.

  Behind her, in the distance, Simone fumed.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ~ Touch ~

  -1-

  Saturday, May 30

  Tiago met me at the Delancey station the next morning at eight, grinning like a school kid when he saw me walking up the subway stairs. We kissed like old lovers outside the McDonald’s while people stormed past us.

  “Good trip?” he said, looking down at me with eyes of fire.

  “Subway ride? Yeah, great. Got to see a lot.”

  He put his arm around my neck and we walked down unfamiliar streets for me. I’d been to the Lower East Side before, but not here exactly. The buildings were low, except to the north, where large brown blocks of brick apartments speckled the view. A blue condo building jutted out of the south like a modernistic wart.

  Ten minutes (and perhaps thirty Asian and Indian restaurants) later, we were at his block. A boutique store on the right, a Thai restaurant on the left.

  The interior of the building was typical New York. Chipped paint. Gray walls. Old stairs. It was ugly.

  “Please excuse the interior,” he said. “If I were Bono’s son I’d be living on the Upper West Side. Alas, I’m a mere dentist’s son.”

  We walked up four flights of stairs to a light-starved corridor.

  When he opened his door for me...

  ...everything was different.

  Bright sunlight splashed in from open drapes. The air was fresh, lightly scented. Crisp flowers stood on a side table with a mirror behind them. The open-plan room extended in one large column from an entrance, to a tiny kitchen, and finally to a TV / living room. “After you,” he said.

  Two giant abstract paintings livened up the walls. But the couch didn’t look too comfortable, more like an oversized beanbag made for three. In the corner was a TV, a few DVDs.

  “Welcome to my abode.”

  “It’s not bad,” I said.

  “Admit it, you were expecting worse.”

  “Well, after I saw the chipped paint outside...”

  “Student living, what can I say?”

  “But, honestly, for a bunch of boys staying here, I really was expecting worse.”

  “And you would be right. The place usually looks like a pigsty. It’s clean because, well, I cleaned it this morning. I wanted to impress you.”

  I wrapped my arms around his neck and lifted my toes to reach him. “I’m impressed.”

  “So who are your roommates?”

  “You met them yesterday—Erik, François?”

  “Ah, the German and the French guy.”

  “Yes.”

  “Very international.”

  “It makes for interesting conversations.”

  He took me to the window, showed me the street. He turned back to the living room. “So, this is it,” he said. Then, “I know this is going to sound so corny, but...let me show you my bedroom.”

  It didn’t sound corny.

  “For a guy who’s so good with the ladies, I had expected you to show me that first.”

  He stopped before opening his door, turned only his head to look at me behind him. “Normally I would. But...it’s different with you.”

  I tried not to fall over after how that made me feel.

  His bedroom was as different from the apartment as the apartment had been to the dilapidated hallway.

  Burgundy walls. Black bedspread. A sidetable holding an expensive-looking radio-clock. Cherry wood shelving on the walls held an insane amount of DVDs. A few books. A poster of Scorsese hung on the wall facing the bed. And not a tacked-on poster like in Nicole’s room. This was framed. Another poster of Kubrick, and a third of a movie called Streets of Rio.

  “You ever seen it?” he asked, pointing at the Streets of Rio poster.

  I shook my head. “Is it good?”

  “It’s...disturbing. Not a romantic comedy. You heard of City of God?”

  “No.”

  “Well this one isn’t as good as City of God, but I liked it. It’s with one of the same actors.”

  “I’d like to watch it with you.”

  “It’s pretty rough. Pretty...gruesome.”

  “It’s about Brazil, right?”

  He shrugged. “You could say that. It’s about a kid who has a future in soccer but then the favelas suck his life away. We can do it later if you want. Erik and François are out all day. They’re shooting early morning and late night scenes today. And, well, I confess I told them I wanted the place to myself.”

  “You have that kind of sway with them?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. I’d do the same for them, I guess.”

  François had a square face, clammy-looking skin. Inquisitive eyes. He had an intelligent look. “Nerdy” would be a good way to describe him. Or, simply, French. Erik was more good looking. Thin. Tall. A boyish face. The type of look you’d expect from a Good Boy. But I didn’t see either of the two ever needing the apartment all day for some alone-time with a girl.

  I played with a fingernail.

  “You look good,” he said, taking in every part of me. I had on a high-waisted dress, pink, lace on top. It showed off my legs, and showed just enough skin above to make a guy want to see more. Usually I wouldn’t dress like this. Usually I’d slap on a loose-hanging tee and some shorts or some jeans. Normally I’d leave my hair in a messy-chic style instead of asking Nicole to help me do something with it this morning so that Tiago would have something better to look at than someone who’d just walked out of a category three hurricane.

  Tiago had set boundaries. He’d told me he wouldn’t push me too far, but that he wanted to touch me. That he wanted to hear me moan. He’d told me I was in control, that I could tell him to stop at any point.

  Within those limits, I wanted to give him the best damn afternoon of his life. I liked the rules. They made me feel safe. They made me, even, willing to give myself to him.

  Funny how that works.

  Maybe he knew it. He was, after all, a player.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Your eyes... They look...” He bit his bottom lip. His right hand clenched. I’d gone with winged eyeliner, a first for me. Again, Nicole’s suggestion.

  This will sound corny, and there’s no non-corny way to say it, but I started to tingle. And you know where...

  I almost heard electricity crackle between us. “You...really get to me,” I said, not able to stand it anymore. “You’re good. Damn good. I’ll give you that.”

  “Get to you?” We were still three or so feet apart.

  “You turn...” I swallowed, not believing I was about to say this. “Turn me on. You really turn me on. And...” I exhaled loudly, hot now. So hot. Needing a window open, or a fan.

  Or to take my dress off...

  “And,” I continued, “you’re like truth serum. Just that I’m telling you this, is something I don’t understand. Normally I’d play it cool...but...with you...”

  He took a step forward, and my stomach swallowed itself.

  “I know,” he said.

  What does he know?

  And then his hands were on my sides.

  My eyes closed, anvils on my eyelids.

  I wasn’t sure if he was holding me up or if I was floating.

  He pushed me back and I crashed mercilessly against the wall. My left leg moved outwards automatically, wanting to feel him. Wanting to sense him against me. Our tongues blasted against each other; my hands
clawed his hair.

  His own hands slid up my thighs, not stopping, not waiting, not asking for permission. Under my dress.

  His fingers curled around the strap of my panties. And he gripped.

  Hot breath warmed my ear while he spoke. “Remember what I said.”

  I didn’t respond, too out of it.

  “Catherine. Remember.”

  “Yes,” I hushed.

  “You want me to stop, you tell me to stop.”

  “Yes.” Another whisper.

  “Are you ready?”

  Ready for what?

  I nodded.

  He yanked. And before I knew it, my panties were at my thighs. Tiago dropped to his knees. He pulled my panties to my calves, my ankles. Pushed my left leg out. Ohmygod-ohmygod-ohmygod. He lifted my dress, glared up between my legs. Licked his lips.

  I want to...taste...you.

  My eyes went to the ceiling.

  Ohmygod-ohmygod, is he going to—

  Yes. He did.

  -2-

  His tongue found me wantonly.

  There was no pause, no wait. And it was inside me.

  Fire scraped at my skin and my groans ripped shreds through the walls.

  I pushed down against him, short on breath, high on need. And I ground down callously.

  Iron clamps kept my eyes closed. Amperes of current pumped through me as Tiago’s tongue seared a trail of fire and war through my insides.

  I heard shrill screams, roars of ecstasy as my lungs burst with heat and my fists beat a frenzied call against the wall.

  Tiago’s hands found my hips, lifted.

  “OH—DEAR—GOD!”

  I pulled on clumps of his hair, driving his mercy into me, begging for him to push me over. His fingers dug bruises into my waist, my butt.

  But I felt none of it, anaesthetized by his serum as he buried his tongue inside me.

  His hands found mine, our fingers interlocked. And still he drove and pushed and...

  The wail formed like a rhythm at the center of my chest. A primal drum beat—ba boom, ba boom, ba boom—in the caverns of my body. Slowly approaching. Chugging away, the steam-engine siren screaming in the distance. Ba boom. Ba boom. Ba boom.

  And then the wail found outlet, a fire-hydrant of sound through the tiny faucet of my lips. “Ohhhhhhhhhhhh...” My fingers tightened against his. Pulled them. Ripped—

  Ba boom. Ba boom. Ba boom.

  “Ohhhhhhh—myyyyyy—”

  Pulled! Gripped! Ground against him below so hard that he grunted with my weight—

  An earthquake roared.

  Masses of debris fell over me in swirls of madness as walls shattered and ripping screams of pleasure tore through the canvas of life itself.

  My body fell.

  I crumbled to the floor as jolting spasms assaulted every tendon and sinew.

  For a moment, his lips were gone. I was lost, flying, seeking his warmth at my core again—

  And then he was there, pressed up against me again, rubbing at my center while my body burst into a million pieces and my nails dug gashes into the carpeting I was now lying on. Bright white lights filled my vision. Razors of pleasure rent through my skin and down my legs. My head knocked a beat against the floor as Tiago kept thrilling me.

  And then, finally, I relaxed.

  But he didn’t.

  He kept kissing me, tasting me. Running his warm hands under my dress and over the skin of my belly.

  When I realized he had no intention of stopping, I opened my eyes, exhaled blissfully. And I widened.

  -3-

  “Mmmm.”

  “Mmmmmmm.”

  “Mmmmmmmmmm.”

  He kissed me there peacefully for an eternity. Actually kissed me.

  It was the most romantic thing I had ever experienced.

  We had made it onto the bed.

  My moans went on for hours, or so it felt. But it was only thirty minutes. Thirty minutes that his tongue had lapped and tasted me, and his hands had kneaded my thighs and waist. And when those thirty minutes were done, Tiago got up onto the bed next to me. Kept his hand below. And thrust his fingers into me.

  He wasn’t gentle now. Not gentle at all.

  But neither was I.

  I rode that hand until there was nothing else but his eyes, his face, the grimace of tension on his brow.

  And another exquisite explosion of mine.

  -4-

  I held onto him like I was falling off a canyon.

  And I was.

  I fell and fell and fell and fell.

  I fell and tumbled with him in my arms, soared with the eagles, saw the clouds rush up past me.

  And then, again, a third time, the first and second climaxes not being enough.

  My body shook, shuddered, contorted into positions I never thought were possible. My toes almost cramped. My left thigh did cramp!

  Finally, endlessly, I was done. So done. So completely and utterly...finished.

  It was ten AM. I’d been at Tiago’s place barely two hours.

  It felt like I’d been there all day.

  -5-

  We watched Streets of Rio. Tiago pulled the drapes closed and made us microwaved popcorn. Filmmaking students, they have lots of popcorn.

  I snuggled up against him, my feet on the couch, my arm around him. Like boyfriend and girlfriend.

  The movie was in Brazilian Portuguese, a dialect I wasn’t accustomed to. And the slang was out of this world. So Tiago put English subtitles on for me. I might as well have been watching something in Hebrew.

  He was right. The movie was rough. Terrible, actually. Terribly good, terribly disturbing. A guy being burned to death, a sad ending.

  “Is that what it’s like down there?” I asked him afterwards.

  “In the favelas, yes.”

  “Wasn’t it dangerous taking those photos there?”

  “I didn’t go to all of them, only some. I was friends with some of the local gangs. Neutral. They respect me. They like having their pictures taken. They like having them put on the internet. They feel they’re famous now or something. And they feel I represent them honestly in my photographs, so they let me do it. That’s how I got all those posed shots.”

  “That was all in São Paulo?”

  His hand, which had been playing aimlessly with my shoulder, paused. “Uhm, no. No.” Pause. “That was in Rio.”

  He shifted, turned on the couch so he was facing me. “I promised you I’d take you to a park today. You still keen?”

  I wasn’t. I was keen to continue being alone with him. Neither of us had our own place. Being here with him was like gold. “Are you?” I asked.

  He looked at my bare leg, put a hand on it. A hard, warm, calloused hand.

  I let him continue. I liked his hand on my leg. I liked his touch. I waited for the kiss to come, and then it did. I fell against his lips and inhaled him into me.

  His hand slipped inwards, to where I was hot and wet.

  He found me, pressed, pushed inwards. I sighed with yearning.

  He got me to climax again quickly. I clutched his neck and yanked at him while my body went ballistic with a quick, sharp release.

  When I was done, I pushed him back on the couch, slid my hand down his shirt, inside his jeans.

  He was wet as well. Hot. Hard. So hard.

  I was still a little timid, still a little shy. I’d only been with one other guy before.

  I lifted and dropped, squeezed him. Felt his moisture ooze and slide over him. He brought his zip down, making it easier for me to pump him. My bicep hurt, lactic acid building up in it. But Tiago started to pump up into my hand. The movement was maddening.

  He pushed into my hand. His own hand tightened around my waist. Held. Quivered.

  And then, oh dear God, his tongue trembled inside my mouth. And a strangled grunt of need escaped him. His hand clutched my arm for support as beauty spewed from him onto my wrist and thumb. I pumped him, and he drove his shaft up, hard and wo
nderful, through the loop in my fingers. “Oh. Fuck,” he groaned. “Fuck. Fuck. Oh, yeeeessss!” It lasted forever, and Tiago tightened his body against mine as the last flashes of climax rippled through him.

  His body gave one final shudder. And he relaxed.

  I started to lift my hand out from underneath. I wasn’t very experienced at this, not sure what to do. But I didn’t have to worry about it, because Tiago grabbed his tee and wiped my hand off for me.

  “I’m gonna change my clothes,” he said eventually.

  I lay on the couch looking at the ceiling. Dreamy.

  I liked him. He had depth. He was gentle. We had chemistry. He didn’t push me and yet I was comfortable with how far things had come in only two weeks. I know some people might find my pace slow, but I’ve never been that kind of girl. It took a year of dating before Johnny and I had finally slept together. And we’d known each other for eleven years by that time already. So this pace was, well, lightning fast for me.

  I was OK with it. I was comfortable with it.

  And I was comfortable being with another guy.

  “Catherine.” Tiago peaked out of his bedroom, no shirt. He had another tattoo on his waist. Fire running across it. “I’m gonna jump in the shower quickly.”

  “Maybe I’ll go in after you.”

  I thought of Johnny now. Not romantically. It was stupid that he and I weren’t talking. And now that I was seeing someone, maybe I could rekindle that friendship we’d once had. Because now there’d be no complications.

  I decided I would call him tomorrow.

  “What you thinking?” Tiago surprised me.

  I took my thumbnail out my mouth and looked up at him. He was freshly showered. White shirt, faded jeans. Brown boots. He was sexy, so sexy.

  “Uhm, just stuff,” I said.

  He bent down to kiss me. Lingered there eternally. I smiled like a girl in love. Dreamy love. I wasn’t in it yet, but it felt in reach.

  -6-

  We chilled in his bedroom, lying on the bed talking. Every now and then pausing to make out.