by Seth King
“Look at yourself, baby,” I tell her. “See what I see. See how perfect you are. I want you so bad that I am going to taste you now.”
I take the hands on her underwear, lift them up, and slide both of our pointer fingers into my mouth at the same time. I lick them all over, savoring her sweet saltiness as she watches me in the mirror with an open mouth.
“Taste that pussy, baby. Agghhhh.”
The growl I hear myself emit is so inhuman, so animalistic, the sound of it surprises even me. She opens her eyes fully and looks directly into mine in the mirror, and as our irises meet we share a strange, deep moment that I cannot even begin to comprehend. It’s like something is flowing between us, some weird sense of understanding, and I show her my affection by pinching on her nipple so hard she cries out. As I return our fingers to her pussy and rub faster than ever she starts breathing harder and swaying her hips again, her face screwed up and reddened in ecstasy. Realizing she’s about to blow, I reach around in front of her, clasp my hand around her neck under her jaw, and angle her head upward so she has no choice but to watch herself.
“Look into my eyes right now,” I snarl as I stare at her gorgeous face with gritted teeth. “Fucking look at me. That’s right, baby. I want you to come for me now. Let me watch you come for me.”
She shudders and tilts her head back further as she starts breathing harder and sucking in her stomach. She closes her eyes, lets her mouth fall open, shudders again and takes one last gulp of air, and then goes completely still and holds her breath for one long moment before letting out a garbled cry through my fingers. She twitches and rocks from head to toe, jutting out her hips and exhaling again and again, clutching my fingers so tightly they lose circulation. Finally her knees fully give way and she collapses, panting and sweating and trembling, and I let go of her neck and move my arms to catch her. When she’s safe in my grasp I blow a strand of hair out of her face and plant a light kiss on her forehead as I stare into her kind eyes. I notice a small freckle below her left eyebrow and commit it to memory so I can picture her face later. It suddenly dawns on me that I want to be in this position forever, holding her, cherishing her.
“You are so perfect, Taylor,” I tell her as I run my thumb lightly down her cheek. “I hope you can see that now.”
The way she stares up at me- with absolute hunger- makes all of the desire I have suppressed for years explode into my system at once. I am throbbing and my throat is burning and every inch of my body is alight with need for the girl whose eyes I am staring into. Is this it? Is this the moment I will finally do the thing I have been avoiding for years? Am I going to fuck her? I want it, I need it, I must do it. She’s so ready, and so am I. It would be so easy. It would be perfect.
But then Good Stellan returns and pours the sadness over me like a bucket of cold water. I can’t fuck her – it wouldn’t be safe for her. It would be the opposite of safe. I failed- I was supposed to scare her away, but all this did was make me want her more, and now I’ll never be able to walk away.
Except if I do it right now.
I stand her up as delicately as I can, grab my keys from the counter, and start for the door.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m sorry, Taylor,” I tell her over my shoulder, too shameful to even face her. “I can’t do this. I shouldn’t have come here tonight, and it was my mistake. I’m sorry for doing this to you. Goodbye.”
As I explode out of the door and head for my car I feel panic bloom in my chest like when you hit the top of a rollercoaster and get a glimpse of just how far you have to fall. This is not good, not at all, not even in the slightest.
Taylor Haney just made Bad Stellan come back to life again before my eyes, and I have absolutely no idea what I am going to do about it.
5
Taylor Haney
Early the next morning I am awoken by my throbbing head and dry mouth, and after I drink some water and take an Advil I fall back onto my couch and lay there for an endless stretch of time, unable to think anything but the following:
What on God’s green earth happened last night?
After I’d watched Stellan disappear into the darkness I grabbed an old sweater from a trip to Charleston with a palm tree on it that I keep in my foyer and wrapped myself up in it as I waited for him to come back and explain himself. But he didn’t, and so I gave up all hope and collapsed onto my couch and tried to recap the night’s events. I had the first orgasm of my life that wasn’t self-administered, and the guy who gave it to me didn’t even sleep with me. He didn’t even enter me. Using my own two hands, he made me feel things no guy has ever made me feel before. All three things he was doing at the same time just became too much, and I exploded- it was like my body ceased to exist, shattered into a million pieces, and all I knew was the glorious ecstasy of what he was doing to me. The skies opened up, the choir started singing, and I got a taste of heaven. He was like a prayer. He was perfect- the way he took charge of me, the way he stared at me in that mirror and told me to watch…and come on, that dirty talk in Spanish? Hottest thing I’ve ever heard, by far. His accent was exotic and beautiful and he rolled his R’s like he’d grown up in San Juan or something. It was fascinating to me how he could be so forceful and aggressive, and then five seconds later, delicate and soft. Every move was perfect, and it was like he knew exactly what I wanted, when I wanted it. When he stared into my eyes in the mirror that last time it was like I was suddenly stripped bare, and we connected on the most basic human level. I felt vulnerable and exposed and a little scared- okay, a lot scared- but all that just added onto the pile and contributed to my ridiculous reaction to him. And the desire I saw in his eyes for me…I’ve never felt more wanted, more needed, more lusted after. Not even close. I can’t imagine how anyone could ever look at me and think I’m hot or sexy, but for whatever reason he did, and that alone was enough to make me lose it.
I had the best sex of my life, and I didn’t even have sex.
Suddenly my thoughts are shattered by my couch cushions vibrating under me. I feel around for my phone lazily until I find it and see that Cara is calling me. Ugh. I consider ignoring it, but then I realize that would only make her call again, so I clear my throat and answer.
“Well if it isn’t Little Miss Bitchy,” she responds, thankfully sounding more sarcastic than pissed off. “You hungover? Or just tired from sketching off with hot guys without saying goodbye first?”
“I wasn’t being bitchy,” I say as the events at the bar come flooding back into my brain. I totally was being bitchy, I remember, so I work my tired mind on overdrive to come up with an excuse. “I was just…still kinda freaking out over the Adam thing. I tried to tell you I was leaving, but you were busy. And no, weirdly, I’m not that hung over; I already took an Advil. And plus I think I got pretty sobered up by what happened at my house.”
“Ooooh!” she squeals. “I need to know everything. Meet me at Starbucks, like, now. I’ve already been here for like thirty minutes cramming for this stupid test Zegman is giving. And every other girl here is in sweats and a ponytail, so don’t waste any time getting ready, not that you would anyway.”
I roll over and stretch my legs as my eyes adjust to the sunrays streaming through my window. “Ugh, fine.”
Twenty minutes later I slouch up to Starbucks, praying that nobody mistakes me for a beluga whale in my baggy sweater and oversized running shorts and tries to harpoon me. After I grab a coffee I spot Cara at a far table and head over.
“I just got my third text about last night,” she says as I sink into a seat. “Whitley Gabriel saw you two leaving and told some people, and now everyone wants to know how you seduced the famous Stellan Goode. I’m officially jealous of you, and I officially need to know everything that went down right now. How did this even happen? Didn’t he turn you down in the beginning, or did I see it wrong?”
“Whoa, back up,” I say as I rub my eyes. Last night I was sure I’d be desperate to brag about the St
ellan details and make Cara jealous, but how can I begin to describe something that I still can’t even understand myself? “I didn’t even know anyone saw us leaving together,” I tell her. “And I don’t know why they care, anyway, since we didn’t even do anything to begin with.”
Her face falls. “You mean you didn’t have sex?”
I reach up and bite my thumbnail. “Well, no. Not exactly. I don’t know, it’s hard to explain.”
She leans in. “Well, what did he try? How far did you guys go? How much did he touch? Breasts?”
“Ugh,” I groan, “did you just say ‘breasts?’ That word is so disgusting. It makes me feel like I’m getting a medical exam or something. That’s almost as bad as ‘moist.’”
“Okay, whatever, I’ll call them ‘tits,’ then.”
“Ew, that’s even worse!”
“Whatever, stop trying to change the subject! Give me the deets!”
I look around to make sure nobody is paying attention and then lean closer and tell her the story.
“Oh my God,” she says with huge eyes when I finish. “I’m obsessed. That’s so weird and hot. Wasn’t he supposed to be a Christian or something?”
“Yeah, but he’s totally hooked up before, or at least practiced on some extremely life-like blow-up dolls.”
“Well, if you didn’t have sex,” she giggles, “then did you at least end up having a…?”
I blush and look away.
“Shit, you did!” she cries. “He made you come without even entering you?! I know he gave off a good-at-sex vibe, but come on- is this real life?!”
“Shut up, you sick freak, people can hear you. But yeah, I did have one, and it was…the best one I’ve ever had, to be honest.”
“My God,” she says as she shakes her head. “If someone did that to me, I’d be shouting it from the mountaintops. Ugh, why was I not the one to hit on him, again?”
I smirk at her. “Because you told me he was unattainable, remember?”
She groans and then takes a bite of her muffin while staring off into the distance. “So, it turns out Mr. Holy has a bad side after all. It’s perfect: he’s like a Christian in the streets and a freak in the sheets. Or in the kitchen, or wherever weird place you guys hooked up.”
She waits for me to laugh. I don’t.
“Wow, so you really like the kid,” she says, wide-eyed. “So what now?”
I stare down and study the fake wooden grain of the tabletop. Even if she is a total bitch ninety percent of the time, there’s still a benefit to hanging out with Cara, besides her treasure trove of gossip: she knows me better than anyone in the world except my mother.
“Yeah, I like him,” I admit. “I can already tell. And it sucks, because I know I’ll never get him. Afterward he just left without even giving me his number or anything, so I guess I came on too strong or something and freaked him out and made him leave.” I bite the lining of my mouth. “It just goes back to my usual problem- I’m always the one who likes the other person more than they like me. I wish I could just turn a switch and make myself like someone a little less. I can already tell that I’m way more into him than he is into me, and that blows. I mean, he wouldn’t have walked out if he liked me, right?”
Half of me hopes Cara will say something encouraging, but the other half reminds me that she is Cara McClellan.
“You’re probably right,” she says after a few moments, letting me down once again. “But hey, it’s worth a try. It sounds like he’s seduce-able, even if it might take a while. And it’s not like you’ll go to hell for fucking him or anything.”
“Well how do I seduce him, then?” I ask her. “I mean, you’re kind of the expert on this stuff, not me.”
“Shut up,” she laughs. “I don’t know, sex yourself up. God knows you need it. Finally get that makeover I’ve been begging you to get. Go to the mall and get a skanky outfit. Get a spray tan and some highlights.”
“You don’t want me to get a makeover,” I tell her, “you just want to turn me into you, you little whore.”
“Which is a great person to be, by the way.” She glances at her phone. “Ugh, I’m late for class. Gotta go. And plus my dad’s in town from DC and I’ve got to drop by his office in Raleigh later on to deal with his latest meltdown over my grades. Text me the second Stellan calls, if he ever does. Love ya.”
She blows me a kiss and flounces away, and as I sit there nursing my coffee I consider what she’d said about potentially going to hell for having sex with Stellan. As for me, I’m not not a Christian- I’m just sort of apathetically in-between, like a lot of people my age. My mom is Methodist but my dad’s Catholic, which is how I was raised, and now I guess you could call me a recovering Catholic. I grew up going to Mass every Sunday like a lot of people, and I still really enjoy going with my family on holidays and special occasions and such. I listened to everything the pastor thundered about suffering for eternity in a lake of fire and brimstone as punishment for sinning and having premarital sex and all that, but when I turned nineteen or so I began questioning everything I thought I knew about the world, thinking for myself and starting to make my own decisions, grappling with all those cheesy meaning-of-life questions that face people my age. These days I’m pretty sure that life and morals exist in a million different colors, not just black and white, like I was taught. You can have sex with your boyfriend a few times a week and still be a good person and get into heaven. (I hope.) Sure, I might feel a little Catholic guilt sometimes in the back of my mind, but I don’t let it rule my life. I’ve slept with five guys before, and that’s okay, because I was safe about it and used protection. When two people are in a relationship, it’s a natural part of them coming together.
This also gets me get to thinking about what being a “Christian” even means today. How do you even keep it up, in an age when we’re surrounded by sin and temptation and Rihanna songs at all hours of the day and night? We have more access to sin than any generation in history. I mean, theoretically I could pick up my iPhone right now and use it to instantly order drugs, look at porn, do whatever bad stuff I wanted. The outside world is going to creep in somehow, and if you asked me, it’s better to focus on just being a good person in the midst of all the naughtiness than to desperately try to avoid it all and stay one hundred percent celibate, for lack of a better word. But how can I convince Stellan of that?
When I return home I collapse onto my couch and get out my iPad. Obviously in this day and age the first thing you do after meeting a guy you like is to pick up the nearest digital device and find out every single detail about his life like a crazy person, and I had some Facebook stalking to do. I find him fairly quickly, but when I click on his Timeline I feel a jealous panic rise in my throat: it’s clogged with dozens of desperate flirty comments from all sorts of random girls, most of them sounding something like “Nice meeting you in class the other day, text me sometime ;)”. But he hasn’t responded to any of them, which does make me feel a little better. I scroll back in time and see that on his birthday, which happened to be on Christmas Day, 133 people had commented him with birthday wishes. 133! I barely cracked 50 comments on my last birthday, but then again I am not a god-like creature capable of making people become obsessed after one drunken encounter at a bar, so oh well.
I move on to his pictures. There was only one photo in his profile album, and he was standing alone on a cliff somewhere in the mountains, staring straight at the camera with the most alluring, mysterious expression I have ever seen. It has 117 likes and 21 comments, making me feel even more insecure. If I thought he was unattainable before, how am I ever going to compete with hundreds of Facebook whores?
I close the profile album before I become suicidal and go on to his tagged photos. The most recent pictures of him are from a summer camp up in the mountains, where he seems to have been some kind of counselor. He’s shirtless as he laughs and plays with all the little camp kids in a shallow swimming pool, and I am literally dazed by his rippled
abs, chiseled pecs, and buff arms. I feel something warm lick at my belly when I see that his abdominal muscles descend in a perfect V shape down to his crotch, but I shake my head and try to ignore it. Many of the camp kids seem to have disabilities, both mental and physical, and it warms my heart to see that they all clearly love him, tugging at his bathing suit and competing for his attention in every picture. I’ve always thought that photos of guys with kids are about as close as you can get to porn for women, and these definitely fit the bill.
But then I notice something strange: his photos cut off abruptly about a year and a half ago, and I can find nothing from before then. I go back to his Timeline and scroll to the bottom and find that his comments stop at the same time, too, which seems to be right around the period he transferred to Duke. Was he just a late addition to the Facebook party, or was something weirder going on here?
My interest piqued, I close my Facebook app and search his name on Google. After sifting through a few local newspaper articles about Stellan winning some local soccer and Lacrosse tournaments, I find a school newsletter stating that he has won four or five writing awards for Duke’s English department – just this year. I could tell he was smart, but not this smart, and the fact that he hadn’t been cocky or condescending about it spoke volumes. But just like on Facebook, I soon discover that I can’t find any news stories about him from before a year and a half ago. In an age when you can use technology be become anyone or anything, Stellan had chosen to become nothing. Where the hell was this boy’s past?
