by Sasha Grey
“I’ll take that as a compliment, Jacob.”
“You should. Man, I had a crazy week last week.” He leans back, waiting for me to ask what his crazy week entailed.
“Oh?” One syllable is the most I can scrape together relatively free of sarcasm.
“Yeah.”
Drawing out information you don’t really care about is difficult. “So what was so wild about last week?”
“Well, it was busy. I was doing research, I guess how you do for your work.”
“What were you researching?” I ask.
“I bought a new car.”
My phone buzzes, and I glance at the screen, not feeling bad about it—Jacob’s phone has been in his hand the whole date. It’s a text from Dominick, but I don’t answer it. At least one of us should maintain a standard of civility and politeness on this date. I turn my phone off without reading the text. “What kind of car did you get?”
“A Ferrari.”
“What was wrong with the Lambo?”
He shrugs. “I’ve had it for a while.”
“People have seen you in it. How embarrassing!” How gauche.
He laughs, but it’s definitely forced and I feel chastened at poking fun when I know he’s insecure and tries to cover it with flashy things.
“What color did you get?” I ask as a peace offering. “I really liked the color of your last car, it was very unique.”
He visibly perks up. “It’s sort of a pearlescent gray. Custom.”
“Nice. I saw one the other day that changed from purple to green, though I’m not sure how they do that.” But all I can think is, wrong choice of color.
“I thought of doing that, but I’ve seen three like that. I wanted something different.”
“How do you know it was three cars and not the same car three times?”
He takes a sip of champagne. “I don’t, I guess.”
The conversation stalls and my phone buzzes again.
“Do you need to get that?” he asks.
I shake my head.
“Ronny? Hey, how’s it going?” He answers his own phone, cutting off my next sentence: That would be rude of me to talk to someone else in front of you while on a date.
And yet, I get a front row seat to his bragging about his success and new car. It’s his father’s success, not his, and my patience is wearing down to the nubs. Bragging is a turn-off at best. This is even worse.
This is the last time I go along with a date because I’m procrastinating with my work. Maybe I’m not the exact same person I was when I started out, but I’ve been trying to stay humble as I grow into this insane world. Keeping the balance of normal and the other more wealthy people I co-exist with is a challenge. When you’re immersed in a certain lifestyle for long enough, you start picking things up.
Vocabulary, habits, attitudes. Hell, even hairstyles.
No matter the people I’m around, no matter the things I do and see, I’m going to make damn sure that I die as myself and not some pretender. Not some phony.
I abandon my champagne for water, savoring the chill of the ice while he continues his call, ignoring me once again, only this time it feels worse because there’s no one else to talk to. Being ignored in a room full of people stings less than being ignored when it’s just you two.
EIGHT
I’M OUT OF THE UBER and heading up to my entrance when I notice Dominick is waiting at my place. My steps halt a little, but I keep walking.
“You didn’t answer my texts,” he says.
To be honest, I’d forgotten all about them, what with trying to let Jacob down gently—an interesting task since he only seems to care about pursuing me when I’m not interested. Telling him I just wanted to be friends got his attention and suddenly made him want me again. But I gave him two chances, which was more than enough disappointment. It’s the best thing for us both in the long run.
He needs to be with someone who’s impressed by his things. Of course, that’s when the few employees in the restaurant chose to come and watch the show he put on, trying to woo me.
He continued to pursue me and I was trying to be polite, but there’s no right way to tell a guy you’re not into it. They will always be shattered. This is from the mouth of a guy friend of mine. I asked him for advice on how to deal with a friendly guy who I told I was not looking to be more than friends with and he said, that is basically like telling a guy, never in a million years would I fuck you. It’s a punch in the gut and there’s no way to soften the blow.
Jacob may not have cared about actually courting me, but his ego would still be bruised. So I tore the bandage off firmly to be as kind as I could and got out of there quickly after. I doubt Jacob’s seriously going to be sad about us not working out. He never cared to begin with. He’d mentioned an ex. And it became clear that he was either only trying to use me to get over her, or use me to make her jealous. Either way I was being used.
I’m no pawn. I don’t want to be a part of his game. I just wanted sex.
And now, here’s a man who knows how to give it to me.
“Good evening to you too, Dominick.”
“Where were you tonight?”
The possessiveness in his voice annoys me, but also kind of perks me up. He’s a bit alpha, which really turns me on after the night I’ve had. “Out.”
“Obviously.”
I’m not sure if it’s a game he’s playing, acting out a role of jealous boyfriend, or if he’s actually come to be possessive over me in such a short time, but I open the door and swing it wide enough that he can follow me inside if he chooses.
I like that glint in his eye.
There are no words when we get in the elevator together and ride it up to my floor. No words as we get inside. No words as we head to my bedroom and one by one, we strip out of our clothes, eyeing each other up like predator and prey but in this room right now there are only predators—and no praying.
Maybe he’ll scream out, “Oh, god,” by the time this is over. Maybe I will.
He wraps his arms around me, and I soak up the heat of his chest against mine for a moment before I scratch my nails down his back. He shivers and pulls back enough to look me in the eyes when he cups my ass and squeezes it hard enough I can still feel his fingers there when he moves them up my back, kneading as he goes.
I thrust my tongue into his mouth and grind against his hips, smiling against his mouth when he goes from semi-hard to ragingly hard against me.
Funny how you can fuck every day and before his cock enters you, it feels like it’s been forever since the last time. I pull him down to the bed on top of me. He tugs on my hair, nipping the outline of my jaw with his teeth, but then backs away and teases me with the tip of his tongue on the hollow of my throat.
I’m already growing weary of cat and mouse, and I hook a leg across his and shove the blanket out of my way, annoyed at the little tangle getting in my way of a great time.
He reaches between us and I look him in the eyes, waiting for him to discover that I’m soaked. I have been since we got in the elevator.
He bites his lip and lets out a moan. I get it. It’s fucking hot knowing you’ve made someone wet as fuck. He pushes two fingers inside me, stroking me at a leisurely pace that opens up my tight little hole and has me shuddering for more, but he pulls them out and slathers my come all over my clit, rubbing swift little circles that make me gasp and clench. Again he pulls away at the penultimate moment.
I pull his hair for making me wait.
And then I rub my pussy as well and get my hand nice and wet before using my lube to stroke his fat cock up and down.
He retaliates by positioning his cock at my entrance and slipping just inside, just the tip, and caressing my tits, pinching the nipples with his slippery fingers like he’s milking me.
I want his cream in me.
I let my knees fall open like a butterfly, and slightly pull back, letting him chase me with his hips if he wants to stay inside. Like a g
ood boy, he does.
Oh, god, he does.
He slides in and out of me and I’m so fucking wet I can feel it dripping down to my asshole and onto the bed. Maybe it’s his pre-come too, but I’m caught up in the silky texture of it and just want more.
But I want to feel this in other positions too, so I push at his chest and flip over when he pulls out so he can take me from behind.
I bend my knees and brace with my hips and diddle myself with my fingers in the space I’ve created between my clit and the bed while he rams into me from behind, his hips making little smacking sounds against my ass, his hands squeezing my thighs, flank, back, shoulder.
This is what I want forever. Fighting with my body with someone who knows what he’s doing to make me feel so present and good. I want someone to let me be whoever I need to be to get off the best. Let me be strong, let me be weak, don’t judge me for wanting what I want or sometimes for not knowing in the moment what that is until it happens.
He moves harder and faster and then we’re up against the wall and my head knocks against it as he pounds into me and the way it hurts is brutally perfect. If he stops doing it I’ll scratch his back until it bleeds.
My orgasm dances just out of reach, and I spread my legs as wide as I can. He holds my hands above my head, and my nipples rub against the sheets, heating with the friction of the movement of our hips. I can feel my belly start to tighten, and tension building deep inside, and his hands clench mine once before releasing them and digging into my hips, using me to jerk back onto his cock and meet his every thrust. I bury my face in the pillow, hard enough to smother my moans when my pussy clenches around his cock like a vise grip.
He shudders and his hot jets of come squirt into me, basting my insides with his juices before he collapses on top of me.
“How was it that good?” he says a few minutes later.
“I don’t know,” I reply, wondering when he’ll leave so I can take a bath and imagine what my next encounter will be like. Who it will be with.
“I wouldn’t be averse to doing this again. A lot.”
Damn. Two “it’s not you, it’s me” speeches in one night. Banner night on the relationship front. He was alpha out of jealousy over me being on a date. That means he’s going to want to be exclusive soon. “Dominick, you’re a great guy, but I need to focus on my career right now.”
“Is that you saying you don’t want to see me again?”
I shake my head. “I’m not looking to be locked down right now. I did that before and it’s not for me. It may never be, I’m not sure.”
“I can’t be what you need?” He sits up.
“We’re similar in a lot of ways. We’re compatible, even.” I think of his film and love that he’d understand art and the muse and artistic expression. “Your art is admirable. We just want different things right now.”
“I see. Fair enough.” He dresses and leaves. I don’t offer to let him stay the night, and he doesn’t ask if he can. We both know the score. The game is over between us.
NINE
THEY SAY WHEN YOU DIE, your life flashes before your eyes.
Maybe sometimes that’s the case. Maybe if you see it coming.
The knife swooping at you in a graceful arc.
The flash of the muzzle of the gun.
Hands tightening around your neck.
An airplane plummeting to the ground as gravity pulls your body up against the seatbelt.
Maybe then your brain has time to flip a switch into that mode of reminiscence and looking back. Not me.
I don’t get a neat, little montage of moments that are rife with poignancy or regret. I don’t get much of anything when the vehicle slams into mine, T-boning me from the passenger’s side, closer to the rear than the front, except for a slow motion blur of everything outside my car. It takes longer than I’d imagined for the world to stop spinning—I even have time to think, What the hell just happened? Why am I spinning? This feels like the tea cup ride, before the stench of burning rubber fills my nostrils. When the world stops moving, I lift my head from the steering wheel, blinking hard to focus.
I’d gag on the acrid smell, but then the pain hits and I can’t focus on anything but the sharpness of it, the way it slices through everything else and cuts my world down to nothing but sensations. Pain is singularly jealous in the way it wants us to think of nothing else. A reboot to the system that can’t be denied, wiping away your very existence for a moment until all there is, is the hurt. Yet somehow we manage.
Large hands pull me away from the steering wheel, leaning me back into my seat as a cloth is pressed against my forehead. A napkin?
“Don’t move, honey. I’ve already called an ambulance, and they’re on their way,” a man says in a Boston accent.
I put my hand on the cloth, waving his away. “What happened?” I ask, still dazed from the impact. “Is the other driver okay?”
“I was eating on the patio. He hit you and ran like a coward, didn’t even stop to see if you were okay. He was probably worried he’d killed you.”
I open the door and swing my legs out.
“Careful, honey. I don’t think you should be walking around right now.”
“I’m okay.” I head to the passenger side and take in the state of my car. It’s definitely a write-off, but you could tell I was fine on my side. More likely, the driver was probably scared shitless and fled the scene because he didn’t have insurance. I did an article about it, and learned that about twelve percent of drivers have no insurance. In this economy, some bills simply can’t be paid, and it’s tragic and sad that in a country as great as America, things like this are happening where people are forced to choose between not luxuries but necessities on a routine basis.
Then again, insurance companies are some of the biggest scammers around. Don’t even get me started on medical insurance and the highly unethical things happening there. Maybe that should be my next big story. Then again, it’s not exactly a shock that a giant corporation is evil.
“Miss?” The man frowns and I realize I’ve been sitting here, probably with my eyes glazed over, while I ponder possible stories to write about.
I didn’t even see a vehicle coming at me. I need to focus. “What was he driving?”
My good Samaritan shrugs. “I don’t know, a Volvo or something. I was more worried about the blood dripping down your face after I called 911.”
I pull the napkin away and feel a tiny trickle down my face again. That’s going to need a stitch. I look in the rear view mirror, but other than the blood that was spilled, which makes it look worse than it is, it’s just a small nick near my hairline that’s bleeding like a pig. “I think I need a couple stitches, but I’m okay.”
The paramedics pull up what feels like a second later, but my sense of time is off as my phone shows it’s been over ten minutes.
Although it was my car that was hit, I’m the one who feels like I was smashed into. No bruises have formed yet, but they’re there, migrating from my bones up through my tissues and skin and they’ll make an appearance in a couple of days.
I don’t seem to be concussed or have whiplash, though my neck is sore. I’ve had worse, but I move slowly to the bathroom. It’s funny how you take things like good health and mobility for granted until something goes wrong and you’re injured and every step goes from automatic to awkward. My back muscles protest as I fill the bathtub with water as hot as I can stand it and dump in a bunch of Epsom salts, swirling them around the bottom of the tub to dissolve away. The heat of the water makes me wince as much as the movements it takes getting in, but soon I’m surrounded by the heat. Sweat forms on my face and makes my forehead sting near the stitches, but since that’s the worst I walked away with, I’m counting blessings as I blot my lip.
There’s a place. Muggy and humid, filled with everything you could imagine.
Some say you have to die to get there. Others say you only get there by really living.
Carpe die
m, as it were, but closer to carpe noctem. Seize the night.
I’m walking through a pathway obscured by plants with huge, soft leaves I’ve never seen before except in pictures. I stop and stick my fingernail through one of them to see if it’s real. The plant winces and milky tears that smell like sex ooze down to the ground, waves rippling out like drops in a puddle when they land, except it’s in the dirt.
A snake slithers by, green, black, shiny. I follow it with my eyes as its stomach bunches and relaxes and pulls it forward. I’m drawn forward in its strangely hypnotic wake, warm and curious as to where it’s going to lead me.
There’s a break in the path, and through it, the terracotta hue of a stuccoed wall comes into sight. I’ve seen it before, but where? I know there’s something behind that wall I need to get to, only I can’t quite remember what it is.
A bright red flower appears when I pull a low-hanging leaf out of the way, and I pause to marvel at the strange shapes of the petals, so unlike the blossoms I’m used to.
I inhale deeply, and the stench of rot assails my nostrils, making me gag. I pull back and the snake strikes my foot.
Poison spreads from the bite and courses through my veins at the speed of my beating heart.
But I know, somehow, that I’ll be okay.
I come to with a start, neck stiff, in cold water, the remnants of my dream dissolving away before I can analyze it. Something about Dominick’s video…the compound I saw… But it’s gone. I pull the plug with my toe and reach for the towel, pausing to stare at my fingers.
Apparently, our fingers wrinkle when we get them wet because the puckers and folds give them a better grip. Mine are brutal. How long was I asleep?
I’m lucky I didn’t slide beneath the surface and drown.
On the plus side, I’m still breathing. On the negative, it looks like I was not as free of concussion as I thought. It’s jarring losing time like that, sort of like I ceased to exist for a while. Maybe I did.
Maybe we do. Are we more than our bodies? Are we our consciousness? Because if so, what happens to us when we sleep? The French say that the orgasm is the little death. I think it’s when you’re in a dead sleep. Orgasms are when you’re the most slammed into your body and aware of it. I wrap a towel around myself and head straight for bed, not trusting or wanting anything but sleep.
