“You okay?” he asks playfully.
I’m more than okay. I’m having sex with a man I thought I could only have in my dreams, and I just had the two best orgasms of my life.
“I want more,” I say.
He’s more than willing to oblige. It’s as though he has an endless supply of energy, because before I know it, he’s pounding away at me again, keeping a steady, furious pace that no human man could keep for such a long time. It’s that constant rhythm that allows me a third orgasm. Though not as intense as the first two, it’s just as satisfying. This time when I come, so does he. I feel him tense up. His hands clutch my hips as though he’s afraid I’ll try to escape, and he bites down on my shoulder and lets out a low, animalistic sound as he shoots his load.
I look over my shoulder and watch him as he pulls out, only half-hard now but still hung like a giant, and takes off the condom. His body shimmers with sweat, every muscle wound tight like a body builder after a workout. He stares at me too, giving me lingering, confusing looks. I’m instantly self-conscious again. We share a towel and he sits on the couch beside me, hands behind his head. I’m not sure what to do, but I assume leaving is probably the answer since he was squeezing me in between clients and I don’t want to overstay my welcome and make things weird. I can’t imagine a scenario more awkward than getting kicked out of some guy’s apartment after sex. I am not about that.
I get up and start to put my clothes back on.
“You’re going to have sex and leave?” he says.
Where the hell is my bra? I search the room. Eventually I find it slung over the back of a chair.
“That’s how these things go, don’t they?”
“I feel so cheap,” he says in a playful tone.
I continue to put my clothes on.
“Stay,” he says, more serious now. “Talk to me for a minute.”
I turn to look at him. His cheeks are flushed from exertion and there’s a beautiful after-sex glow about him.
He thinks I’m basic, and this was just a tick off Kia’s bucket list. I should get up and walk out and move on to envelope two, but, against all the little alarms going off in my head, I might not want to leave. I stay anyway. Curling up next to him, I look at the ceiling.
“After sex, I usually like to learn a girl’s name,” he says.
“Oh, is that how that usually goes?” I say.
I fight the urge to laugh. I can’t believe I just had sex with a guy without him knowing my name first. Kia has really taken me above and beyond my comfort zone.
“So … this crazy bucket list. Am I the first of the many guys you’ll be sleeping with?” he asks.
Is he? Kia wasn’t the type of girl to fool around with a bunch of guys, unless that was a secret dream of hers all along. I doubt it though. But I can’t even start to imagine what will come next.
“I’m not sure, but now I’ll be able to open the next envelope.”
He looks proud of himself. “Glad I could help.”
We’re sitting there in awkward silence, both of us looking up at the textured ceiling when he asks, “Do you mind if I ask what happened to your friend?”
The question takes me by surprise. I’m used to the people around me already knowing. I’d known Kia my whole life and she was always intermittently sick. I would have to take time off work during the bad times, so everyone at beauty school or work knew about it. I never really got close enough to a guy to have this conversation and I’m surprised how much it hurts to bring it up. I thought I was over this part, but I guess not.
“She had a bad heart, a genetic disorder.”
He turns to face me. I can feel him staring as if waiting for me to break down. As much as I want to, I won’t do it. I’ve done it a million times, I’m all out of tears. When I think of her I try to remember the good times so the bad don’t take over.
He caresses my arm—not a move I was expecting. It’s compassionate and sweet, and feels genuinely sincere. “I’m sorry.”
I nod because I don’t know what else to do. I wasn’t expecting him to want to talk, or to be kind when hearing about my best friend. He’s nothing like I expected. Where’s that over-confident asshole I met downstairs?