It was just going to be a couple of hours and a few hundred bucks. But then he asked me to spend the night ...
There must have been at least eight inches of snow. My boots billowed through the heaps in my path as I silently cursed myself for wearing cotton sweatpants. It was a stale cold that night – one where the park was still as stone and even the breeze seemed to have forgotten how to whisper. I pulled my beanie tighter over my ears and kept walking. Why had I agreed to meet him in the first place? With some effort I flicked open our message strain to a new notification:
Him: Hey cutie, you still comin?
Me: yea, I’m 12 mins away. I’ll be frozen by the time I get there lol
Him: Sweet. I’ll warm you up.
I thumbed up on the app to look at his pictures again. He was handsome, with a formidable jawline, a closed-lipped smile, and the same soft eyes as a shy guy at the bar who will look at you but never start the conversation. He was wearing a tuxedo in one of his pictures while holding a glass of champagne. My giggle was stifled by a sharp sheet of wind. Almost comforted by the sudden breath around me I pulled my coat tighter and walked on. I wasn’t far now, and I wouldn’t be there long.
“I’m so sorry I’m freezing!” I said as he opened the door. He dismissed my apology and kissed me. I’d never tasted chardonnay, but I imagined that’s what his lips tasted like. I decided I liked chardonnay. I began peeling off my layers, taking in his modest apartment. His bookshelf confirmed that he was, in fact, a lawyer. Or at least a law student. I imagined brigades of tupperware behind his kitchen cabinets, and rolls of gym shorts in his dresser. I imagined myself down to my T-shirt and my underwear.
“You can come in here, you know,” he teased from his bedroom. “Oh, and it’s on the table. You can count it if you want.”
I leafed through the wad of bills and pocketed my regular rate with the tip he’d left me and proceeded to his bedroom. My hands took no time to find the rounding of his biceps or the furring of his thighs, and he wasted none wrapping his tongue around my own. I surprised myself by returning the favor. He muttered something about how nice it was not to be alone on Valentine’s Day anymore, and I responded by discarding his shirt. I let loose a string of compliments (his eyes, his hair, his apartment, his ass, his abs) in a rope of kisses from his neck to his navel. I thumbed the band of his underwear as I traced their contents with my lips. I felt myself harden.
“Aw, fuck,” he breathed as I surfaced with a smile. He stopped. “Your smile is incredible.”
“One could say the same about yours too, Mister.”
“You amaze me,” he said, pinning me onto the pillow. It was what everyone always said, yet somehow it was exactly what I wanted to hear. I grinned again.
I was halfway through my second orgasm when I realized I wasn’t dialing in my moans. Ignoring the mess, I mounted him, eager, rampant, voraciously getting him off in record time. We collapsed next to each other on the bed as we had done before. This time he folded my body onto his, like a koala clinging to its mother’s side. I let myself ride the wave of his breath, up and down and up and down.
“Will you stay the night?” I could feel him smiling. I had explicitly told him I didn’t stay overnight on the first session, and I was sure he couldn’t afford me. Distracting myself, I traced the emblem inked on his chest – a celtic cross swathed in a tattered ribbon with a word etched onto it.
“Why do you have ‘Dick’ tattooed on your chest?” I asked, half-joshing him, half changing the subject.
“It was my grandfather’s name, actually.” He adjusted to face me on the pillow, launching into the story of where his family emblem originated, which war he lost his grandfather in, how the money his grandfather left him helped pay for his schooling. He wanted a tattoo because he wanted a permanent reminder of who he was, and where he came from. He chose the left side because it was closer to his heart. He ran his fingers through my hair the whole story without breaking eye contact. I actually listened. I felt like an asshole.
“It sounds like he loved you very much,” I offered, replacing my head on his chest and hoping he would hear the sincerity in my words.
“He did. I’ll bet he would’ve liked you too, babe.” He crossed his leg over us, pinning me underneath his thigh. He was shorter than I, yet I felt safe. Warm. Happy. At peace.
Whoa Alex, you should go home. You did what you promised. You can always see him again.
“Alright,” I heard myself say. “I’ll stay.”
The next morning I woke up with my contacts still in and a hard cock pressed against my ass. I rolled over, we fumbled out of our half-sleep and into round four, five, and six. His energy sparked a volt of electricity that shot from from my groin to my brain that had been left untamed, or had never been found. I wasn’t sure which. There was nothing special about his dick or the way he touched me or the way he talked to me, yet I was undeniably enthralled with him. It was as if a net of magnets locked our bodies together in bed until mid-afternoon. I never wanted the net to break.
When it did, he had already shut himself in his room to work. I hiked my sweatpants back on and shouldered into my coat. I almost peeked into the cabinets to see if they really were full of tupperware. This time I noticed the frying pan on the drying rack and iron on the counter and the jar of oversized cooking utensils. For a split second I saw pancakes, an ironed dress shirt, a house cat, and cookies for the holidays. I shook my head, checked for my keys, and found the wad of cash too. Just before the door closed behind me I caught it, wedged my toe in the frame, and slipped the roll of twenties back onto the table. Without a second thought I shut the door behind me and raced down the steps.
At home, the first thing I did was wash my face. I scrubbed it with soap, trying to forget the money, the man, the sex, the night, my name. As droplets dripped down my chin I thought I saw his square jaw, his blue eyes and his closed-lipped smile in the reflection. I splashed water on my face again, and squinted at the mirror. I caught myself fingering the line of my v-neck, half wondering if I would find ink staining the left side of my breastbone. I stopped, knowing the answer. I suppose some tattoos aren’t always visible.