Lj Idol week 26- Sated
I lay back on the cheap motel sheet, coarse and spotted, and bring my hands up to my head.
It's a fullness, you know? A fullness that starts near the back of my throat and ends up all the way in my toes.
I've lived this life for so long, straddled the line between decency and complete fucking depravity, that it hardly registers anymore.
I hear the knocking on the door, loud, impatient. It's not Tony's hand, that much I know. This sound is big, just as I'm sure the man behind the door will be; you can tell everything you need to know from the way someone announces them-self.
I throw on the black slip, take one last swig of gin, and open the door.
He eyes me, up and down. He's sizing me up, wondering "Is she worth this money?".
The answer, always, is yes.
He's a large man, just as I suspected, with wide-set dark eyes and graying hair. He seems kind enough, there's no mean behind his stare.
No words are exchanged. I motion to the table, and he drops the money on the elephant-shaped dish my mother bought me when I was 13. He unzips, sits on the bed, and becomes shy. This usually happens with the guys who carry some extra weight. I never tell them I prefer it that way.
Outside of the room a bird is calling to her mate. A basketball is bouncing maybe three rooms down. Inside it's only us, grunts and moans, wetness and satiation. He can't look me in the eye, but he has no trouble grabbing on to the back of my head, pushing me further, just as I like it.
Release. Release and catching of breath and staring at the ceiling.
I should be ashamed. I'm not.
I should hate myself. I don't.
I get just as much out of it as they do, enjoy the power. I enjoy the way they beg, the way they force.
I need them to want to me.
I need to make them happy.
He stands up, cleans off, and heads to the door.
He turns the knob, stops, and looks at me.
"Thanks" he says, with a quiet tone.
The fullness inside, it's there again, and I lay back to enjoy the fleeting moment.
It's a fullness, you know? A fullness that starts near the back of my throat and ends up all the way in my toes.
I've lived this life for so long, straddled the line between decency and complete fucking depravity, that it hardly registers anymore.
I hear the knocking on the door, loud, impatient. It's not Tony's hand, that much I know. This sound is big, just as I'm sure the man behind the door will be; you can tell everything you need to know from the way someone announces them-self.
I throw on the black slip, take one last swig of gin, and open the door.
He eyes me, up and down. He's sizing me up, wondering "Is she worth this money?".
The answer, always, is yes.
He's a large man, just as I suspected, with wide-set dark eyes and graying hair. He seems kind enough, there's no mean behind his stare.
No words are exchanged. I motion to the table, and he drops the money on the elephant-shaped dish my mother bought me when I was 13. He unzips, sits on the bed, and becomes shy. This usually happens with the guys who carry some extra weight. I never tell them I prefer it that way.
Outside of the room a bird is calling to her mate. A basketball is bouncing maybe three rooms down. Inside it's only us, grunts and moans, wetness and satiation. He can't look me in the eye, but he has no trouble grabbing on to the back of my head, pushing me further, just as I like it.
Release. Release and catching of breath and staring at the ceiling.
I should be ashamed. I'm not.
I should hate myself. I don't.
I get just as much out of it as they do, enjoy the power. I enjoy the way they beg, the way they force.
I need them to want to me.
I need to make them happy.
He stands up, cleans off, and heads to the door.
He turns the knob, stops, and looks at me.
"Thanks" he says, with a quiet tone.
The fullness inside, it's there again, and I lay back to enjoy the fleeting moment.