Some people like to watch the world burn. And I . . . I want to supply the matches. Or flick cigarette butts into dry grass and watch from a safe distance, which is why I wound up in a car with Keith on a balmy Friday evening, riding from Maryville to Knoxville, pretending to be excited for “dinner and a show,” even though the only thing I wanted to see was how fast I could derail my life before my next birthday.
Keith is fifty but looks forty if you’re very drunk or standing on the other side of a fogged-up shower door. He calls himself a “recovering hippie,” which I guess means he’s off the brown acid and onto kombucha. Still, if you ask him what it means, he’ll tell you it’s about “intentionality” and “soul work,” and occasionally he’ll try to sing the answer while driving, which is less charming than it sounds. He is old enough to be my dad, which is obviously the point.
I had met him six days before at Brackins Pub in Maryville, a fifties-style bar that tries to pass itself off as a thriving blues club by hanging old Albert King posters and serving fried okra and bologna sandwiches. I was eating alone at the bar, reading an article about ovarian cancer on my phone—because I’m nothing but fun at parties—and Keith sat down next to me and started telling me how he was divorced and how his second wife joined the Army and cheated on him. Or maybe it was about “vibrational frequencies.” I forget. I focused on his hands—thick fingers and long nails on his right hand, which he told me were for plucking the guitar. He also showed me his shoulder tattoo of a pensive sun, which he supposedly got in Chicago by a leading tattoo artist after his first divorce. But I suspected a sophomore at Pellissippi Tech did it.
Keith was not a smooth talker. In fact, he was so shy that it took him nearly twenty minutes to inquire about my profession. When I told him that I had just graduated from LSU with a degree in communications and was living off my dead mother’s inheritance, he said, “That’s fascinating,” and tried to make it sound like he meant it. Then he told me about his record collection, and I didn’t know how to say that I just wanted someone to fuck me and then leave me alone, so I lied and said I liked his tattoo and asked him back to my apartment.
That was six days ago. Since then, I’d fucked him twice and ghosted him once, and now we were cruising up the highway with the windows cracked and Pink Floyd playing on the radio, which he had to explain to me in that patronizing way that old guys explain things to young girls, even though I’d heard every note of Dark Side of the Moon by the time I was twelve. My parents were Pink Floyd fans, too, but I don’t talk about them with the men I sleep with. Or anyone. Keith thought I was mysterious. I let him keep thinking that way.
We were going to a club in Knoxville to see an old college flame of mine, Trevor, play bass in the opening show. Keith had asked me the name of the band twice already, but I kept forgetting because I was preoccupied with the way his leg jerked the clutch and the way his hands trembled when he shifted gears. There’s something about watching an older man try not to care that makes you want to rip his heart out and eat it like sushi.
“Do you want to stop for a drink first?” he asked, glancing over at me with that sheepdog smile. “We can hit Brackin’s Pub, if you’re hungry. Or there’s that new pasta place you mentioned.”
“No, but thanks. I’m good,” I said.” I wasn’t good, but it seemed impolite to say so before sundown.
We pulled into the parking lot, and I did that thing where you check your lipstick in the rearview, but really, you’re just stalling. The club was a converted railroad depot, long and low with blacked-out windows and a hand-painted sign that looked like a graffiti artist had done it on a meth bender. There was already a line out front—girls in sundresses, old dudes in trucker hats, and at least one gay guy in a kilt—and I felt an immediate urge to flee, which of course meant I needed to go in.
Keith offered his arm. I took it, mostly to see if he’d flinch. He didn’t. The inside was all exposed brick and mismatched thrift-store couches, the kind of place that makes you feel like you’re in a Portlandia sketch. There was a stage at the far end, amps stacked to the ceiling, and the bar was already three bodies deep with people yelling for gin and tonics. I scanned the crowd out of habit, looking for danger or, failing that, a woman with better shoes than me. Nothing.
“So these are your friends?” he asked. I knew he wanted me to say it, to acknowledge that he was calm and connected, that I was lucky to be out with a guy who knew about music.
He grinned. “Only sort of. We met in a Lit class at LSU five years ago. Trevor is a killer player. I’ll introduce you to him. You’ll like him.” The part I kept to myself was the fact that I’d met Trevor five years ago at a clothes-optional house party in Louisiana. The less he knew, the better.
Keith bought us drinks, then spent the next ten minutes checking out every other girl in the room, even the barmaid and the coat check girl. He was desperate for me to like him. I was desperate to see Trevor, or any guy who displayed genuine masculine qualities.
By the time the band took the stage, I was two vodka tonics deep and texting my ex, which is a mistake I refuse to stop making. Victor was fifty-one, ex-military, rode a Harley, and had the arms and cock of a porn star, and I’d dumped him last month after he called me “a project” in front of his friends at a cookout. I hated him, which is why I still texted him at least once a week. The message was nothing—just “at a show in Knoxville, thinking of you, hope you’re well”—but I knew it would fuck him up for the rest of the night. My little gift to the universe.
Keith watched the band with a religious intensity, nodding and air-drumming in time. The crowd pulsed and swayed, all sweat and cheap perfume and too-loud laughter. I made it through four songs before I excused myself to the bathroom, which was just a reeking closet with a broken lock and a half-roll of paper towels.
I stared at myself in the mirror. My skin looked lovely—pale, almost blue-white, with a spatter of freckles on my nose. My hair was too dark for my face, which made my eyes look enormous, and I had that flushed, hollow-cheeked look that always shows up when I’m about to make a terrible decision. I wondered if Trevor would try to fuck me in his bus later, whether I would let him, and if I’d call Victor afterward just to tell him about it. Probably. I fixed my lipstick, cupped my hands below my breasts, took one last look, and went back out.
On my way to the bar, I heard my name. “Ashley?” A hand on my wrist, gentle but insistent. It was Trevor.
He looked exactly the way I remembered—six-two, broad, slightly doughy, with an underbite that made him look like he was always about to apologize. We’d had a class together at LSU, something about American Lit since the Civil War, and I’d spent most of the semester writing diary entries about wanting to fuck him. Nothing had ever happened, but I’d always thought of him as “the one that got away,” even though I barely knew him.
He looked at me like he was seeing a ghost. “Holy shit. It’s been, what, four years?”
“Almost five,” I said, and tried to sound surprised.
He gave me a long, lingering hug. I could feel Keith watching us from across the room, and I smiled on Trevor’s shoulder to see if Keith would notice.
Trevor smelled like stale beer and expensive cologne. He said, “You look wonderful,” and when I laughed and made a joke about my weight, he said, “No, seriously. You look better than ever. Are you still studying Spanish?”
I shrugged. “Sometimes. Not as much as I should.”
“Tell me what you’re thinking about right now in Spanish.” He winked, and then the drummer called him back to the stage. “Hey, don’t go anywhere, okay? We’ll catch up after the set.” I promised I wouldn’t.
When I got back to Keith, he was pretending not to be jealous. He handed me another drink and joked about how all musicians were “part-time sociopaths,” but his hand tightened on my knee when Trevor looked over and waved at me from the stage. I wondered if Keith would try to out-alpha Trevor after the show, or if he’d just get drunk and cry.
The band finished their first set to a roar of applause, and Trevor hopped off the stage and made his way through the crowd toward me. Keith stood up to shake his hand, but Trevor barely acknowledged him—just gave him a bro-nod and turned his full attention to me.
“Ashley, come check out the green room with me. They’ve got better booze back there.” He didn’t even wait for an answer, just took my hand and started weaving through the crowd. I didn’t look back at Keith. I figured he’d follow, but I hoped he wouldn’t.
The green room was a cramped office in the back of the building, full of battered leather chairs and empty Solo cups. Trevor poured us each a heavy slug of bourbon and sat down beside me, close enough that our knees touched.
He asked about LSU, about my job, and whether I still hated Hemingway (I did and told him so in detail). He made me laugh, which I always take as an invitation. There was a moment, maybe two minutes in, when I thought he might kiss me, but instead he just looked at me with this hungry, wolfish look in his eyes. I wanted him to kiss me. I wanted him to take me outside and fuck me against the wall of the club while Keith waited at the bar and pretended not to care. I had a type, apparently: men who didn’t know how to lose gracefully.
After a while, Keith poked his head in. He said, “Are you okay?” in that strained, manic way people use when they’re barely keeping it together.
Trevor smiled. “We’re outstanding, man. We go way back. Hey, do you want a drink?”
Keith declined. He stood there in the doorway for a few seconds, just watching us, then turned and left.
“Is he your boyfriend?” Trevor asked, almost mocking. I shook my head. “We’re just friends,” I said, and felt a little jolt of pleasure at how easily the lie came.
“Good,” Trevor said, leaning in this time and kissing me. It was quick and rough, tasting like whiskey and salt. And I didn’t stop him.
By the time we left the green room, the band was already gearing up for their final set. Trevor walked me back to the bar and told me to wait for him after the show. He didn’t ask for my number. He just told me he’d find me. That’s the difference between the men I want and the men I get: one of them makes promises, and the other expects you to wait.
Keith was waiting at a table, half-drunk and sulking. I slid into the chair across from him.
“Did you have fun?” he asked, smiling a hurt smile.
“Yeah,” I said. “I did.”
He reached for my hand. I let him hold it, but I didn’t squeeze back. Then I pulled it away. We sat there for a while, neither of us talking, the music drowning out everything we didn’t say. At the end of the last set, Trevor found me at the crowded bar. He said, “You want to come with?” and I nodded. I turned to Keith and told him I’d be right back. He nodded and looked away, trying not to show his jealousy.
The night air in the alley behind the club smelled like ashtrays, old beer, and piss. Trevor’s hand was wrapped around mine, squeezing too tightly, like I was about to bolt. The sidewalk was cracked and muddy, and I could hear the music steady-thumping inside, but out here it felt like the end of the world, just dumpsters and the sour taste of bourbon on my tongue.
The bus was parked sideways across three handicapped spaces because musicians don’t believe in rules. It looked like a prop from a seventies porno—sun-faded paint, and one window patched up with cardboard and packing tape. Trevor opened the door with a flourish, then bowed and let me climb the steps first. He checked my ass on the way up and did not attempt to hide it. I appreciated the honesty.
Inside, the bus was chaos: piles of laundry, empty beer cans, a busted amp, three pairs of Nikes, and a single sequined heel. The air was a swamp of sweat, cigarette smoke, and some plume of tropical body spray, and under it all a warm, living animal smell, the scent of men stacked together for weeks at a time. The seats had been ripped out and replaced with mattresses and beanbags, and at the far end was a little kitchenette with a hotplate and several mismatched mugs. A string of Christmas lights sagged from the ceiling, barely alive.
Trevor kicked the door shut, then spun me around and kissed me like it was his job. He tasted like cinnamon gum and cheap whiskey, and he pushed me back onto the nearest mattress before I could even pretend to resist.
I tried to say something witty, but my tongue felt numb. “Classy place you got here.” He grinned, showing every crooked tooth. “You get used to it. That’s my bunk in the back. More private.”
He pulled me to my feet and guided me through the dark, past a heap of duffel bags and a drum kit missing half its heads. The “bedroom” was nothing but a double mattress wedged between two walls and a curtain hung for dignity, but it felt like a palace compared to the living room. There were black-and-white photos taped to the ceiling: rock legends, naked girls, and snapshots of the band with their arms around each other. On the sheets, I could see a constellation of old stains, some of them probably biological.
Trevor sat down and patted the mattress. “Make yourself comfortable.”
I kicked off my gray hi-top boots, peeled off my socks, and slid in beside him. I wanted to show off my recent pedicure, which I’d spent hours on. Men are always attracted to my smooth porcelain feet for some weird reason. One boyfriend I had back at LSU liked to sandwich his cock between them, and it always felt naughty but relaxing.
Trevor lay back with his hands behind his head and watched me, waiting. I realized, for the first time that night, that I had all the power here. I could have left. I could have called a cab or even gone back to Keith, and nobody would’ve blamed me. But I didn’t. I just sat there, heart thumping, and waited for him to make the first move. And it didn’t take long.
He rolled onto his side and stroked my hair, then my cheek, then the line of my throat. His hand was warm and a little sweaty, the touch gentle but hungry. He said, “You always looked so serious in class. Like you wanted to say something but didn’t want anyone to hear it.”
I looked at his mouth, the way it hovered just above mine. “Maybe I was just bored.”
He laughed. “You were never boring.”
He kissed me again, slower this time, but more passionate. I allowed his tongue to explore my mouth, something I never allowed Keith to do. He raised my skull-bone-patterned top without fumbling, then he slid it up and over my shoulders, letting it fall behind us. My bra was a plain beige thing I’d bought on sale at Target, not sexy but clean, and he worked the clasp with the grace of long-practiced hands. My breasts fell heavy and free, the nipples already stiff. Trevor looked at them with open admiration, as if he were seeing art for the first time.
“You’re fucking gorgeous,” he said, cupping both of his hands below my breasts, thumbs circling the tips.
Nobody had ever said “gorgeous” to me without making it a joke. I almost believed him. He bent his head and sucked at my left nipple, slow and wet, then grazed it with his teeth. His hand kneaded the other breast, squeezing a little rougher each time I breathed in. I closed my eyes and let my head fall back, listening to the sucking sounds of his mouth on my skin.
After a minute, he stopped and pulled back, then he lifted me upright. “Your turn.”
He peeled off his shirt, then my jeans, then his. Everything went in a heap at the foot of the bed. We were both barefoot, both a little soft in the middle, both sweating in the heat, my burgundy toenails gleaming under the corny Christmas lights, and I realized I’d never felt so exposed in my life. Not even with my ex back in Shreveport when he was fucking my ass and talking to his little sister through the bedroom door.
He ran his hands down my stomach and kissed my pelvic tattoo, then hooked his thumbs in my panties and pulled them off slowly, like he was unwrapping a present. He spread my legs wide and looked, really looked, at my hairy pussy, and for a second, I almost covered myself, but he said, “Goddamn,” and grinned at me like a little boy.
He knelt between my legs and ran his tongue up the inside of my thigh, then higher, until I thought I’d scream. He didn’t ask for permission. He just started eating me out like it was the last meal of his life, burying his face and licking and sucking until my knees shook. He held me down with both hands, spreading my thighs even wider, and when he slid two fingers inside, I nearly came off the bed.
I was soaked, and he knew it. He curled his fingers and found that spot nobody else ever bothered to look for, and I came, hard, so hard that my ears rang. He didn’t stop. He kept going, driving me through it—licking and sucking—fucking me with his fingers until I lost count of how many times I came.
When he finally surfaced, his face was wet, and he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’ve wanted to do that ever since our sophomore year.”
“Why didn’t you?” I said, my voice broken as I struggled to catch my breath.
He shrugged, then reached for a condom in the little box by the bed. I stopped him with a hand on his wrist.
“It’s okay, I’m on the pill,” I said.
He looked at me like he wasn’t sure he heard right. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I want to feel you.”
That was a lie, of course, but not a big one. The truth was, I wanted to see what it felt like to be reckless. With Keith, I always made him use a condom, mostly because I didn’t want him inside me in any real way. With Trevor, I wanted to feel every inch of him inside of me.
He nodded and rolled me onto my back. I rocked my feet onto the sides and widened my legs, my toenails glossy under the overhead lights. His cock was thick and uncircumcised, bigger than I remembered from the naked college party back at LSU, where he fucked my best friend, Laura, against the kitchen bar during a game of Truth or Dare while everyone watched and clapped. He pressed the head against me and waited. I held him off with my leg muscles, feeling the tip slide in, warm and firm. When I was ready, I let go and forced my pelvis up to meet him.
He fucked me slowly at first, his body braced in a push-up position, watching my face for any sign of pain. When he was all the way in, he paused and just held still, like he wanted to memorize the feeling. Then he pulled out almost entirely and slammed back in, causing me to moan aloud like a little whore.
I could tell he liked that. He pushed again, harder, then faster, fucking me deep and rough, like he couldn’t get enough of my cunt. He braced himself on one arm and used the other to pinch my nipple, twisting it until I gasped. He said my name, “Ashley,” over again, like it was the only word he knew.
“OH . . . MY . . . FUCKING GOD . . . YOUR PUSSY IS SWEET!”
I wrapped my legs around his waist and dug my smooth heels into his ass, pulling him deeper, and he fucked me hard and steady, our pouchy bellies slapping together. I could feel him get close with the way his breathing changed and the way his hands trembled against my wrists. He kissed me, then bit my shoulder, and when he came, he grunted so loud I was sure that anyone standing near the bus could’ve heard it.
He collapsed on top of me, breathing like a marathon runner. I stroked his back, feeling the sweat and the twitch of his muscles. We stayed like that for a long time, bodies tangled, my pussy pulsing and chock-full of his cum.
After his last muscle spasm, he rolled off panting and pulled me against his chest. “You’re trouble,” he said, laughing.
“So are you,” I replied, and I meant it.
We lay there in the heat and the stink and listened to the newly formed party in the front of the bus. Some of Trevor’s bandmates had trickled in after we fucked and screamed, assuming that we were finished. Someone was playing guitar badly. Someone else was arguing about politics. Every few minutes, the bus would rock on its springs, and I’d wonder if it was about to tip over.
We fucked again, slower this time, more like lovers than strangers. I put my heart-shaped ass up, and we fucked doggy-style. Trevor came inside me again, and he didn’t apologize. I liked that about him, but my thoughts returned to Victor, his ten-inch cock, his Harley, and his big Clint Eastwood smile.
Around four in the morning, Trevor fell asleep, arm draped over my belly. I watched him for a long time, tracing the lines of his face in the glow of the Christmas lights. He looked peaceful, younger than he had on stage, almost innocent. I wondered if he had a girlfriend, if he’d ever thought about me after college, and if he would remember my name in the morning.
My phone buzzed. It was a text from Keith. “Are you okay? Should I wait?”
I stared at the message for a long time, then typed back, “I’m good. Don’t leave.”
I didn’t want him to go home. I wanted him to wait because I needed a ride home. I also desperately wanted him to know that I was the one worth waiting for.
I curled up next to Trevor and closed my eyes, listening to the heartbeat in his chest, feeling the faint, persistent throb between my legs.
I’d have to figure out how to explain the past three hours to Keith. I’d have to face him and maybe even myself. But for now, I just wanted to be inside the wreckage a little longer.
Sunrise on the bus was an ugly pink, the color of Pepto Bismol and road rash. The mattress stuck to my back, and Trevor’s arm was still slung across my belly, heavy as a sandbag. Someone was snoring in the living area. My mouth tasted like aluminum and regret.
Trevor woke before I did. He slid out of bed, found a clean t-shirt from the floor, and came back with two Solo cups of black coffee. “This’ll light ya up,” he said, then took a sip and shuddered. “Or maybe kill ya.”
I gulped mine in three swallows, my tits jiggling and my nipples still hard: “I’ve had worse.”
He sat beside me and stretched, joints popping in the hush of the morning. “So. Are you ever going back to your boyfriend, or are you running away with us?”
He was joking, but not really. I shrugged, feeling his cum slick between my thighs. “I should check on him. He worries.”
Trevor made a face—pity, maybe, or boredom. “The poor guy waited all night. Didn’t even leave?”
“That’s Keith,” I said. “He’s a good man.”
Trevor grinned. “Doesn’t sound like you’re in love.”
“Does it ever?” I asked.
He touched my chin, then kissed me lightly. “You’re dangerous,” he said. “I dig that.”
I stood up bare-assed naked and opened the curtain, knowing the guys in the front of the bus—including the one pretending to sleep—could see me, and pulled on my panties, my crumpled jeans, and my skull-patterned top. I pulled my hair into a knot, left my bra on the floor for a keepsake, and followed Trevor out. The parking lot was empty except for two oil puddles and a crow eating a dead rat. I blinked in the brightness and remembered how ugly the world could be in the honest light of the morning.
Inside, the bar was half-open, the staff cleaning up sticky glasses and wet napkins. Keith was sitting alone at a table, not even pretending to read the menu. He looked up when I came in, eyes baggy and bloodshot. A ring of empty bottles radiated around his elbows. He didn’t wave, just nodded and looked away.
I thought about going to him, but Trevor pulled me to the bar and ordered Sambuca shots, saying we should “celebrate our reunion.” We sat there, ignoring the old drunk at the table, and rehashed the aftergame party back at LSU, how drunk everyone was, and how I was so wasted that I slipped my panties off for the very first time in public and danced with my girlfriends. Trevor bragged about his band’s next gig, how he’d slept with the manager’s wife in Portland, and how he always liked me better than the other girls in college. He talked and talked, and I let him, because it was easier than listening to the thoughts in my head.
Keith was still there, staring at nothing, when the other band members trickled in. The drummer—Rashad, I think—looked at Trevor, then at me, then at Keith, and started laughing. “Dude, you let her off the leash?” he said, and it took me a second to realize he was talking about me.
Trevor didn’t flinch. “Some dogs bite,” he said, and winked at me.
Rashad barked a laugh and punched Trevor in the shoulder. “You got game, man!”
I watched Keith shrink into his chair as the color drained from his face. He picked at the label of his beer and tried to tune them out, but Rashad kept glancing at him, smirking. “Your old man’s still here,” he whispered, in a loud voice. “Are you letting him watch?”
Trevor shrugged. “He can do what he wants.” It was like I wasn’t even there.
I drained my Sambuca and ordered another. My legs ached from the fucking, and every movement reminded me of Trevor’s hands on my hips and his teeth at my neck. I caught Keith looking at me, and I held the stare for as long as I could stand, then looked away.
The band played another set for the brunch crowd, and I watched Trevor onstage—shirtless and sweaty—hair flopping in his eyes, and his crotch bulging through his tight jeans. His hands were making love to his Fender Jazz bass, like every note was for me. I saw him wink at a girl in the front row, then at me, then at the girl again. And I wondered if he did that for all his lovers.
Keith stayed at the table the entire time. He didn’t move, didn’t clap, just sat and drank his beer and stared at the water ring his glass left on the Formica. When the set ended, Trevor came straight to the bar, ordered another Sambuca, and sat beside me as if nothing had happened. He didn’t touch me, but he leaned in and whispered, “We should do this again. The next city is Nashville.”
He didn’t ask if I was coming with him. He just assumed I would.
I smiled, but my face felt like a rubber mask. “Maybe.”
After a while, Trevor got up to help Rashad with the equipment. The room was empty, and I realized Keith was the only other person left. He hadn’t looked at me since I’d come in. I walked over and sat across from him. He didn’t look up.
“Are you okay?” he said.
I nodded. “Yeah. You?”
He shrugged. “Not really.”
We sat there in silence for a long time. I could feel the weight of everything I’d done piling up on the table between us. I wanted to say I was sorry, but I wasn’t. Not really. I wanted to say it meant nothing, but that would have been a lie. I enjoyed fucking Trevor and would do it again in a heartbeat.
“You want to go?” I finally asked.
Keith stood up too fast, nearly knocking his chair over. “Yeah. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
We walked to the car without touching or speaking. He didn’t open my door, something he always did before. He climbed in, started the engine, and pulled out of the parking lot, then he slammed on the brakes when a biker cut him off. “Fucking asshole,” he muttered, but I knew he wasn’t talking about the biker.
The drive back to my apartment was silent except for the drone of the radio. Bob Seger, Turn the Page. At some point, Keith reached for my hand, but he changed course to rest his palm on the stick shift. He gripped it so hard his knuckles turned white.
When we got to my place, I opened the door and started to get out, but he grabbed my wrist. His hand was cold and shaking.
“Why’d you do it?” he asked, his voice low and deliberate.
I looked out the window at the line of mailboxes, each battered and dented, exactly like the next. “I never fucked him,” I said, trying to convince myself.
He let go, then leaned back and closed his eyes. “I should have left your ass there to find your own way home.”
I waited for him to say more, but he didn’t. I got out of the car, walked up to my apartment, and slammed the door behind me.
I leaned against it for a long time, listening to the engine idle in the driveway. I thought about crying, but the tears wouldn’t come. I wasn’t sad. I wasn’t anything. I poured a Diet Coke and swallowed a Xanax, removed all my clothes, sat on the floor, and waited for the next disaster to find me.
I finished the Diet Coke before I finished hating myself. Neither was easy to swallow, but I did my best. I lay on the tile, totally naked, staring up at the stained popcorn ceiling and listening to the angry whir of the floor fan, Trevor’s cum leaking between my naked thighs. I wondered how long Keith would sit in the parking lot before he gave up and left.
It was a full, bright sun when I heard the knock at my door. I didn’t move. I wanted to, but my legs were bags of concrete, and my head buzzed like a dying bee. The knock came again, a little louder. Then Keith’s voice, low and exhausted: “Ashley, open the door.”
I sat up, wiped my mouth, and pulled on the first dirty t-shirt I could scoop up off the filthy carpet. My hands shook. I opened the door, and there stood Keith, sagging against the frame, his hair wild, eyes rimmed in red. He smelled like sweat, cheap beer, and wet wool.
“Were you waiting for me?” I kidded, trying to make it sound like a joke. But it didn’t land.
He shook his head, slow and deliberate. “I would rather not leave things this way.”
I stepped aside, but he didn’t move. He just stood there, looking past me, down at my bare feet, and into the trashy apartment with its thrift store couch and the piles of dirty clothes scattered along the floor.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
I laughed, sharp and bright. “For what?”
He didn’t answer. I waited, but he just looked down at my manicured feet.
“You want to come in?” I asked. “Or do you just want to stand there all night and mope?”
He hesitated, then stepped inside. He closed the door behind him and leaned against it, arms folded, as if it were the only thing holding him up.
We stood there in silence, my white ass and hairy pussy wholly visible, my manicured feet flat against the floor, and Trevor’s cum squishing between my naked thighs, the air thick with everything we weren’t saying.
“I never fucked him,” I said in my best lying voice. “You know that, right?”
He shook his head, jaw clenched. “I know you did.”
“Well . . .” and I paused. “He didn’t use a condom,” I murmured as I opened my leg and brushed my palm over the sticky cum glistening on my inner thigh.
He flinched at that, and I watched the pain ripple across his face. He was trying not to cry or punch the wall. I wanted to reach out and touch him, to make it better, but I didn’t. I just stood there, waiting for him to say something that would make me feel worse.
Instead, he laughed—a broken, rattling laugh. “I’m such a fucking loser.”
“You’re not a loser,” I snapped. “You just . . . like to hurt yourself.”
He glared up at me, eyes raw. “What about you?”
I shrugged. “I don’t feel anything anymore.”
He moved toward me, slow at first, then all at once. He kissed me, hard, teeth scraping my lip. I tasted the bitterness, but I resisted his tongue from entering my mouth. He pushed me against the wall and pressed his body into mine, his hands rough on my shoulders, my ass, and my hips. I bit his neck and dug my sharp nails into his back. I grabbed his hand and dragged him into the bedroom. He pushed me onto the mattress and stripped off his shirt. He stared down at my hairy pussy, my pelvic tattoo, and my toenails. Then he took my right foot, rough, placed it in his mouth, and swirled his tongue between my toes the way I liked it.
“Take it off,” I said, peeling my t-shirt over my head, my DD breasts falling heavy, and my legs spread in a wide V, feet flexed.
He did, his hands shaking. I watched him strip and saw the way his body hunched in shame. He got out a condom from the drawer, but he paused and didn’t open it.
“Put it on,” I said, lowering my voice.
He hesitated, his cock swaying like a seesaw. “Why?”
And then I smiled a wide, cruel smile. “Because you’re not Trevor.”
He stared at me, face collapsing into pain and rage. But he rolled on the condom, silent, and climbed on top of me. His cock pressed against my thigh, hot and frantic, the latex assuring against my skin.
He pushed into me, and I took him, every inch, locking my ankles around his waist, my toes scrunched, my heel locked against his ass, and Trevor’s cum providing the lubricant. I fake-fucked him like I wanted to tear him apart. I scratched his back, bit his shoulder, and made him bleed. He grunted and thrust until the headboard banged against the wall.
I laughed, loud and raw. “You like it, don’t you? Knowing you’re not the only one?”
He closed his eyes, jaw tight. “Shut the fuck up,” he mumbled.
But I didn’t. I pulled his body deeper and held him inside me. “Look who I’m fucking now!”
He shuddered, then ejaculated into the condom with a thick, morbid scream. He collapsed on top of me, slobbering, face buried in my hair. I held him, stroking the sweat from his back.
When he finally rolled off, I stared up at the ceiling and counted the cracks in the plaster. Neither of us spoke. There was nothing left to say.
After a few awkward moments, Keith stood up, took a long look at my porcelain form, my hairy pussy, my floral tattoo, and my burgundy-painted toenails. He leaned in, shoved three fingers inside my cunt, and kissed me hard, forcing his tongue inside my mouth. Then he pulled away and yanked on his clothes. He left without a word. I stayed in the bed, legs aching, my pussy still leaking Trevor’s cum, and I wondered if I’d ever feel clean again.
I didn’t move. I just lay there, naked and drunk, the Xanax kicking in, and I listened for the next disaster. The next day, I hooked up with Victor and fucked him without a condom. I really missed his ten-inch cock. I even rode topless on his Harley. And later that night, I called Keith. He always brought me booze. But I didn’t fuck him. I cooked him dinner and walked around the apartment completely bare-assed naked—I even danced for him, wearing only my dead grandma’s apron. He massaged my feet with baby oil, and then I suggested that we watch each other masturbate. And we did. But I didn’t fuck him.