Last night was a strange one, and I think I can barely explain it to myself.
Another glance at my phone shows that the one person who might understand it best is too busy with work to be talking to me if I’m not on the other side of a pint glass.
I clean up when I’m done eating, and I shuffle through a check of locked doors and turned-off lights before I make sure I have a glass of water to bring upstairs. Having to be cautious with each step is a frustrating contrast to the ride I’d taken through AngelesCrest, but it’s one more chance to remind myself that I’m not dead, and that’s a habit I’ve been familiar with for years.
When I step into my bedroom, it’s the first I realize that as much as Ihurt, I’m not tired after sleeping all afternoon. I’d forced myself through a brief shower before going to work, but now I set the water, pain pill, and phone on my nightstand, then turn for the bathroom and the opportunity for a longer, more helpful shower tonight. I’d love to soak in my oversized tub, actually, but the gash on my thigh won’t allow for that, and I sigh when I put an extra bandage over Darren’s butterfly stitches for the second time today.
A closed door helps steam fill the bathroom quickly, and I step into the stall to let the hot water relieve some of the discomfort I expect to carry for days. Crashing like I did would’ve hurt anybody, but I’m on a slow slide toward 60 now, and on a night like this, it’s hard to forget. I’m strong, and I’ve never damned my body for anything, but when I look down at myself—wet chest hair gone gray, muscled leg torn open, skin marred by the evidence of a life well lived—I imagine what it will be like to be naked with a man who probably has so few scars and far less physical proof of his age.
I wonder if I should be more nervous than I am.
I’ve been wholly aware of my attraction to men since my early 20s, but I was married by then, with a baby on the way, and any fantasies remained vague, distant things. Throughout the past several years, hours with a drink in my hand have given me reason to daydream in more detail, but I’m not sure I everthought something would come of it, my needs met for so long that I’ve mostly ignored the idea of them since.
I’m not lonely.
But I’m so incredibly sore.
And maybe neither matters once I’ve scrubbed my body clean, and I stare as the last of the soapy rivulets covering my skin run clear. A second later, I picture Darren’s fingertips tracing those same crooked lines, his beautifully arrogant smile calling me to relax under his touch. I’m calm now and breathing easily, but I reach down to where I’m so obviously aroused by the thought of his hands on me, and I begin to stroke myself like he might. For a guy who must have perfected the quickie years ago, he’ll take his time with me—I’m certain of that even when I can predict little of anything else—and I keep myself from hurrying through anything tonight.
I have no idea whether showers are something friends share, but I feel sexier in the water than I do almost anywhere else, straddling one of my Harleys probably the only place I feel more powerful. If Darren won’t join me here one day, maybe I can at least give him a ride.
That makes me choke, and my perfect rhythm stutters. I want it all.
My shower is huge, and the small bench seat gives me every excuse to sit down, so I pause long enough to adjust the angle of the spray and make myself comfortable all over again. I’m leaning back against the cool tile wall, my legs spread, and it’s all so much like V’s office and my bedroom, when Darren kneltthere and claimed the space as his own. The memory has me wrapping my hand around my shaft again, eager to prove that I didn’t want him to bite his tongue last night, nor do I want him to stop talking anytime soon, and if any of my body protests the beautiful tension building now, there’s enough in me to soothe it, too.
Touching myself like this hasn’t always been about drawing out my pleasure. It certainly hasn’t been a chore either—it feels great, and I won’t offer a confession for any sin like it. But I’ve spent so many years indulging in food and drink and music and travel, that sex has become an afterthought more than anything. It’s easy to want this though, and it won't take much longer, especially when I can see Darren so easily. Hear him, too.
If you’re ever gonna fuck a man, I want it to be me.
My grip tightens, whether it’s a conscious choice or not, and I make no effort to loosen it again. I’ve gone a while without this and I’m on edge now, desire taking shape in a way it hasn’t for years. My mind jumps from one filthy thing to the next, and it’s over so soon after that, my release there and gone when the water rinses it away. I take longer to catch my breath, and I stand only because I’m eager for my bed and pillows and the chance to sleep deeply until morning. My foggy bathroom blankets me when I step out of the shower, and after I’ve grabbed a towel, I look toward a mirror I can barely see. Bare but hidden, I decide to forgo any self-care routine that takes longer than the time I need to brush my teeth and tear the extra bandage from my thigh.
Returning to my bedroom on legs that still feel weaker thanI’m used to, I find the shorts Darren set aside last night, and I grab those and a t-shirt once I’ve pulled a pair of boxers on. My phone shows notifications for several emails I swipe away and one more text from someone at work, but there’s nothing from Darren and no reason for me to bother him. I sigh and prop a couple of pillows against the headboard, then crawl into bed with a book I haven’t touched in a week, the thriller not quite thrilling me yet.
I don’t pay attention to how long I’ve been reading—only happy the story has become significantly more interesting—but the sound from my phone is enough to startle me in the silence of my room. Blinking, I realize it’s late, and that trivia night ended a while ago, but of course the message is from Darren, and I tap it open.
You still up?
My smile probably doesn’t matter when he can’t see it, but it feels good after the past 24 hours. Before I settle back against the pillows, I take the painkiller and drink half the glass of water, then I answer Darren.
Usually asleep by now but awake tonight.
Waiting up for someone?
Depends. Is someone about to tell me he changed his mind about spending his shift in the keg room?
Haven’t changed my mind about anything. Zach called out. V stayed. No phone time for me
And no trivia for me.
There’s an extra beat or two before the next text, andI use the time to set my book aside and scoot further down the bed. Then a picture appears on my phone, a dim snapshot of the back of a bar receipt with a scribbled question: What’s the collective term for a group of flamingos?
Oh. He wrote one down. I hurry to respond.A flamboyance. That had to be a hit at the gay bar, huh?
Lol it really was. But I think I’m a bigger fan of a murder of crows
I’m partial to an exaltation of larks.
Didn’t know that one. but happy as a lark? Makes sense