A Controlled Descent Ch. 01

I lay there in the dark listening to him breathe, listening for it to become deep and slow and regular. Sleeping men are one of my areas of expertise - knowing when it's safe to get up and avoiding awkward conversations while I hunt for my clothes. I touch my fingertips to my cheek. He's all over my face, mostly dried now. I could've wiped it off on his sheets but that's not my way. It's important that I look the way I feel inside.

When he begins to snore, I slide silently out of bed. Streetlights from between the slats of the venetian blinds cast prison bars across the ceiling. I dress quickly, although my panties are nowhere to be found. Not the first time that's happened.

I glance in the mirror. My long black hair is a twisted mess from the death grip he had on it while fucking me. I don't fix it, but instead look for something to take, eventually settling on a black comb from his dresser. In movies, serial killers always take trophies from their victims. I'm not a killer, but I'm certainly a serial offender. At home, I have a whole box full of odds and ends taken from rooms like this one. At this point, I couldn't tell you what prize came from what man. I find that incredibly hot for reasons that I try never to think about. Sometimes I pick something out to hold while I masturbate. I know. I have a problem.

My purse and phone lay on the floor by his bedroom door like fallen soldiers. I scoop everything up and take one last look at Alex. Dave? Chris? What the fuck was his name? Was because he's already past tense to me. I rarely see anyone a second time unless they really surprise me. AlexDaveChris definitely did not, so what's the point?

I slip out the bedroom and close the door quietly behind me. In the living room, one of his roommates is splayed out on the couch playing Call of Duty in the dark. He glances over his shoulder at me and nods a greeting before returning to his game. Guess I'm not the first girl to creep out of here in the middle of the night. A thought occurs to me, and once had, there is only one way to rid myself of it.

I've been accused of poor impulse control. Fairly, I'll be the first to admit.

Leaving my things on the kitchen counter, I circle the couch. He's wearing a T-shirt and athletic shorts.

"What's up?" he asks without looking away from his game.

"Nothing. Can I watch?"

"Yeah, whatever."

He makes no attempt to make room, so I sit on the floor between his legs and put my back against the couch. He's either cool or shy enough not to react. I can smell him - a mix of sweat, alcohol, and cheap cologne. Why does that do it for me? I can feel how wet I am and put my head back, resting it on his bare thigh. Up on the television, he doesn't falter or get distracted. I'm impressed.

"Where's Dave?" Not exactly the question he's actually asking, but we both know what he means.

Dave, his name was Dave. "Asleep."

I sit up on my knees and turn around to face him. He's not looking at his game now. I have his undivided attention now. It's the first time I've actually seen him - not good-looking but far from the worst I've had. I take hold of the legs of his shorts and give a gentle tug. With a bemused look, he lifts his ass just enough to allow me to slide his shorts and boxers off. He's hard. I wonder if he can tell in this light that I have his roommate's dried cum on my face. Would he stop me if he knew? You never can tell with boys. To be honest, I probably wouldn't be on my knees now if I didn't.

"You're fucking hot," he says with genuine surprise and goes to put down his controller.

Such a gentleman. I tell him to keep playing and take the head of his cock in my mouth. It's a good size and feels solid on my tongue. He growls contentedly and his hips slide down the couch like a horse being led to water. When I glance up, he's looking at the screen not me, his fingers working the controller expertly. My pussy clenches involuntarily. There's a whole subgenre of porn where guys get head while playing video games. It never did anything for me before, but now I get it. I feel alive for the first time tonight - down on my knees where I belong, being ignored. Taken for granted. Not all girls enjoy giving head, not even sluts like me, but I do. I always have. I'll suck a cock for an hour If I'm allowed to do my thing, to relax and savor the experience. I find it very peaceful. All the chewed-up ends of all the pens I've ever owned are a testament to my abiding oral fixation.

Time passes, my mind empties pleasantly. It's just me and his cock, slick and hot. I want it all in my mouth; it's kind of a point of pride with me despite my irritatingly sensitive gag reflex, and there's a wet spot on the couch beneath his balls from my drool to prove it. He doesn't seem to mind my struggles though and leaves me to fight the good fight. I tighten my grip on his shaft, gradually accelerating. The controller slips out of his hand. His hand slips around the back of my head, and I worry he's going to ruin his blowjob. Some guys don't know what's in their best interests at times like this, but thankfully he doesn't interfere with my rhythm. His hand is just resting there, moving with me like a silent dance partner. With a final twist of my hand, he grunts, tenses, and fills my mouth. Most I swallow, but there's a lot of him and some runs down my chin. A lot of girls will stop now, thinking they're done, but I know better and keep working him all the way through his orgasm. He shivers, and after I clean him off, I gently set down his cock.

I lick my lips as I stand and straighten my skirt. As if that's going to make a difference.

"Unreal," he says.

I really need him to not talk anymore. "Say hi to Dave for me."

That makes him laugh, and I collect my things from the kitchen counter. He's back to playing his game before I reach the front door. I'll be damned if that doesn't turn me on even more and out in the hall, I let out a shuddering sigh. I'm in a bad way and liable to do something really stupid that will make an anonymous couch blowjob seem like a responsible decision. This happens sometimes when I get overstimulated. I need to cum so badly. That usually calms me down and lets me think straight. At least long enough to get home without incident.

I didn't cum with Dave. Didn't expect to, which was kind of the point. He's the kind of guy that girls have lied to about being great in bed for so long that he's past wondering if it's actually true. Honestly, that's half the reason I fuck the Daves of the world. Their disinterest in my pleasure makes me feel the right kind of irrelevant. Although if I'm being really, really honest, I have a hard time cuming at all. See, the thing is I don't think I deserve to feel good, so my brain usually short-circuits any kind of release. It's a nifty trick I play on myself. In high school - after the incident - my father made me see a therapist who, among other things, diagnosed me as hypersexual, which is just a modern way of calling someone a nymphomaniac. How's that for a cruel joke - a nympho who can't orgasm. Sorry, sorry...hypersexual.

I duck into the stairwell rather than take the elevator to the lobby. I need to compose myself before exiting the building. There are too many temptations between here and my apartment. I look at my phone. Saturday night, and it's only 1:15. The bars will be open for a while yet. I would need to clean myself, but I could go back out, find someone else. It's not too late. I shake the thought from my head, for the moment anyway. To distract myself, I read my messages. Mostly friends checking up on me. Some even manage to sound worried despite my habit of ghosting to go fuck someone being well documented. I fire off texts confirming that I'm alive. Two of the girls ask me to come rejoin them. The rest don't reply, and who can blame them? Tommy, who was nearly as slutty as me before he met James, asks if I want to have a late brunch tomorrow. I text back an emoji of an egg in a frying pan. He always makes me feel human again.

Then, because it is my nature, I start scrolling through Tinder. So many messages, so much bullshit. I'm on every dating app in existence but never go on dates. Unless you count a perfunctory vibe check at a bar as a date. Sometimes, I just go straight to their place, sight unseen. Especially if they're older - late thirties or even forties ideally. Chances are their pictures are out of date, and they lied about their age. It's embarrassing, and I always fuck them anyway. I know, I know, I'm out of control. It's so fucking exhausting being this way - smart enough to know I have a problem, too weak to do anything about it. Or too stubborn, but that's a whole other conversation.

I switch to Bumble and then to Hinge looking for just the right humiliation. Not that I put it in those words, but that's what I'm hunting, what I need. I glance past my phone at my legs. Dave's used condom is stuck to my left calf. He peeled it off to cum on my face and that's where it must have landed. That I haven't noticed until now feels profoundly metaphorical. I didn't even need an app to find just the right humiliation after all. I reach for the condom, but then stop myself. It stays where it is. If people see and mock me, well I deserve it. The thought makes me wet all over again. Fuck. I stumble down the four flights and out onto the street. A group of girls, cute and bubbly, on their way somewhere fun, pass me laughing and talking. I shrink into myself knowing I look like a fucking cautionary tale.

Lyft is always stupidly expensive this time of night. I only live about half an hour away, so I start walking. It was a nice spring day, but the temperature has dropped since the sun went down, and I'm not dressed for it. Shivering, I fold my arms across my chest and lower my head. I just want to be home now. In my bed. Forever. So why am I still swiping through pictures of men?

My phone buzzes in my hand.

It's him.

- Hello, Mackenzie. How was your night?

He always punctuates every text like he's writing a grammar textbook, which is how I know he's old. I'm surprised he doesn't sign his texts. Also, no one calls me Mackenzie. I've been Mac or Kenzie since I was six except when my parents are pissed at me. I've explained that repeatedly, but he always types my full name anyway. It's so formal. I can't figure out why I like it so much.

We connected online about six months ago on an app. Full disclosure, I swiped on him. I don't usually do that, but something about his profile felt different, out of place. He made me curious. His profile lists him as 6'3" and forty-four-years old, which is code for forty-nine. I also have my suspicions about any man on a dating app who claims to be over 5'10". Either way, he was a handsome man whenever his pictures were actually taken - intelligent eyes, full head of black hair with just a little grey at the temples, strong masculine nose, cleanshaven, and the slightest hint of a smile as if he's remembering a private joke. He has one of those faces that is just going to get more handsome over the next ten years. If it's even him at all. I wouldn't know because we've never met. Usually that's a dealbreaker for me. I'm not on apps to find a pen pal, and if a guy doesn't ask to meet within a day or two, I move on. But there's something about this man that keeps me from disconnecting. He's never asked to meet me, never asked for nudes. We just talk, and I tell him everything he asks. Everything. I don't know how he does it. Usually, I'm kind of a vault, but he figured out my combination pretty quickly. I've never heard his voice, but his texts have bass to them. That's the best way I can describe it. He just calms me down and gets me talking. And he's never judgmental. He just asks his probing, insightful questions, and I tell him whatever he wants to know. That's our dynamic. It's embarrassing how happy I am to hear from him.

- like always

- Are you all right?

I tell him about Dave and his roommate. The calf condom. All of it.

- It's still on your ankle now?

- yeah

- How do you feel?

- empty

- Isn't that the goal?

- not empty enough

He asks if I've found another date yet. I make a face at my phone - get out of my head, old man.

- no

- But you're looking...

- yeah

- Will it make any difference to how you feel if you find one?

- no

- Then why bother?

My teeth begin to chatter but not from the cold. You ask questions that are so hard. If I had answers, would I be here?

- Shall I leave you to it?

- no!!! please don't leave me alone

I hate myself the second I hit send. Stop being pathetic. I know, I know. A ridiculous sentiment from a girl walking the streets with a used condom on her leg. So why am I worried about my dignity with this man? I don't even know his real name. His profile says Jack, but who uses their actual name on apps? Online, I'm Holly Golightly and apart from a passing resemblance I'm about as far from Audrey Hepburn as a person can be. After a month, I told him my name was Mackenzie. He stuck with Jack, which actually hurt my feelings a little.

- I won't. Where are you now?

- walking home i'm cold

- Can I do anything for you, Mackenzie?

- you could come pick up in your nice warm car

It's meant as a joke. I don't even know if he owns a car. I don't know anything about him.

- I can do that. What's your current location.

I squint at the screen suspiciously. My heart, such as it is, starts pounding.

- what

- If you want me to pick you up, I need to know where you are.

It's a fair point, so I give him my intersection even if I'm confused about what is happening here. He asks if there's anywhere warm for me to wait. I see a bar that doesn't look too busy, and he tells me to go inside and order something hot, his treat. I do that. The place is mostly empty, and the bartender tells me he has tea. That sounds really nice.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and my heart sinks. No way, I am meeting mystery man looking like a windblown sheep. In the bathroom, I use Dave's comb to work the tangles out of my hair. After I scrub my face, I reapply my mascara and lipliner. It's not perfect, but I don't look like a total whore. What difference does it make? He knows what I am. I've told him over and over. That reminds me, and I reach down to peel off the condom like an old Band-Aid and drop it in the trash.

Back at the bar, I sit and sip my tea. I still can't decide how I feel about meeting him. Six months of texting without him expressing any interest in seeing me and now, out of the blue, he wants to meet. I catch myself. That's not what happened though. I asked him to pick me up. Is this him just being polite? Is he taking pity on me? Before I can decide, my phone vibrates. It's him. Out the window, a black Mercedes SUV is idling at the curb. I've already paid my tab, so I take one last sip of tea and wave goodnight to the bartender. As I approach the car, the doors unlock with an audible thunk. No one is around. This is how girls end up dead, I think. I get in anyway.

To my surprise, the man behind the wheel is the spitting image of his photographs apart from the faintest dusting of stubble at the end of a long day. He's wearing blue jeans and a crisp white button-down shirt tucked neatly into his belt like he's been professionally posed. One large, masculine hand rests on the steering wheel in a way that is improbably sexy and confident, the other he offers to me. He smells incredible.

"Hello," he says when I shake it. "I'm Jack."

Still sticking to that story, I see. "I'm Mac."

"It's good to meet you at last, Mackenzie. What did you have while you waited?"

"Tea," I say.

"Good choice."

I've never wanted anyone to fuck me more.

He drives two blocks before saying with a laugh that could charm paint off a wall, "I don't actually know where you live."

It never occurred to me that we'd be going to my place. As a rule, I don't have men over. Ever. Not unless you count Tommy. Still, I give him the address because I'm too off my game to say anything else. He seems to know where that is, and we drive in silence. I steal glances at him, still surprised he looks anything like his pictures. Better actually, much better. He has a presence that should come with a UV rating. His arm rests on the center console, and I want so badly for his hand to touch me. He asks if I'm warm enough and reaches for the heat. I say I'm fine, and he smiles at me. Ugh. Arm (and hand) returning maddeningly to the center console. Is he waiting for me to make a move? Everything feels unfamiliar. I don't know what to do.

Fortunately, we get there before I do anything to embarrass myself. There's never parking in front of my building, but tonight there is. I bet this guy always finds parking. He pulls into the spot and lets the engine idle. He looks at me. There's none of the expectancy or eagerness that men usually give off, and I wonder if he is just waiting for me to get out of his car now that I'm home. Does he even want me? I'm so out of my depth here.

"Do you want to come in?"

"Yes, I do," he says and kills the engine. Again, incredibly sexy for subtle reasons. Some boys will hem and haw with a lot of, "it's late" and "only if you want," so they're not responsible for anything later. But not him, he's direct and to the point.

We ride the elevator to the seventh floor, side by side. I feel his closeness, but he doesn't touch me, hasn't touched me except to shake my hand in the car. Outside my door, I pause and tell him my apartment is a little messy. That's the understatement of the millennia, and a bit like calling the Grand Canyon a small hole. My place looks like a tornado hit it. Always does. Tommy says it reflects my soul: anarchy and disarray. I told him there is method to my madness. He said madness is my method.

And that, boys and girls, is why Tommy doesn't get invited over anymore.

We go inside, and mystery man surveys the breadth and chaos of my domain. He is too much of a gentleman to say anything though. I bet he's a very good poker player.

"Do you want anything?" I ask.

He smiles at me. "Go take a shower."

That's why he hasn't touched me. He thinks I'm disgusting. He's right, of course, and to my surprise, I do as I'm told.

My building has phenomenal water pressure, and the shower feels wonderful. I stand under the water until I turn pink from the heat. A wave of exhaustion hits me, and I put a hand out to keep my balance. It's not even that late for me, but I've been on kind of a rampage the last few weeks. Dave and his roommate are only the tip of my whorish iceberg, but no matter how much I debase myself, my need won't let me be. If anything it's just getting worse. The more men I let use me, the less impact they have on me. I'm like an addict chasing a high that's grown frustratingly out of reach. I can't cum. I can't quiet my mind. And I can't sleep. I really miss sleep.

What to do about mystery man? On the one hand, it's exciting to finally meet him. The buildup has been different. Exciting. And his whole, take-me-or-leave-me routine is really working on me. But I wish I hadn't invited him up. Not tonight. I'm too tired to be at my best, and I actually want to impress him. And if I do fuck him, what if he doesn't leave voluntarily? I'll be trapped. Now of course, a grownup would ask him politely to go home, and he gives the impression of a man who would do so gracefully. But I'm not capable of that.

I get out of the shower and towel myself off, moisturize, and put my wet hair up in a bun because I'm too tired to blow-dry it at two a.m. No makeup either. Men are always telling me I don't need any, so let's see if it's true. And in petty defiance I put on sweatpants and a t-shirt. He gets me as I am or not at all.