Of Women and Wolves

You want to know the truth? It was easy.

It was easy, because the bar was closing down and we were both going home alone, if we weren't going home together. It was easy because she was beautiful; beautiful enough that the men who had courage enough to approach her were too drunk to be of any use, and the ones who were sober enough didn't have the courage. It was easy because I was somewhat handsome and somewhat articulate and had been drinking water between already watered-down IPAs. It was easy because we both knew what we wanted, and neither of us seemed particular about the way that we got there. We just needed somebody else. It was easy—because she wasn't you.

By the time we reached my third-story apartment, our mouths had come together for a second time. I ran my hands up the sides of her body, feeling the softness of her stomach and the hardness of her ribs beneath a bodysuit. The kind that dancers' wore. Maybe she was a dancer. I don't know. There hadn't been any dancing at the bar. There hadn't even been a place to dance, had we wanted to. But neither of us wanted to. The door of my apartment hung open, and I pressed her back against the wooden doorframe while she worked her tongue feverishly against mine.

She smelled faintly of cloves, a scent which became almost heady as her hair fell in front of her face while we kissed. I raised a hand, brushing the lingering strands back without taking my mouth from hers. Her mouth tasted like hour-old beer and cinnamon. Not real cinnamon, but the spicy kind—the kind that only came from liquor or chewing-gum or those little red hearts that appeared only at Valentines' day and disappeared for the rest of the year.

I didn't care, one way or the other. She didn't smell like vanilla shampoo, or coconut body-cream. Her mouth didn't taste like the cheap Two Oceans pinot grigio that you used to drink. She didn't break our kiss to murmur against my ear. When my hands went into her hair, it was smooth, without a single kink or curl. My fingers don't ache, touching it. They don't want to curl, or grab it by the roots to find her neck.

As we stumble inside my apartment and kick the door closed, I can feel her fingers fumbling with my belt buckle. The metallic clink of it opening. The tightening and then sudden looseness as her fingers manage to open the button of my jeans and work beneath them. She doesn't manage to get below my underwear, the first time; the hand draws upward slightly, and she gets it on the second attempt.

I'm almost surprised, when my cock stiffens at the touch of her fingers. At the hardness which rises between her palm and the front of my jeans. It's been fourteen months, since I last slept with somebody. Since anybody touched me like this. My hands slide the cardigan off her shoulders. Lower shoulders than I'm used to. The straps of her bodysuit follow. Then my arm is around her waist, and she's bending backward over it so that my mouth can make the same motion it was doing against her mouth over a now-exposed nipple.

I don't know why it was the colour that hurt me—soft pink against the beige of her skin. Pointed. Pert and young-looking. Not round. Not dark. A hand clenched around my heart, and I focusing on not closing my teeth against it; at least, not too hard. She gasped at the first touch of them. Her hand was stroking my cock as much as it could, inside the confines of my jeans. It pulled out as I pressed her hips forward against my body, using the forearm held against the small of her back. When my other hand curved over the cheek of her bum, she recognized the action. A pair of legs wrapped around my waist as I lifted her.

I hate how easy this is. I hate how my body remembers what to do, because with every motion, every moment, I feel like it shouldn't. That this should be more difficult. That it should feel wrong. When I throw her down into the sheets of my bed, I wait to hear the sound of your voice in her soft exhale. I want to hate you, but I don't. I don't want to hate myself, but I do. There's nothing wrong with this—and that's the problem. That's what's wrong with it.

When I bend down over the bed to bring our bodies back together, I don't grab her. I grab the sheets, pulling them close around us. The smell of you disappeared months ago; the smell of your conditioner long ago having been overtaken in the pillow cases by laundry detergent. The smell of your moisturizer having faded from the sheets. But some nights, when I wake up and forget for a single moment where I am, who I am, who you were; I can smell it. I'm erasing the smell of a memory. As I use my body to move her up the bed, I know I'm using her body like a pomace-stone.

It doesn't matter—not to her. We both know what this is. I know it, as I get my fingers inside the button of her jean shorts and slide them down her legs. As the sky blue of her lace-fronted thong follows them. As my lips kiss up the inside of her bare thighs and my tongue parts the already-wet crease of her labia. I can feel the slight weight of her thighs, against either shoulder; the balls of her feet against my back, to either side of my slightly curved spine, just above my hips. They press against me, rolling slightly, urging me onward. So is her voice, from beneath the pillow that she's pulled over top of her face. I can hear her sighing, through the fabric. Each sound raising her stomach, each release of breath drawing it down once more. Not flat—she's too thin for that. Making a small valley of her body; the bottom of her ribcage and the raised bumps of her hipbones rising like beige hills.

"Fuck me," she breathes, pulling the pillow back from her face so that it's resting only against her forehead. I can't tell whether it's a request or an exclamation; breathlessness makes it hard to tell. "Fuck me," she repeats—this time, there's no mistaking the tone of a request.

"Is this not—"

"I need... penetration..." the words come from open lips. One of her arms comes up, disappearing under the pillow; fingers dragging backward through her hair, "to cum."

Raising my mouth for a moment, I slide two fingers inside of it. She's wet enough that it's unnecessary, but I do it anyways. Letting my tongue run over the bottom of them, I bring my mouth back to her body. I have to shift, raising the angle of my head and chest slightly to allow my arm underneath my body. She gasps, the sound of her breathing becoming slightly higher as I push the fingers inside of her, below my chin. Immediately, I can feel how tight she is; the muscles of her pussy grabbing at my fingers. Elastic bands in a sink. Moving them in time with my wrist, I trace my tongue around her clitoris. It's smaller than I'm used to—small, and hard. The pattern of her breathing becomes deeper, slowly. The hill of her stomach rising higher than it had previously, the valley deeper. A couple of minutes later, I feel the bottom of her feet dig deep into the skin of my back, pulling upward. Her muscles seize slightly.

Instinctively, I close my ears against the sound of her voice. She's crying out in moans, above me. Her back arches in the sheets, her legs tightening around my head and shoulders. For some reason, it's this moment—feeling her body grabbing at me, feeling the sudden, heavier flood of wetness around my fingers—that I feel the hot prickle of tears threatening the corners of my eyes. They're unformed. I'm not crying. My mouth seizes her clit, my tongue working up and down. Every breath is a wet sob from deep in my lungs. I hope that she'll mistake it for exertion. Closing my eyes, I feel the heat retreating from behind them. There's only the darkness, and the sound of her slightly hiccupped breathing.

"Fuck," the sound of her first clear word comes from above me, "well... done." Her voice takes on a slightly pleading quality, "Fuck me? Please?"

Pushing myself up on my arms, I hesitate for a moment. Had this been you, I would have leaned down and kissed you. I would have kissed you deeply, letting you take the wet heat from my mouth. But this wasn't you. I didn't know the etiquette. Instead, I roll sideways and pull open the top drawer of the nightstand above my bed.

It takes me a moment to find the condoms. I'd bought them a month ago, but besides being removed from the box they'd been untouched. Tearing one free from the row, I open the slightly crinkly wrapper with my teeth. Sex-ed classes had told me not to do that. Whatever. Mr. Greeley had been an asshole anyways. Probably still thought the female orgasm was a myth. I wasn't quite as hard as I'd been in the doorway, but I was hard enough. The condom was the wrong way around, and I had to flip it over in my fingers before rolling it down the length of my shaft. I could feel the slickness of the lubricant on my fingers. She's crawled slightly higher in the bed, and I move to meet her. A pair of legs wrap around my hips, just like they'd done when I lifted her.

"Yes—" her voice, even at a whisper, seems loud in the otherwise silent bedroom. There's no music, like there'd always been when you were here. No Louis Armstong playing from the kitchen. No JJ Johnson from the living-room. As much as that hurt, it helped—in this moment. As I positioned my cock against the warmth of her entrance, as her hands reached up and her fingers drew down my shoulders and the top of my arms. As her whisper broke the silence once more: "Yes—please."

I'd always thought that the term hate-fucking was meant for your partner. I thought it had to be rough. Maybe because it had never been a part of our relationship, or of any of the ones before it; I'd never realized that it could be directed at yourself. As I pushed inside of her for the first time, the realization came crashing down around me like a wave. She gasped at the first thrust, while I was still half-way inside of her. Her hands dragged my head down, bringing my mouth to hers. There it was again—light beer and cinnamon, now mixing with the deeper, slightly salty taste of her body. The second thrust brought our hips together, and she moaned deep inside of my mouth.

It's not supposed to be like this, I know. Sex is supposed to be something shared—something passionate and thoughtful and attentive. It's supposed to be a joining; not a tearing away. But that's what I feel, with every thrust inside of her body. Like the glue of a bandage, being ripped away from hair-covered skin. Like a scab pulled from a raw, open wound. I fuck hard, and her body welcomes it. Her hands grab at my arms, at my hair, at the back of my neck. Whatever my strange mixture of desperation, and quite brutality, and anguish—I know she can feel it. My lips slip away from hers, because now I can feel tears forming in the corners of my eyes and I can't have her see that. I can't have them falling on her. So instead I press my mouth against the soft skin between her neck and shoulder, letting the pillow soak them up instead.

Whether it's the sex, or the shaking of my shoulders, or an after-effect of her previous orgasm; she's coming again. I can feel the locking-up of her body below me, and I drive through it. Not like a key—like a shoulder turned sideways. Like a battering ram. Like a mortar shell. I push her deep into the sheets as she cries out over my shoulder, fingers carving tracks along my back. I feel the impossible tightness of her pussy, squeezing against my cock. The heat of it. Hotter than her skin. Hotter than her breath. Hotter than my tears. I half explode and half stumble through the door of her orgasm and into my own. One hand grabs at her, the other one grabbing at the pillow above us. Her legs wrap around the back of mine, holding me inside of her while I cum. Working me deeper.

For a moment, we remain like that. And then I feel the tension leave her body. Turning my face so that I can rub a hand over my eyes without her seeing it, I lean back and pull out of her. Unrolling the condom from around my shaft, I tie it quickly closed and toss it into the wastebasket beside my dresser. I can feel her shifting in the bed. When I fall back into the sheets beside her, she turns over and rests her head against my chest. I'm grateful that she doesn't look up at me right away, because I'm sure the edges of my eyes are red. She doesn't need to see that. She doesn't deserve it. One arm lays across my stomach. I stare up at the ceiling, desperately trying to think of nothing.

"What was her name?" She doesn't look at me while she speaks, speaking instead to the top of my stomach. I don't ask her how she knows. I don't need to. There's a moment of silence between us, which stretches slowly. An elastic band, pulled between two thumbs. I don't let it stretch too far—speaking before it goes from strained to painful.

"Elizabeth," I lie, giving her your middle name.

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah—" I breathe out, closing my eyes. My body is too empty to cry; like a pitcher of water which has been tipped over and poured out. There's no moisture left in me for tears. Even my mouth has gone dry. I let out a gentle sigh, "Me too."

"If it means anything, I don't think you're as bad a guy as you think you are."

I blink, slightly surprised by the words. Her face turns up, and a pair of blue eyes return the blink—blue, not pale brown. The colour of ocean water, rather than the sand below it. I open my mouth to reply, and then close it. My chin tilts down in a slight nod. She hesitates for a moment.

"Do you mind if I... sleep here tonight? I can take a cab home, if you don't want me to. I just..."

"Of course you can," I stroke a hand down her hair, "No need to explain."

"Thank you."

She closes her eyes, turning her face toward herself so that her chin is touching the curve of her shoulder, her cheek pressed against the right side of my chest. Now that we're not fucking, I can feel the slightly cool breeze coming in through the open window. Pulling the tangled sheet out from underneath us, I pull it over our bodies. She nestles slightly closer as I do that. I breathe in deeply, her head rising with my chest as I do so. As I do, a smell comes to me. It's not the smell of sex, which still hangs heavy in the room around us. My mind flinches back; like an animal, by sheer instinct. But then it reaches me. It's not you. It's light sweat, and cinnamon warmth, and cloves. It's not a memory. It's here, right here in the room; in the bed, beside me. She's not you, but she's here—and you're not.

Of Women, Wolves, and Women Born to Wolves —— THE END.