Triptych

"Should I be writing this down?"

"I'll text you later."

"What else?"

"So this is going to sound strange, given your propensity for staring people into submission, but you need to give eye contact. Otherwise, there's no connection. Might as well be a vacuum cleaner. You just had your eyes closed the whole time."

"I was concentrating."

"You also were going really fast."

"I thought that would feel better."

"Yeah... at a certain point, sure. But feel my hips, feel what they're doing, what their rhythm is. Match that. You go too fast it's like you're trying to finish dinner so you can go watch TV."

"I don't watch TV."

"Finish dinner so you can go read Remembrance of Things Past."

They were both staring at the ceiling fan. "This is all good to know. I appreciate this," she said. "Anything else?"

"Spend some time with your mouth, but then spend some time with your hands. Alternate. And I... or whoever your partner is... they'd like to know you're enjoying it. Make a sound or two. Moan while he's in your mouth."

"What about the gagging?"

"You were overdoing it."

"That wasn't on purpose."

He turned to her. "It's really all right, Elle. Don't feel bad."

"I know," she whispered, bringing her forehead against his so their noses touched. "I just... I don't know why. But I really wanted you to cum in me. Not with a condom—although, like I said, I do appreciate that—I just have this primal urge to just have your cum inside me. It sounds bizarre to say it because I can't even tell you why that appeals to me. Just a combination of "you," and "hot sperm," and "inside me" is pulling down my thoughts like lead weights. Sound silly?"

"No," he said, "No, not at all," and he gently brushed her hair with his fingers. "Sounds like dopamine."

She laughed. "Well then, it's for the best, isn't it?"

"Yep, think so." And he carried her for the first time—he had thrown her around before, but this was careful, with her arms around his neck—into the shower, where he had her wash him, and where he took his time, soaping her up, rinsing her off, kissing her frequently and wide-rangingly, as if in approval of her every protrusion and nook, and laughing at each one of her always surprisingly witty jokes.

...

(Eloise)

It's interesting the rules we live by. The rule governing her right then was that she was no longer allowed to wear clothes. That included the hotel robes, that included the towels, that even included the washcloths. She tried to think how this had come up, and she couldn't really remember, just like she had no idea what time it was, or really, even the day. But she knew she wasn't allowed to wear clothes.

Stranger thing was, this wasn't a blanket rule. It didn't apply to everyone in the room. He, for instance, had put on pants and his shirt to answer the door for breakfast while she had gone diving for the bedsheets to hide from the bellhop, lying there like a lump as if it weren't perfectly obvious what was under there. And then he didn't take them off, sat there full clothed while he fed her the entire meal. Oh, right, should mention that she also wasn't allowed to touch utensils.

Interesting, right? Something even more interesting is that after an hour the condition became... reified somehow. Like it was the proper default. It actually seemed bizarre to her that she had ever worn clothes before in her life, that there had ever been a moment in his presence when he wasn't permitted to inspect every part of her. She felt like dancing. She danced.

He smiled at her. And it seemed right that he should be in clothes in front of her. Not that he had to be, but if he wanted to be, if he liked how he looked in that suit—she loved how he looked in that suit, by the way—then why shouldn't he be, and why shouldn't she be twirling nude about him? (Except for her eye of Horus necklace. That she would neither explain, nor give up.)

"Too much champagne?" he asked, raising his eyes from the newspaper. He now eye fucked her on the regular. He was always gazing at her nipples, at her mouth, at her cunt, and—she imagined—her ass.

"Just happy," she said, with a deep kiss. "Just content. Can I do anything for you?"

"Yeah," he said, reaching over to grab a pillow and placing it in front of his chair. "On your knees. Eyes up."

...

(Joseph)

Was it great? No. Was it terrible? No, he'd had much worse, but there was a fine line between a blowjob and a throat-fucking. One is driven by the fellator, another by the fellatee. This was technically the latter.

She did keep her eyes on his, although he had to pinch her nipple once when they drifted downwards. She went slower, but again her enthusiasm took over—which was strange, because she had been so capable of patience in everything—everything—else they had done. But apparently, they had found her favorite.

He knew if he just sat back and let her do her thing, she'd have fun, and he'd have fun, but there'd be no conclusion to the proceedings. And she had confided what she wanted. So he grabbed her, the firmest he had yet, and gave her a reassuring look. She nodded, and he started a careful oscillation with her head. Very slow, ponderously slow. He felt her surrender all control to him: she seemed relieved.

Her lips ran over the veins of his cock. He felt the warmth of the tongue underneath his shaft, slipping back and forth. The hardest part of the weekend was going slowly enough for her, to keep her safe and still give her what she craved.

He would stop from time to time to just cradle her head, run fingers through her hair, appreciate the sheer fucking beauty of her smokey eyes, her powerful cheekbones.

"I'm going to finish now, Eloise. You ready?"

She made a warm gurgling sound. Sweat was beading on her forehead.

"I'm going to need you to swallow."

Now she made a sound more like a needy purr.

She didn't waste a drop. And he was well and truly spent.

...

(Eloise)

"Better?" she said. She knew it was silly, but she swore she could feel his cum in her belly, like a warm little secret between them.

"C plus," he said. "Passing."

"Tough crowd," she said, and kicked him.

"So, worth it? All you expected? Itch that scratch?"

She looked at him and shrugged. They fell asleep again, for how much time it was impossible to say. Had it been two days? Three? She booked the room for three, which was not easy to explain to her parents, but she was nothing if not resourceful. What had he told his wife? she wondered.

And she knew that that truly was none of her business.

And then she had the stupidest idea she'd ever had. And what's more, she knew it was the stupidest idea she'd ever had as soon as it popped up behind her eyebrows. She had never really doubted the wisdom of offering her hymen to him on a silver platter. That was foresighted and brilliant. But this idea? This idea was stillborn and idiotic, and somehow still plenty alive, refusing to die. She attacked it with logic. She tried to smother it with distractions. And still there.

She rolled over—it was night again. He was awake. He'd been staring at her for god knows how long.

"I'm sorry," she said.

He nodded.

"I have to," she said.

He shook his head.

"John..."

He put his finger on her lips.

"It's ok," he said. "I love you too."

In seconds her cheeks were as damp as any forest in the rain, and he kissed her forehead. He pulled a sheet over both of them, as if that would hold the world back.

...

(Joseph)

The last time was as short as you'd expect. He was surprised he had anything left to give at all. He'd be sore for weeks from this. It was mostly quiet, slow and steady and probably thoroughly boring to any spectators there may be—even if only God.

He lay on top of her, hands on her face, kissing her, taking long moments just to gaze at her as his hips brought him into her entire and back again. There was no rush, and they both knew there wouldn't be another time.

For the first time, she looked a tad childish. Her armor ever so slightly chipped. But maybe that was an act too.

She didn't use words, just placed her hand on his chest and slowly pushed her off her. He just watched. It had been, after all, her plan from the beginning. She could complete her masterpiece as she saw fit.

He felt her hand on him, first muffled through the rubber, then, as she removed it, warm against him. Her fingers seemed so small around him. And she guided him back in, into a brand-new country... a virgin country, it seemed to him.

The only time they sped was the very end. In unison, breathing deeply. She gasped, he fell on top of her and listened to her heart. The heathen god accepted the offering and vanished into smoke.

Maybe time passed. Maybe.

...

(Eloise)

For some reason, she couldn't bring herself to get dressed until he had been gone for a while.

There were no words. That was the good thing about fucking an English teacher. He knew enough about language to know when it would be pointless.

Even on the drunkest or most depressed nights of the next twenty-five years, she never spoiled it by running his name through a search engine. Never sent a text. Never wrote back: "Don't worry. Took a plan B. Thanks for snatching that V-card, Mr C." Although she did consider pushing send on that one.

If he had had any interest in her past that weekend, he never betrayed it. No phone call, nor cryptic post card, nor Spartan email.

So she sat on a chair in the room, and pulled on her nylons, threaded her belt, adjusted her top. She spent some time in the mirror trying to tame her hair, then applied lipstick. A dark, and, she thought, quite adult shade. She even spent some time straightening the room, which was post-apocalyptic. She even thought up a word for it: Caligulan.

Let her phone charge, as she read her book, sitting at the little dining table. Parts of her hurt. Her cunt, where she'd given him pleasure. Her ass, where she begged him to mark her. Her heart, which had betrayed her exactly the way he'd warned.

But this would all convalesce in its time.

She walked out in her heels with a spring in her step and a feeling that the world had been torn open as wide as she'd been, and everything was possible for it, and everything was possible for her.

...

Eloise didn't look up until she'd finished, then carefully put the pages back in order.

"You know," she said, "I think you may have embellished a few things."

He swished his Scotch in the glass. "Yeah, well, you took a few liberties yourself. Anyway. Keep it. It's the only copy. I don't even know why I wrote it—I haven't read it since I did. But maybe you can do something with it. Or throw it away. It's all the same."

"Of course," she said.

Maybe time passed. Maybe.

Eventually, she leaned against him. The inconsistencies of time will never be solved. Somehow so much had happened, at once dreamlike and real. They had lived it all together, her triumphs, her failures, from that first night to this one. And here they were, just out for the evening, about to go back to their comfy home, where he'd watch some old movie and she'd read some old book, and they'd kiss and fall asleep like any other night. But that wasn't true. That was a story. But so was this.

"You're an odd motherfucker, Mr. Cattelan. You could have taken advantage of me, and you, you chose to just take care of me."

"It's a good line, Ms. Henderson. You should write it down."

"I'm sure it's been said before."

"Probably. Not often enough, though."

"Joe."

"Eloise."

"I never said thanks."

"Neither did I."

"Wouldn't be any point, I suppose."

"Nope," he said.

"You know, I don't know what you're doing tonight. But that one thing... you know the one. I've actually gotten a lot better at it."

"I knew practice'd make perfect."

"Any interest in experiencing perfection?"

"Once was enough," he said and smiled at her. She felt a pinch of sadness, a familiar one, as he pulled a few twenties out of his wallet.

"Good to see you," she said, and she knew there was no way she could make him stay. He was a stubborn bastard. But all the same, she essayed, "Joe, maybe we should... I don't know. Maybe you should stay this time. Maybe I should ask you to stay."

They contemplated each other. She batted her eyes.

"I was probably too old for you then," he said. "I'm certainly too old now."

"That's the thing, though. You weren't."

He smiled, but she never heard him speak another word. Four years later he passed from an aggressive pancreatic cancer, one that could have never dented him in his prime and so waited twenty-five years in ambush. The eulogies were good, appropriate. When asked, she told fellow mourners that she was one of his students, and that he had inspired her to be a writer. One person recognized her name. Other truths were left unsaid, left in the air, tumbling like autumn leaves.

But that was grist for another story in itself, and care must be taken with the unities.

This story ends with him getting up from the bar stool, slowly but properly, proudly rising to his full height like an antiquated soldier donning his old uniform. He leaned in to kiss her cheek, met her eyes for a full minute, then walked off. The same aftershave.

She watched him go, watched him as he held the door for a pretty young woman, who smiled at him, already smitten. Then gone. If not for the manuscript in front of her, it could've been a dream.

So what can be said? Did someone—or both—take advantage of the other, and if so, did it matter now? Could it? Maybe some questions just resign themselves to never finding their answer, and this is one of them. Had an eternity of fitful survival forced them into something foolish? Or had they stolen something back? Who fucked who?

Was that really love, or was it something that could have been love? Should she have run after him then, there, as he left the bar? Or should she have run after him twenty-five years ago? She had left the note, she had birthed all these futureless maybes, and it was only fairthat they were coming to roost. Maybe he should have left his wife, left his family, left everything, shown her even more of the world. Maybe she had copious justification to expect and deserve that. Maybe they'd be damned somewhere for what they'd done. Or celebrated in song.

Maybe the real injury was what neither intends. An awkward first tumble, a fumbling for entry, two people professing love and lying and not knowing they're lying. Too little foreplay, too much solicitation and still not enough, that pinch or that tear or that rip, sometimes blood among all the secret lubrications of the body, then bemusement after the disappointing fact. Well, after setting that bar, of course it's going to get better.

But what do you do with the impeccable? When every future lover faces the gauge of one who took from her what she offered, gave her what she desired, taught her what she needed to know? What hope does that leave for improvement?

She thought for a moment.

Let's be rational here. Set up the equations, solve for X. Two people had once shared sheets, a hotel room, and a few lovely moments, which were incorruptible in the action, which persisted in memory like background radiation (the hair of his chest the weight of her breast her drawn up in sheets answering for room service the smooth pas de deux of their legs while they ecstatically screwed). Memories which will become meaningless noise, indistinguishable from cricket songs and the solar wind, as we die.

Nonetheless, she wrote down, "E. H. + J. C. 4-ever," before closing her notebook. She gave a come-hither hook with her index finger.

The bartender walked over. What a world, to constantly produce men with powerful chests and shapely backsides, sinewy arms and leg hair. Young and old. A renewable resource improved by the plucking. "Friend of yours?" he asked.

"No," she said.

"Another margarita?"

"Another time," she said, and asked for the check.