I order a strawberry daiquiri. This afternoon is different, I usually do not drink during the day. It's not that I'm nervous; it's anticipation. My body is at the hotel, but my mind is already up in the room he'd booked earlier in the week. I'm an hour ahead of him, until I stop and remember to savor the time that will always be the time just before. I feel the prickles in my shoulders and all the way down to my painted toes, clotted-blood red, peeking out of my 40s-style heels. I've felt this excited expectation before. There was that first time, when the tension was a tightrope, like the one that crazy French guy strung between the twin towers.
It's amazing, I think, as I sip my daiquiri, that my 3 a.m. fantasies had come true, that I'd somehow made them happen just by thinking. I'd imagined that out-of-town tryst as I'd lain in bed, quietly willing myself to cum. Within a few months, you were there beside me. The fantasizing beforehand had made it feel more like a natural progression, as if there had been dates before that night.
When I look back at that night, that morning, it's the little things that still stir me. Sharing a drink, swapping the briefest of eye contact each time we passed the glass back and forth, all the while feeling the lust between us. Sitting next to you, watching your hand tap the table as the jazz music played. Walking through the lounge entrance as you held out your arm for me to lace mine through. Then, once we were in our room, in the dark, there were the visions of what was about to happen.
I'd told myself months earlier that I just wanted that moment. If I couldn't have your weight on top of me, I wanted to feel the weight of possibility upon me. This is what I thought of when it happened, in that room with the heavy curtains drawn to shut out the morning light. Then there was talk of a nap followed by breakfast downstairs, but your were already under the covers when I came out of the bathroom into the darkness, not knowing what to take off and what to leave on.
When I slipped under the blanket, the only sound was the faint hum of hotel air-conditioning. Time didn't stand still. I could feel the seconds tick past, and knew that if I didn't make up my mind soon, or if you didn't move, that I'd drift off to sleep and that elaborate dance that had led us to this moment would be for nothing, except perhaps an awkward feeling when we woke up.
When I finally rolled onto my side, I felt like a child reaching into a lucky dip, holding out my fingers to feel for the prize I couldn't see. I was terrified that you'd brush me off and we'd have to have that conversation, but I knew I no longer had a choice. With the heat of your body connected to mine through the palm of my hand on your chest, my thoughts dissolved. I just was. I was my body without thoughts. I was the sum of my own movements.
Minutes later, I realized that you could still call a halt to it all, to where my hand had moved, to what I was doing. It wasn't until more minutes had passed, when I took you out of my mouth and glanced up to see your head thrown back, eyes closed, lips apart in a slight "O" that my awareness disappeared and I slipped back into pure want.
I was only jolted out of my slow, sleepy enjoyment of you when the unexpected happened, when you did something to me that no one ever had, or has since. This I would see as the lynchpin of the entire experience; the thing that obliterated any chance of me ever getting over it. I couldn't and wouldn't forget; I wanted it again. It was so new, dirty, and hot. There was no time to protest, to process. All I could do was give in to it, be taken over by it; flipped over, taken. We stayed in that bed for a few hours more, but already I was yearning to have you like that for the first time all over again.
From where I sit at the bar, I can't see how that feeling of connection will ever go away. I can get caught up in thinking about the two of us together, and it's like nothing else matters. Whatever this is between us, it exists on its own, in relation to nothing, no one else.
I try not to let myself think beyond that room, or the other rooms. I don't let myself wonder what it would be like to come home to you, to have you pull me down onto the couch, onto you, when I walk in the door. When I get to thoughts like that, I quickly pull myself back to safety. The way we talk to each other in the real world helps, we can joke and laugh together as if we're old lovers. Sometimes, I can get myself on a track where I don't think about any of it for days, but then my mind betrays me and I dream a dream where you're sitting next to me at some party, where you lean over and kiss my bare shoulder.
Whenever I conjure up that first time, trying to make myself feel what I felt with you there, I wonder how anyone could go on living their mundane lives, day after day, after experiencing such pleasure. How could it be that you still had to buy milk from the deli, or stand still on the subway amongst strangers, or answer emails and write memos, all those things, when this was possible?
I remember the way you stroked my arm as we lay there, drowsy but not done, ignoring the alarm, ignoring faint cell phone rings from beneath layers of discarded clothes. I thought we'd have to get up. That would be that. Then you asked me to have a shower with you.
The bathroom light was harsh, but I liked seeing your face, seeing what I was doing to you. Under the spray, I sent a prayer of thanks to the hotel architects for placing the soap holder right in the middle of the shower wall, where I was resting against it. You stopped to adjust position, propping me up higher and adjusting my legs around your waist. Later, I will realize that I have developed a soft spot for motions like this one, for the actions themselves. Somehow the thought of them makes the memories come rushing to life in a way like nothing else. Back then, all I could think of was how it felt as you fucked me against the bathroom wall.
This would become my go-to moment for taking myself over the edge. If I took myself back to that shower and I imagined that motion, the up and in, the idea of pulling you in deeper, higher, up, up, up, until you hit that part of me that made me gasp, if I could really imagine it and clench my muscles, the thought alone could be enough to make me cum. There would be more go-to moments, but I didn't know that then.
I decide to stand at the bar, wondering how I look in my black dress. I want you to walk in and see me like this, one leg bent slightly behind the other, so my silhouette makes a long, lean S-shape. I think about the way the dress makes my ass look and think about myself upstairs in a matter of hours, lying naked face-down across the bed, you leaning over me, resting on that ass. I picture it, I feel it, and my face flushes.
I have thought about what I want to do to you, despite a vague sense of doing so being a jinx. There are scenes I have crafted in my mind. In one, I writhe above you, my back to you as you slump in a chair. I want to dance for you, but for the dance to slip into something else, for you to take control of me, in the chair in the room upstairs. I imagine myself sitting at the end of the bed, pulling you to me roughly by the waistband of your jeans. It's the motions.
I imagine walking across the room to where you're sitting on the window ledge, on a chair, anywhere and lifting a leg over your lap, straddling you. It's that movement of my leg over yours that does it for me. I imagine you laying back, but propped up on your elbows, watching me as I'm about to cum, wanting so badly to make me, holding me firmly on the waist...watching. You'd know when it was about to happen, you'd see it on my face. You'd feel it and you'd give me that look, a raised eyebrow, a look that said, "Like this?" And I'd say yes without saying a word and you wouldn't be able to take your eyes off me as I moved on top of you.
I'd seen that look "Like this?" before, elsewhere in the city, sitting in an empty bathtub. There was one thrust, a jolt that made our eyes lock. The look said, "Are you feeling this? You are, aren't you? My god, what is this?"
It was a moment where nothing else mattered, where the world could come crashing down around us and as long as we stayed just like that and held onto each other we could survive anything. Then the gaze broke and I leaned forward to bury my head in your neck.
Later, we talked, I'd look at you and something would make me think: What did my face look like from your vantage point in that tub? My hair was wet, the water from the shower was falling on my back, dripping from my silver earrings...but how did I look to you there, my mouth open, my eyes full of what I was feeling?
Even though I still thought about you when I was alone in bed, I didn't know how not to. This is the way I like to think of it, in a movie-scene kind of way. I like to think that your eyes lit up, like mine did, when you saw me. That you liked walking in that hotel lounge wanting to see the love of your life and you're thinking, I want her.
The night took us where we thought we'd never get to again. When you started stroking my waist as we stood in that hotel room, my breath caught. I was afraid to move. Even through fabric, I felt the heat of your touch everywhere, and I didn't want you to ever stop. I would undo myself even more by turning to kiss you and by lifting my hand to stroke your cheek as we kissed.
Later, when I reached up to pull back my hair, to revel in just how good it felt, to look into your eyes, there it was, the moment you said, "You're so fucking sexy." Hearing those words thrilled me to the bone. They gave me a glimpse of what it might feel like to be you, to be sitting where you were, to have me on top of you, to see what you were doing to me.
As I wait, I retreat back into my senses. I think about how you smell, how intoxicating it is, how I inhaled the smell of you that last time, when I had lain down on top of you, my breasts bare, but still in my thong. We kissed so slowly. Then, holding back and then giving in, savoring it, feeling the enormity and the futility. I woke up the next day still able to smell you, and god, how I wanted to hold it inside and never breathe out. Only later did I realize that it was the smell of the two of us combined.
I think about this afternoon wanting to be with you and not have the clock lingering in a corner of my mind. I want no distractions, no other thoughts, just the feeling of the two of us, alone. I want to feel you complete me again like no other has been able to unleash those feelings within.