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He was the one to give her head when she was on the rag. He liked it, the saltiness, the nastiness of it. He grabbed her legs so hard it left bruises, because she claimed she didn't want him to go down on her when she was bleeding. Yeah, right. Her pussy was so clean
anyway, even when she bled. The shock of it. He tongued her asshole, too. Fresh as a daisy, this girl. Broad daylight, on the lumpy futon on the floor of his room in an apartment in Allston, Mass. Totally naked, their skin pale and visibly human — veins, pimples — lit by the sun streaming in, the bright, midday sunlight. Some torn sheets hanging in the windows, not providing much protection from the fierce light.
 As they moved, dust rose in the streams of light, surrounding their glowing bodies. It was noon, maybe two p.m. They'd been having sex all morning. Hungover sex, "hangover helper" he called it. She propped her head up on a pillow so she could watch his face in her cunt, the top of his forehead, his receding hairline, the dark, almost black strands of hair, his long, long hair, falling past his shoulders. Rock drummer hair. He'd look up at her. Pull his mouth away from her and she could see it, his mouth, dark where her blood streaked him. I fucking love your pussy, he said quietly, a finger inside of her.
They didn't have much in common. He didn't read, and she wasn't from the Boston area, but he changed her life the day he ate her out for an hour straight, moving the vibrator around inside of her, outside of her and finally sticking a finger up her ass and — she came. For the first time. A huge, huge blood curdling, screaming, flying-across-the-room orgasm, that ended with her smacking her head against the wall. Did he levitate her? How'd she get so far off the ground, so high in the air? After that, he owned her. Not that he necessarily wanted to, but he did, and so that was that. And then she was terminally in his bedroom, naked, begging for it. Please Curt, please. Don't leave me. Don't don't. Taking her clothes off, wanting him so badly, falling to her knees. Her hands gently petting his head, God Curt, oh, oh, moving his head ever so slightly, as he eats her out for the ten millionth time.
Actually, it wasn't always that way. At first he had to coax her. Come on, let me kiss you down there. She was barely nineteen and she'd blush. Oh don't do that. That's gross. Oh no it's not. And she'd let him do it and she'd get so excited and yell stop, stop and pull him up and into her. Which was fine. He'd fuck her and he liked doing that. She was ten years younger than him and skinny and — ten years younger than him. Pale nipples on her pointy little tits and a long perfect stomach with the tiniest little bulge resting in her narrow hips. Her pink, little girl cunt, with youth fluffing it up and dripping out of it. You're made for sex. You're built for this. Your pussy should be in magazines. And he'd roll onto his back and sit her on top of him and lean her back, with her knees stretched as far apart as they could go, and instinctively (or maybe someone had told her, but he doubted it, because
every other guy she'd fucked before him was some young, dumb college jock who'd fuck her doggy style with the lights off), gently, saying, yeah, yeah, with her left forefinger and middle finger, she'd pull herself wide open for him. Wide open in the middle of the day. He liked it. Liked seeing all that.
Later, they'd go shoot pool down the street. Or he'd be playing and the bass player would pick them up and drive them to the club. She'd watch him play drums. Standing directly in front of the stage with her friend Katie. The two in nearly matching Betsey Johnson skin-tight mini-dresses. Her mouth slightly open, shiny pale lip gloss, moving awkwardly to the music.
 She was a horrible dancer. And afterwards, she would come right up to him. Stand next to him, step on his foot. Sorry, she says sheepishly, her brow anxiously furrowed. He just wanted to talk to his friends. And sometimes he had schmoozing to do — label people, a guitar player who may want to use him. His mother might be there. No matter, there Sonia'd be, right next to him. Her breath stinking of beer and cigarettes. She'd drink four beers during his set and smoke half a pack. Her arms folded nervously over her tiny chest. Her hair limp against her moonish face. Her mascara smeared. Okay, okay sometimes he'd be talking to a cute girl. He played in a band for God's sake! Most of the time, the girl would be a friend's girlfriend. No matter, Sonia would freak out. Her face stuck in this weird nervous position. He noticed then her double chin, from the way she held her head smooshed back into her neck. She wasn't fat, she was skinny, but she'd tense up and her chin would fold into itself. It was ugly. Her insecurity made her ugly. He hated her then. Wanted her far away from him.
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