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His hand slid up my left leg, pushing my black jersey dress up around my hips. My stomach fluttered and the space between my legs trembled. This is it, I thought. This is really happening. His fingers found themselves tangled between the thin strings of my thong. He kissed my neck, my chin, and then his mouth was on mine. I tasted the beer he was drinking at dinner, and when he swept my hair to the side I smelled the rosy perfume I was wearing. I hope he smelled it, too — I was wearing it for him. This was foreplay, and it was familiar — something I knew well, though it had been a long time.
His bedroom smelled like clean laundry and minty cologne, and it was dark all around except for the glow of the alarm clock. It was after midnight, my thong was at my ankles, and I kicked my heels off. I watched the numbers pop to 12:06 a.m. and did the math: sixty dollars and counting. He rolled me over onto his plush comforter and put his weight on me. I opened my legs, my dress past my navel now and his pants rubbing against me. If we kept going at this pace, I was looking at eighty dollars, maybe even a hundred.
I'm not a prostitute. I'm a single mother in the city and my babysitter charges twenty an hour. We'd had drinks and an expensive steak dinner — then he'd walked me around his charming neighborhood, holding my hand, telling me I was beautiful. I just wanted to have sex with him without going broke.
My daughter is three. Her father left when I was two months pregnant. I haven't had sex since.
My daughter is three. Her father left when I was two months pregnant. We had sex two times after she was conceived and I haven't had sex since.
I wiggled out from under him and pushed him on his back, gathering my dress high around my waist. His hands pressed my ass down on him and even through his suit pants were on I could feel he was ready. I unbuttoned his shirt slowly. He twirled a piece of my hair around his finger and the clock popped to 12:11. 12:11!
Earlier that day my best friend had texted me: "You need to fuck him tonight. If you don't fuck someone soon you're going to die." She was right. The routine of my days was getting to me. I wake up. I help my daughter go to the potty. I make her a waffle with a blueberry smiley face. I braid her hair, bring her to school, go to work, pick her up. We play. Eat dinner. Sleep. The next day starts the exact same way. I'm growing cold and bitter and robotic. I'm only thirty-one. I'm sexual. My vibrator no longer satisfies me. I crave touch and skin and smell and breath and sweat all mixed together.
He pulled my other sleeve down and undid my bra (in one try, with two fingers). He took my left breast in his mouth, causing a spray of goose-bumps to appear on my arms and "ohhhhh" to sail from my lips. The clock popped to 12:19.
"I have a child," I said.
"I know." He inched over the bed, pulling open the drawer to a small Ikea dresser. Between his fingers was a little purple square I hadn't seen in a very long time. I ripped it open for him. I guided it over his penis. My hand slid up and down, checking to see that it was on, really on — really, really on. I got pregnant when my ex-boyfriend and I didn't use a condom. He had pulled out and I had prayed — but apparently not enough.
Now I watched as this man disappeared inside me, letting him go deeper and deeper while still looking at the condom. I saw the perfect ring of plastic exactly where it was supposed to be. When he told me he was close, I told him to pull out. "Don't come in me," I said. Please don't come in me, I thought. Hail Mary, full of grace, please don't come in me.
"I have a condom on, baby," he assured me, his breath hot on my neck.