2. Dirty


She just left. No words, only fulfilling the necessities of the situation by gathering her clothes, which were divided between his room and the living room. His bemusement at her erratic behavior drew him to her; he was captivated by how she took him so boldly—with grace and furor—and as her heard her footsteps descend the staircase and enter the living room, and then moments later exit his home with a slam of the front door, he thought about her dark "fuck me" eyes and how they made him feel whole.

She called him approximately one week after they consummated their lust, while preparing to leave her Thai kickboxing class. She found his name in her phone and pushed the black button with the horizontal, green stripe in the middle. The session had left her a sweaty mess on the mats. As she sat hunched, pausing to recover, she listened to the phone ring, looking at the perspiration bead on the ends of her arm hair and taking in the thick olfactory residue that was the product of an hour-and-a-half of kicking, punching, hitting and getting hit; she could take as well as she could give.

When he answered, she began, “Hey, I’m at kickboxing and I have that shirt I didn’t give back last week, can I drop it by on my way home, since you live on the way?” continuing with a sigh that sat in between bouts of silence, finally adding, “You have to wash it: it’s dirty.”

Before he could meekly inquire into her post-coitus disappearance the previous week, she preemptively parried, “Yea, and I need to eat, too. I’m hungry, so can I eat at your place? Do you have any food?” Concerned and confused, he couldn’t contextualize or find a place for her words, caresses or silences. He timidly suggested they speak, typically swallowing his own needs for the comfort of the other—she could talk about it, if she wanted, if she felt comfortable.

 “What I have to do is give your shirt back and I have to eat, too,” Sanne corrected, then conceding, “So, do you wanna cook together?  I can get food, if you want, if we need to. . .” It was this last addition that made him aware of her sensitivity to his feelings, and with the Strum und Drang of her oscillations, he began to doubt his desire to unveil Sanne, or for her to volunteer too much information about herself; he was curious, but not if it cost him her sex. Either way, she would arrive in twenty minutes, she said.

He decided to make a simple meal of buttered-broccoli, pasta with a basil tomato sauce and feta, and string beans seasoned with whatever spices were at his disposal. This meal would be ready—more or less—by the time she arrived, he told her. Upon hearing his dinner ideas, she managed a “good, okay” followed by a “bye,” and then hung up.

He immediately left his room, making his way into the kitchen, where he began boiling the water for the broccoli and the pasta.

Vegetables cleaned and cut, he threw them into the boiling water, watching chunks of broccoli and string bean bob, reflecting on how his longing was caused by a separation from the object of his lust, his fantasy-cum-reality. With her, he no longer needed to live in dreams and live in- between dreams with a timid regret, but could approach waking life with the bittersweet taste of expectation: sweetness from the sex-thrill of today, bitterness caused by the uncertainty of its persistence into tomorrow.

He stirred, making sure the vegetables on the top were as evenly cooked as those on the bottom, contemplating how the uncertainty of persistence unhinged the seat of pleasure because the present existed only in the moment. The act, though, also persisted in memory, he thought, and memory is only satiated as long as it has juicy morsels of life to feed it; hopefully, they would eat soon.  

The vegetables continued to churn in the torrid waters, erratically surfacing and diving. "Evenly cooked," he mumbled, tasting the sinewy-soft, bland fare that was supposed to be tender, firm and succulent. "Overcooked," he noted, pondering how time could mollify even the young, twenty-one years old unpredictable beauty that was approaching his doorstep; he hoped that she wasn’t overcooked, again reflecting on his undercooked, twenty-eight years of existence, the sexless-yet-desiring memories of the past five years he would have rather forgotten, and how she fed him completely.

The bell rang, a sound which heralded a paradigm change from contemplation to mystery-in-the-flesh: Sanne had arrived. He opened the door and a cold gust of fresh air tumbled into the dark foyer along with her. She dropped her bag, approaching him like she was walking on egg shells, voicing a barely audible “hey” just before placing an unsure gloved hand on his hip and kissing his lips. Her soft, almost pleading eyes closed when their lips met for the brief touch, and as she pulled away she lightly brushed the tip of his nose with hers. Her smell was a mix of cold and sweat, a scent he tried to inhale, but failed due to the brevity of the encounter. She took off her shoes in the foyer and he led her into the living room, where she removed her outerwear down to her sweatpants, his t-shirt, and no socks. She placed her garments on the brown leather armchair that sat next to the bookshelf.

In the living room his eyes fell upon her and his tight-fitting t-shirt with a comical brown bear drawn on the front. Her cheeks were red-flushed by the cold, and baggy gray sweatpants concealed her tight curves. She stood next to the brown leather chair on which her jacket, hat, gloves and sweatshirt rested, tilting her head slightly to her left, just enough for the hair on the right side of her face to fall and sit still in front of her right eye. He was particularly hypnotized by this arrangement of hair and eyes, especially the way they now glared at him unflinchingly.

Sanne made three slow steps in his direction—eyes still fixed on his face—uttering, “I have your shirt, it’s yours, this time, but not before I eat,” stopping a few feet from him. He turned and led her into the kitchen, conscience a light with an admixture of longing and confusion.

He took these thoughts with him as he led her into the kitchen in order to put the finishing touches on their dinner. 

The kitchen had a high ceiling, sitting at the back of the house, with a bedroom situated off its side. Its square shape was bare in the center, with the stove, two sinks, French-door refrigerator and cabinets occupying the periphery. The solid wooden kitchen table jutted out from underneath the large window like a pier, and it was at this obstruction that Sanne sat—legs folded under her body, toes hanging off the end of the matching brown wooden chair—while he drained the water for the pasta, and subsequently added the feta cheese to the pot so it could soften just as he liked.

By this time, the majority of the meal was prepared—the butter on the steamed broccoli had melted, and the string beans were cooked in addition to the pasta—and Sanne offered her assistance by saying, “Hey, you know I can help, if you want. I picked up some strawberry- banana juice. . .”

He asked her what her plans were for the evening, and her reply came in the form of a silence—a ten-second pause—with words on either side, she continued,” I . . . think w--,” and then she was interrupted by his roommate, Fereydoon, coming out of his bedroom, which was placed off the in the rear corner of the kitchen, perpendicular to the door leading to the hallway at the back of the house. A wall of two bookshelves separated his bedroom from the living room.

Fereydoon’s entrance caused an immediate paralysis of all activity outside anxiety: had his ears witnessed their proclivities? What if they had? The fact that he could have heard them, and that he could not know if he did, that if he did he could neither control nor predict what he would say, unsettled him. Questions about how Fereydoon would greet them made him shiver in the warmth of the beads of sweat that began forming on his forehead; and why were these thoughts only surfacing now?! Nothing came out of his mouth, and he hoped Fereydoon would less awkwardly pass over the moment in silence.

But Fereydoon, as usual, exited his room in a pensive state, with his head down and rubbing his chin, mumbling something to himself about field theory.  

Upon seeing her sitting at the table, he said, “Oh, hey, Sanne, how are you?! I heard an extra voice, but I wasn’t sure who it was.”

“I’m doing pretty good. I just come from kickboxing, so I’d just thought I’d drop off the shirt I borrowed the other week when it was rainy,” recalling the night when they had all sat—warm and dry—in their living room talking.

His reply was terse, shifting his weight off the chair he leaned on, “Ok, well, I was just on my way to use the restroom. Nice to see you. Goodbye” he said in his usual, formal-yet-amiable tone. He shut his door and then disappeared into the back hallway.

Dinner was ready and he transferred the contents of the pots and pans to plates, sitting to Sanne’s left, at the head of the rectangular table. She thanked him for making dinner, and he thanked her for contributing juice to the meal.

They sat and ate, discussing what he had been occupying his time with since she last saw him, only being interrupted by his roommate returning to his room from the bathroom and saying, “See you guys later,” and then retreating into his room. He also asked her about her thesis—whether any progress had been made, and when she would be officially done with her undergraduate degree. He did not know where this conversation was going, but became calm after time had passed and she hadn’t brought up the subject.  

However, the more she spoke and smiled and laughed, the more he realized that there was something beyond her sex yet contained in it; it was her vibrancy of life that permeated her words and actions, which pulled his desires away from the wondering complacency of silence and into the messy, dirty realm of what was implicitly present: feelings.

Resolved to say something, anything, he began "Sanne, wha--" 

 “About earlier, when you asked,” she interrupted, trailing off, head tilted to the side, with hair dangling in front of her right eye, “I was gonna say that we should just fuck.” This was her reply to his stunted question; she had seen through him, again, and had clearly, concisely stated what she wanted from him, what she wanted for them.

 She then adjusted her hair, peering at him through unwavering, radiant gray eyes. Anything more than a whisper and her trance would have failed to take hold: the smoldering embers would have failed to ignite into flames.

Now, her desires formed a deep, passionate kiss as she climbed on top of him. Her kiss compelled the life into him, cutting away all thoughts outside of her body. His hands were on her thin waist, one of which she took and placed on her clothed  breast, cupping his hand in hers and gripping it more firmly than he would have, while she uttered, “this is yours,” and then lightly sucking and biting the tip of his ear.

Presently, he moved to take what has ‘his’ by removing her t-shirt, but she anything but blessed his good faith, seductively correcting, “No, you’ll have to wait for that,” twisting his wrist just enough to cause a sharp pain.

His pain was their pleasure, and as he attempted to explore her body with his hands, he was met with more alluring derision: “No, only these,” she would amend; “I told you no. . .” while detaining his hands behind his chair. Each time he mounted an insurrection, Sanne would form a knowing smile, kissing him roughly in a roguish approval.

Her string of no’s stitched together with the fervor derived therein. She was in the process of freeing his sex with her body and her one, two-letter word, the latter of which coached him along, acting as sign posts for the way she wanted to be devoured, and portents of how he would be consumed.  Her sex was this and it was that; it was as present as it was distant, as aggressive as it was tender. Her execution was superb, and she seemed to float in front of him like an apparition of something happy he had only formed up to now in his dreams. Yet, his reality was more poignant than any dream, and as she pressed her mouth—open—to his as if she were trying to extract his soul, he laggardly attempted to slip his hand underneath the yellow t-shirt, promised but never returned, and he transformed, conforming to her cues.

Nee” she issued definitively, pelvis still in a rhythmic motion against his lap, but before she could continue, he lifted her—legs hugging his body—slamming her down on the unsuspecting table, nearly averting disaster as she skillfully pushed his plate out of her drop zone. The table’s bulky constitution let out a suppressed thump and he shoved her into recumbence. He held her down with his left hand in the middle of her chest, and with his free hand he gripped the waistband of her sweatpants, ready to rip them off if necessary. Yet, she neither squirmed nor issued any inkling of protest; instead, submission was written in her eyes, which gently peered at him, scanning his face.

She spoke to him, laying her blessing on his anxious hand; his fingers were nestled between the waistband of her sweatpants and her black yoga tights, digits waiting to tear away the former’s bulky modesty.

She relented, "Doe maar. .  ." Her breath was steady, and she scooted herself towards him with hips unlike meteora, but fluid, steady pulsating waves of pleasure.

He removed her sweatpants. As he slid them over her legs, she began to pull herself up, but was dissuaded by the very hand that forced her against the wooden kitchen table. Now, he was leaning over her, and taking the hand he was using to steady himself, he removed the rouge pieces of hair from her face, situating it so her eyes could gaze unobstructed into his, and his into hers.

His fingers explored, skirting her deep gray pools and traversing her aquiline nose until arriving at her thin-lipped, open mouth, where his fingers rimmed the soft, breath-warmed skin. He took his index and middle fingers on an inward spiral until they reached the warm, moist environ of her mouth, inciting her to lightly tongue and then suck on the tips of his fingers, controlling the depth by placing her hands over his. She moved his fingers in-and-out of her mouth a handful of times, then replacing them to her sides, leaving him free to explore, to take her body.

What he "took" was a languid tease where he ran his wet fingers from her mouth to her crotch, feeling her warmth over two layers of material. He fondled her. She invitingly spread her legs , letting out barely-audible moans with her eyes closed. He enjoyed teasing her and the way she let him raise her pulse in what up to this point had been de rigueur: being gentle, playful. He became rough with her, but he was more saint than sinner, and she was his beautiful sin; she allowed him to become something else, if only for the moments they were together. He felt the growing heat between her legs, and with an upswing of lust he was bombarded with a stampeded of dirty thoughts: devils that begged him to push her to her limits.

Sanne, however, was one step ahead, and with a renewed vigor she seized his hand, leaping to her feet, twisting his wrist for the second time, using her free hand to pin him against the sink. His arm was pinned behind him—in between his body and the sink—by her as she tugged it into a most unnatural position. Her free hand teased the fabric of his shorts, gripping his erection over his pants, being everything but gentle. He let out a suppressed sound that barely moved past his gritting teeth. And this made her smile. Releasing his hand, she unbuttoned his shorts, thrusting both of her hands down his pants; she placed her left hand at the base of his erection, using her right hand to vigorously stoke his hard-on.

The more she stroked him, the more he winced, the more rapidly she breathed, the more excited she became. Abruptly, she removed her right hand, using her left forearm to immobilize him, shoving her ring and forefinger into his mouth, ordering, “Suck!” When these two digits were sufficiently saturated, she continued, “These, too.” He sucked her fingers with great enthusiasm.  If she had of asked him to clean her feet, which stood grounded on the dusty kitchen floor, he would have gladly complied. After all of her fingers were wet with his saliva, she showed him her palm, barking, “Lick!” and “Spit!” with delivery that oozed fuck me.  He spread his saliva around her hand and in between her fingers on her command, and with the thoroughly-at -homeness of her aberrant sexuality, she removed her hand from his mouth, inviting it into hers,  then  plunging her recently-molested hand down the front of her tights, stimulating herself.

Startled, shocked, and turned-on, he locked his eyes with hers while she masturbated. He, acting in the moment, pulled her against him and his mouth towards his, with both of her hands latching onto the back of his head, pressing his face into hers. Mouth devoured mouth. Their bodies were tangled, and her nose was flat against his; he pursued her bare skin by extending his hands into her tights, where he felt found her thong and firm, tepid buttocks. Finding the front of her thong-covered crotch, he slipped his fingers under the saturated material—to feel her bare skin and revel in its sensory delights. She shoved herself away, and with neither word nor telling glance, she turned her back and exited the room.

Sanne had reduced him to bare necessity: he was stripped of all desire outside of her. He could taste her on his tongue, and his mind, body and spirit were pleading for absolution of this violent tension that was nurtured by Sanne. And all that was required of him was a confession in the flesh through submission to his desire, to his savior.

He followed her, quickly at her heels, out of the kitchen, through the living room and vestibule, up the stairs and into his room. Upon arrival, she disrobed with alacrity. Naked, he grabbed at her waist, but she eluded him, playfully-yet-forcefully pushing him onto the bed, where she commandingly held him down while taking off his pants so his bottom-half lie bare. She rubbed her vagina against the tip of his penis, moaning as she moved her pelvis faster and faster up and down his shaft; but instead of insertion, she took his penis into her mouth. As she took him in and out of her mouth, she glared into his eyes as if she could see through him. She did see through him.

Sanne licked and sucked him briefly. Crawling on all fours so they met face-to-face, and with arms on either side of his head she passionately kissed him. Disengaging their mouths, she attempted to mount him, purring, “I am going to fuck you.” He, invigorated by the preceding events, slipped from underneath her, securing her waist, taking her from behind as he thrust himself inside of her and her head into the bed; her face was parallel to the flat, covered surface, and his hand gripped the hair on the side of her head, just above her ear. Sanne struggled to free herself—attempting to regain the advantage by using her legs to knock him off balance, but he resisted, continuing to fuck her, continuing to take her. Tangled in between grunts and thrashing limbs, she let out diametric, brimming moans of pleasure, even letting a "fuck me" escape as she clenched the sheets and covers in her fists.

They were entering into a co-dependent sadism in which he was uncovering this identity and where she entered and left as she pleased; and he recognized the danger embodied in ignorance of everything outside her body and the way she licked, sucked, pushed, ordered and fucked. She was his rollercoaster ride, and the view from the tracks was different than from standing in line. He had no idea where they would lead, and as they rolled around his bed grappling for skin, hair, limbs—sweaty, licking salty parts in a smelly romp—he thought nothing could be sweeter than to know himself like this. They lay on his bed, two piles of sex-abused meat—his bruises on Sanne’s back—on his soaked, white sheets, exhausted by her scurrilous, visceral charm, but he didn’t mind. He didn’t know what they were, either, but he knew they were dirty.