Track No. 11 Why Do Fools Fall In Love #3
For a Union City kid raised on Sunday mass and guilt, that was the first time anything sexual was put on display for him. But he kept the same poker face he used at home when the yellin’ started, played it smooth, remindin’ himself she didn’t actually want him. That she was paid to rattle him.
And from the outside you’d think he was born in that chair with a pussy in his lap. He didn’t realize ‘til later. That night was the turnin’ point to his downfall. The night he let a naked woman grind on his thigh while all the guys watched.
The night she worked his lap like a fuckin’ stage.
Even if the only point was to protect Roger, even if none of it was real, that was the night he learned sex wasn’t about him.
It was about what other people wanted from him.
And it was also the night learned: Childhood is truth without armor, and adulthood is armor without truth.
// ANDREW - MAY ’14 - THE ROBINSONS - MONTCLAIR, NJ //
The couch in the den had no business bein’ that comfortable, with throw pillows that probably cost more than his whole paycheck. But Andrew still couldn’t sleep.
The heat was rich-people heat—soundless, baking you from the inside. And he missed the lullaby of the radiator clang, the hissin’ pipe, the kind of heat that had to fight to stay on.
Because of the cold, he’d grown up sleepin’ on his stomach, in hoodies with socks on, buried into the mattress, head under the pillow to stay warm ‘til mornin’. But this? This quiet-ass warmth? It felt cocky as fuck.
So he stayed up with the TV’s volume on low, watchin’ reruns of some nineties sitcom that played the same fake laugh every eight seconds.
Andrew lay there with one arm slung over his head as he scrolled his phone, checkin’ for missed calls or texts from his Ma.
But there was nothin’. Not even a ‘where the hell are you.’
It used to hurt, but not anymore.
He got used to the ache stretchin’ out inside him.
Though it was sad to think he could drop off the map, be bones in the Meadowlands, and the only thing she’d notice was the trash not takin’ itself out.
“You’re still awake.”
Andrew sat up quick, gaze darting to the voice.
Mrs. Robinson stood barefoot in the entryway of the den in only a robe.
“Shit,” he muttered, sittin’ up straighter. “Yeah. Uh... couldn’t sleep. Think I might just head out.” He paused, squintin’ at the two wine glasses, one in each hand as she closed the distance. “Yo, you out here double-fistin’? Got the liver of a queen, huh.”
She bent forward, settin’ one glass on the table, and the robe slipped off her shoulder. His eyes darted right to it before he could stop it.
One tit was out, round, bare, sittin' high.
Andrew blinked hard and turned his head, as if he just caught his boy’s mom changin’ through a cracked door. Which was basically what was happenin’.
He made it through seventeen years of behave-yourself-Harding and seein’ nothin’ but TV cleavage, then outta nowhere—BANG—a night full’a tits.
She sank into the cushion beside him.
He shifted back on the couch, then froze with her thigh pressed against his, her breath reeking of merlot. She sighed, leavin’ her robe hung open, and Andrew didn’t know where to fuckin’ look.
“Don’t go,” she murmured, knockin’ back what was left in her glass. She set the empty glass beside the untouched one and turned toward him. “You should stay,” she said, hand landin’ on his thigh as she settled deeper into the couch.
Her fingers grazed his denim, and it lit an alarm in his head.
Her elbow dropped to the backrest, head leaning into her hand. “Keep me company,” she said, eyes skatin’ over him, “House this size? A woman gets real used to her own thoughts. Starts wishin’ for a man to shut ‘em up.”
“You want me to get you somethin’?” Andrew tried to keep his eyes on the TV, sittin’ forward to put space between them. “Water? I could scramble up some eggs if you got ‘em. Soak up that wine. Find some aspirin. Works with my moms. Helps ‘em sleep.”
Her hand slid up his thigh at the same time her mouth found his ear. “You’re sweet…” she said, pressin’ her chest into his shoulder. “Take care of everyone, and they don’t even appreciate you, do they?” She shook her head. “You’re so much more. I see it.”
“You see it?” He tried to laugh it off. “See what?”
She lifted a shoulder. “You take care of shit.”
Andrew was frozen in place, afraid to move, eyes stuck on the TV. Her breath was hot and wet and smelled like nights he slept on the floor next to Ma’s bed.
“You’re not some cocky-ass boy. You act like a man who respects people. Not some pussy, either. You’re strong. You’re the full package, really.”
Her hand kept inchin’ higher, and the only reason he didn’t stop her was ‘cause he wanted her to keep sayin’ the things she was sayin’. No one had ever said that shit to him before, and he didn’t know how bad he needed to hear it.
She squeezed his thigh, and he felt it in his cock. “And you’re a fuckin’ tease, you know that?”
He tried laughin’ it off.
“Nah, I ain’t a tease.”
“Yeah, I watched you with the stripper. How you let her dance on you, grind on you. But you still somehow never gave her… you.”
She gripped him through his jeans, her hand wrappin’ around his cock. “Jesus. Aight, nah. That’s enough.” He lifted off the couch, but didn’t make it far.
“Listen to me, sweetheart.” She grabbed him, keepin’ him there. “Like… you knew exactly what you were doin’, not lettin’ her get a real reaction out of you.” She leaned in closer and brushed her mouth across his ear. “That’s what did it for me.”
And Andrew’s body started betrayin’ him in all directions—heart jackhammerin’, cock stiffenin’ under her grip, jaw clenchin’ like maybe if he bit hard enough he could control what his dick was doin’.
“No,” he scrapes out. “No, I—fuck, I can’t.
I can’t do this. Roger’s my boy, alright?
I don’t cross lines I can’t come back from.
” He finally looked her in the eye. “And that shit with the stripper? That wasn’t me.
That was pretend. I was just goin’ through the motions.
” He shakes his head. “This? This don’t feel pretend no more. ”
“Aw, c'mon now. Don't make me feel foolish after I got all brave.” She pouted, tracin' a heavy thumb over the bulge in his jeans. “We can pretend,” she murmured. “Pretend he’s not your boy… ”
Her fingers went for the waistband.
Andrew scrubbed a hand down his face, starin’ up at the ceiling.
“Madonna santa—che cazzo sta succedendo?” he muttered.
Seconds later, his fly was open and his dick was out, trapped in her hand as she lowered between his spread thighs, her knees hittin’ the floor. She slid her fist up and down the length of him, massagin’ him.
“Well, hell. This cock explains the confidence,” she rasps out. “You know damn well what you're workin' with, huh... and still hard as hell for me. How long have you been fantasizin’ about this?”
His whole body locked up, tight from jaw to thighs, like he’d been hit with a taser. Sweat broke across his forehead, a bead creepin’ down the side of his temple, the heat in the room goin’ from suffocatin’ to unbearable.
He needed a second to fuckin’ think.
“Look at me, Andrew,” she drawls. “I want you to watch.”
He did, teeth clenched so hard he felt it shoot up behind his eyes.
Then her tongue—fuck.