Chapter 60
“I’m so sorry,” he says as he pumps into me.
Mr. Korgy’s pants are around his ankles and his belt buckle jangles against his shoes with each pump. I sit on the counter, my dress bunched up around my waist and spilling into the sink.
“It’s okay,” I say, panting into his face.
“No, it’s not,” he says, between thrusts. “I’m so sorry.” Thrust. “For pulling away.” Thrust. “I can’t sleep…” Thrust. “Can’t eat…” Thrust. “Can’t focus…” Thrust. “Without you.” Thrust.
The proclamations of romance are nice, but the setting leaves something to be desired.
Grubby tiles, occasional questionable wet spots on the floor, grimy toilet that gushes every twenty seconds from the trigger-happy motion sensor.
I guess it’s fitting in a strange way. First winter formal.
Now this. There must be something about high school dances.
The sex-fueled pop music. The unbridled hormones. Or maybe I just look good in a dress.
I pull away from him. His eyes are slightly red, his hair slicked back with mousse. He smells different than he usually does. Tequila and black licorice.
“You’re the best part of my life,” he says. “I need you.”
“You can have me,” I say too easily. I’ve entertained hard-to-get fantasies where he says something like what he just said, maybe in the rain, maybe sans dick inside me, but similar verbiage.
In the fantasies I play it coy and mysterious, giving some kind of “we’ll see” nonanswer, unspoken, just with a tilt of my chin or a coquettish look tickling the corners of my eyes.
But now that he’s here in front of me actually saying the words, those fantasies are abandoned.
I’m not hard to get. I’m already got. And I’m okay with it.
This is the truth for me. This is reality.
“Oh, baby,” he says, pulling me into him. “Good, baby.”
He kisses my clavicle. Bites my ear. Cups my face. Devours me. I lean back and the motion sensor on the sink gets triggered and water starts gushing out of the faucet, pouring onto my dress.
Mr. Korgy lifts me off the sink while I continue riding him.
He presses his body into mine and pulls mine into his with the rhythm of my riding, his back concave as he shoves himself as deep in me as he’ll go, like we can’t be close enough, like he thinks if he presses our bodies together tightly enough we’ll become one.
“Waldo, I’ve been a fucking idiot,” he whispers into my hair.
“Then stop being one.”
“Okay,” he laughs.
“Okay,” I laugh.
And we both keep laughing the way people do when they’re eager for some levity, the kind of seeking laughter that borders on maniacal.
And then, while we’re still laughing, I slow down my rhythm, swerving my hips the way he likes. His laugh turns into a moan of agonizing pleasure. I gradually escalate my riding to bouncing—a happy, gleeful, giddy bounce.
He moves to the toilet and sits on it while I straddle him. The motion sensor goes off. The toilet flushes another of its long, over-the-top flushes and he surrenders to me.