SEVEN Swallow Me Whole
N OAH
I’m midway through my seventy-seventh pushup when the guy with long hair and tattoos—Jackson, I think—comes careening down from the top of the stairs. Thank heavens he has his jeans on, even if the buttons on those button flies are flapping undone.
“Hey, kid. You’re up,” he says, slapping me on the back in the same way someone might encourage a football player to go score a goal. Maybe, in a manner of speaking, he is.
I do one more pushup just because my hands will shake if I don’t, then stand to my full height, even if a giant portion of me wishes the thick carpeting in here would swallow me whole. I picture my folks and little brothers to reinforce my resolve, and it works.
They’re the reason I’m doing this. Not that they’ll ever know. The truth is they’d be horrified to find out that I’ve agreed to sell my body, but sometimes life sticks your loved ones in a really scary corner.
I’m the only one who can get them out.
Trudging up the carpeted stairs like I’m about to face a firing squad, I find myself on a landing with no clue which direction to go. I didn’t take note of where the other two men came from, and as I glance down the corridor to my left, all I see is a number of closed doors.
I recognize a chair railing and wainscoting like my old house in Utah used to have. It’s a welcome sign of familiarity in an otherwise alien landscape. It seems like everything has altered for me over these past few months, but one hasn’t.
I’ve never done this before.
And by “this” I mean any of it. I’ve never been inside a stranger’s house that wasn’t either actively in flames or devoid of someone needing help. I’ve never visited someone’s home where a couple is um... making noise so loud that everyone else can hear them. I’ve never spoken with men who treated making that noise with such casual disregard.
Last but not least, I’ve never actually engaged in any noisemaking myself.
Not even with my fiancée Ruthie.
Being born and raised in a deeply religious community largely separated from the rest of society means being taught that a man laying with a woman is meant to be shared within the limits of holy matrimony, period.
Ruthie and I held hands and shared a few pecks on the cheek. And once, on the day of our engagement, I kissed her on the lips when she said yes to marrying me, but that’s the extent of my experience. Every teenager and young adult knew there was to be no funny business outside of wedlock, and certainly none of that with anyone besides our betrothed.
The concept of engaging in something like this with a woman I’m not wedded to after she’s just been with two other men has never entered my mind. Such a circumstance didn’t exist within the confines of my imagination. Not even in my dirtiest daydreams. Daydreams that since they would be deemed sinful I did my best not to have.
Yet here I am about to embark on this unholy activity of my own free will.
To say that I feel unprepared for this is the most massive of understatements.
When I pivot to my right, I detect a single doorway that’s been wedged open. There’s a faint pink light emanating from inside that’s reflecting out into the hallway along with a fragrance that must be perfume.
What are the chances this isn’t her room?
Not high.
Gulping convulsively, I draw closer to the threshold, knowing that once I cross it there’s no turning back.
As tempting as it is to twist around and relieve my nerves by sprinting up and down those stairs a dozen more times, I amble nearer and nearer, then step inside the room. What I discover there makes me swallow my tongue.
The woman from downstairs is perched at the foot of her bed with one knee over her other. She’s wearing the same orange heels I saw her in earlier and nothing else.
Nothing else.
My manhood springs up in my pants at the exact moment that my conscience shrieks at me to turn away to preserve her privacy. But this is a lady who spread her legs to show me and the others the most sacred part of herself already. Privacy isn’t what she wants, so I can’t turn away.
I have to do this. So, I take a shaky inhale, my neck feeling so heated it probably looks inflamed.
“Um, hi,” I choke out. “What can I do for you?”
The expression on her face is difficult to describe. If forced to choose a term, I’d have to say that it’s incredulous. Even leery. Yet, she goes from lounging casually to sitting up straighter, providing me with a bird’s eye view of her exposed chest.
And oh my gosh, what have I gotten myself into?
“Well, for starters, you can take off all those clothes.”
This morning I donned a short-sleeved shirt, khakis, socks, loafers, an undershirt, and of course, my boxers. Even though we’ve been out of the church for quite a while now, the old dress and grooming standards of “Modesty is your shield. Use it,” still rings in my consciousness.
Taking any or especially all of this off in front of a member of the opposite gender sets my nerves on high alert, but this is what I’ve promised to do. I attempt not to think about what actions I’m taking as I hastily unbutton my shirt.
My hands fumble, though, and it takes longer than usual. Most likely because they’re shaking. Anxious to conceal this, I yank the half-undone shirt over my head, a move that drags my undershirt off with it.
I stand there with my thumbs over the button to my pants, then pop it, unzip, and drag them to my knees. Understanding that I need to take off my socks and shoes to divest myself of the rest, I kick off the shoes and peel down the socks, making the removal of my khakis much less troublesome.
With all but my underwear gone, I pause. This is the most I’ve exposed to anyone outside my family, and even my mom hasn’t seen this much of me since I was too small to attend school.
And I’m not even done.
Taking a deep breath that hitches like a suppressed cough halfway up, I yank off my undies, covering my privates with my hands and angling that aspect of myself off to the side. If I yearned for the rug to swallow me whole before, that’s nothing to how I feel now.
My mortification is so all-consuming that I feel sunburned from my scalp to my toes. I’m sure every inch of me must be the color of the fire engine I frequently ride in.
“Huh-uh.” She wags a disapproving finger at me in a sharp movement. “Don’t turn away and don’t obscure those goods. I want to inspect the merchandise.”
I startle at this because it makes me feel like a piece of meat. Is this what women talk about here in the city when referring to catcalls and whistles? If so, the next time I hear another man pulling a stunt like that, I’m going to punch him.
She releases this unladylike snort. “I’m kidding. Well, mostly. But we’re about to get it on, honeybunny. If you’re not up for that, I need to know now.”
“I-I’m up for it,” I stutter out, my voice cracking like a twelve-year-old, but I make myself press my arms to my sides. I can feel her eyes on me, so I laser all my attention on her high-heel-clad feet. They’re dainty with a bright red shade on her toenails that strikes me as very feminine and lovely.
Pretty.
Not that I’m supposed to notice such things.
I couldn’t be any more embarrassed if someone tied me to her mailbox right now and started taking pictures. Yet my male appendage doesn’t seem daunted by such scrutiny. It somehow remains as stiff as a flagpole in spite of everything.
Kill me already.
As I’m wishing I could die, she climbs off the mattress—she’s so much shorter than me that I tower over her by a good foot and a half—then she crawls back onto her bed on all fours with her shoes dangling off the edge. She peeks back at me over her bare shoulder and slaps her round bottom.
My blood quits circulating.
Did she just spank herself?
“Okay then, let’s get this show on the road.”