C-Shaped
THE HOTEL WATER is hot. Too hot, probably, but after a while, my skin is too numb to register. Cypress shampoo and high-end soap from one of the amenities gift bags fills up the bathroom, everything smelling like I should be grateful. Like I won a Grand Prix just a few hours ago.
But the replay is still in my head—the rollback, the oxer, the line. The breath I shouldn’t have taken, the half-second recalibration of what should’ve come naturally.
I rest both palms on the tile. Water slides between my knuckles.
I still won, still took first. For sure, there’s a headline already out there about me being unstoppable. Again.
But I don’t feel unstoppable. I feel...just slightly off axis. No one else seems to see it, and I don’t know if that makes it better or worse. What if I’m just one more mistake away from everything breaking loose? One more second out of focus?
I sigh and close my eyes.
Then twist the shower handle all the way to cold.
The drop in temperature hits like a slap. And I take it. Let the ice burn down my chest, over my ribs, along my spine. Let it wake me up from whatever this is .
When I step out, I towel off with mechanical precision. Boxers, t-shirt, hair raked back wet. I sit on the edge of the bed and pick up my phone.
Social media is already flooded with clips from the press conference. Mostly just freeze-frames of my ride or applause sound bites. One is a slow-mo of the final jump. Someone edited it to music like I’m some kind of sports god.
But buried between them is the photo.
The one where I’m sitting behind the mic, and Mom is reaching across me to answer.
Someone zoomed in. Captioned it, “Golden Boy doesn’t like surprises.”
Golden Boy. The name that stuck to media headlines and fan posts, growing up. When I was golden and felt it.
It’s not even a bad shot, technically. But my face…
I look…small, off-guard. A guy caught reacting instead of controlling the narrative. Unscripted.
I tap out of the app. Then back in. Then out again.
My thumb hovers over my dating app. The last text chain is with some guy I matched with last week. We haven’t met. He’s close by tonight. Clean, quiet. Hot enough in the right lighting. He texts like he doesn’t care who I am, which is the whole point.
I stare at the screen a moment longer, then type, “Free tonight?”
The response is an instant: “omw”
I give him my room number. It takes him no more than half an hour.
A knock on the door and I’m there. I open it, pull him in by the belt and directly against the wall, a picture frame hitting the ground before the door is even closed.
He laughs like he’s already sure how this night ends. I let attraction fill me up. He’s just my type. That’s why it’s him .
Just a bit taller, just a few muscles. A body I can grope and know it’s real, that it doesn’t need to try hard in order to do hard.
Broad chest, solid arms, jeans hanging just right.
His hair is dark and thick, damp so he showered but still smells like he barely did.
Not like lemongrass or sandalwood or fucking cypress. Yeah, that works.
“Fucking gorgeous,” he tells me, big hands taking my hips, pulling them close. “Gonna ruin me, aren’t ya?”
No. It’s the opposite. It’s gotta be.
I kiss him hard and messy. Hands in his hair, then his belt, then his shirt, swatting his own away when he tries to help, but it’s faster this way.
He tastes like beer and breath mints and something just sweet enough to cover up that he’s still a little drunk.
He doesn’t ask for anything, just keeps laughing at his luck, and I let him, breath hot and eager, falling back when I push him to the bed like he’s the one allowing it.
I get us naked and climb to straddle him, grip his jaw, suck on his neck, nip at his collarbone. He moans like he’s already there, louder when I grind down, heavy and slow. I feel him harden under me and reach between us, stroke him once, twice, just to hear him hiss and buck up.
Yeah, this is it. Just right.
I reach for the condoms, tear one open. His eyes press shut when I slide it on him. His head jerks back into the pillow like it hurts when I sink down onto him. And God it does, just a little, just enough to be perfect.
My hips roll as I adjust to fit him, slow and smooth, then faster and greedier. His hands clench around my hips, guiding my rhythm as I fuck myself on him.
“God, fuck,” he breathes. “You’re—are you even real?”
I don’t answer, just slam down harder, fuck faster. My thighs ache, but I breathe through it, match his thrusts. His eyes roll back with a groan.
I clench, change rhythm. I reach down to stroke myself, trying to sync friction with pressure and timing. But it’s not working. I feel the sweat on my skin, the slap of flesh, the sound of him falling apart. Nothing else. Not even close.
He tries to grab my jaw to kiss me. I twist out of it, pushing him back instead. “Turn over,” I tell him. “Go hard.”
I brace myself on hands and knees. His grin is crooked as he gets behind me, for sure thinking I’m insatiable. “Yes, sir,” he says, not wasting time. He rolls on a new condom, lines up, slams into me with a satisfied grunt. Rougher this time. I don’t flinch.
“Like this?” he asks, voice strained.
“Harder. Don’t hold back.”
He slaps my ass. Grabs a fistful of my hair and yanks. My spine arches. He pounds into me, groaning, then choking me—light at first, then firmer when I don’t stop him. And it’s better, just enough to make it hard to breathe, make it a little blurry.
Yeah, that. The sting, the pressure, the tension.
That’s it.
Almost—
Just… C’mon.
I force sound out of my mouth. “Yeah, like that.” Moans, gasps. Fake what’s familiar, what has always worked. I rock back against him. He changes his angle. His grip tightens.
“God, you’re fucking perfect,” he groans.
No. Not perfect.
I dig my fingers into the bedding. Bite the inside of my cheek. Focus. Just a little more.
There’s a flash—brief—where the pain spikes just right, and I think I’m close.
But it doesn’t come. The edge never arrives, slips through some crack I can’t see.
There’s no heat. No pull. No rush .
Just effort.
My face burns, jaw clenched. It’s not even about the sex anymore, it’s… Why?
What the fuck is wrong with me?
He thrusts harder, chasing his own edge. My body jerks with each slap of skin. My arms ache. My knees burn on the sheets. I don’t stop him.
He comes with a strangled moan, hips shuddering and slamming in one last time before going still. His breath fans out against my shoulder.
“Jesus. That was insane.”
His hands slide off my hips.
“Holy shit,” he pants. “You’re…”
I stay on all fours. Head down.
“You’re amazing. For real, man.”
He pulls out, slips the condom off. I slide down into lying prone as he wipes himself, half-giggling like he can’t believe this just happened.
“I’m telling ya, top five.” He laughs. “Shit, no. Top three, for sure.”
I don’t move. Don’t answer.
He kisses my back. Casual. “I’ll hit you up next time I’m in town, yeah?”
I nod once. Make it look lazy. Satisfied.
He tosses his clothes on and lets himself out.
The door clicks shut. In the silence, I stay where I am.
Chest pressed to the bed. Arms up by my sides, limp. Eyes dry—almost.
The burn in my throat rises anyway. My jaw locks harder to hold it down.
The tears come—just a few. Hot. Sharp. Pointless. They don’t even fall, just sit there in the corners of my eyes, like they’re waiting for permission I want so desperately to give but can’t. Blurring my vision as it lands on my bare left wrist.
C-shaped. Always C-shaped.
My head hurts. My knees are sore. My thighs are trembling. My cock is still soft.
I don’t feel used.
I don’t feel…anything.