call you later.”
Faye lies there and then moans when Connor pulls the covers from her. She opens her eyes to see his face, upside down, leaning over her from the head of the bed. His eyes drift from hers to her body. Faye smiles, stretches leisurely for his benefit, and then reaches up, looping her arms around his neck. She pulls him down for a kiss, with which he complies, but she can feel it’s rushed. It’s a shallow, worried, and hurried kiss, an “Okay, I’ll kiss you but you better haul ass outta here right after” kiss.
The spell her body holds over him is broken, and he bustles off, out of her line of sight.
Faye rolls over on the mattress and watches him for a moment. Then she climbs out of bed and puts on the jeans she had folded and piled on the thrift-store nightstand. She looks from one side to the other. She can’t remember if she was wearing panties before Connor ravaged her, so in the end, she doesn’t worry much about it. Panties or not, it doesn’t matter to her.
Connor walks around the room with a plastic shopping bag hanging from one hand, the other loading it with the sporadic wadded tissues and skin magazines and foreign articles of clothing. In the kitchenette, he peels off a condom that’s draped over the edge of the cutlery drawer. Pinching it between thumb and forefinger, he swings the rubber like the limp corpse of some fish … a bright-green, sour-apple-flavored, ribbed-for-her-pleasure, one-dollar, bar-washroom-vending-machine fish.
If Faye ever were to wonder what she was doing with Connor, which she never has to do, she would just have to look at him to know. It’s simple. He’s the best sex toy a girl could ever want. God designed him as a tool with the sole purpose of making her come. He’s a few years older and almost a foot taller than she is. He’s thin with a tight sheath of skin covering an anatomy lesson of musculature. He’s handsome, square-chinned, and perfectly hung for her tastes, pendulous but not gargantuan. He’s strong enough to throw her around the room when she wants it that way but not so strong that he’s a threat. Sometimes he can be an asshole, but she never questions her desire or asks more of him than what he can provide.
That’s how she knows they’re perfect for each other. Neither wants to change the other. It’s all about using the right tool for the right job.
Never use a spoon to cut a steak, Faye thinks, looking around again at the mess.
“I can’t find my shirt,” she says. “Or my water bottle.”
Connor sighs and grabs a pink nightshirt from the kitchen counter. “Here, wear this.” He crosses the room. “And here—” He grabs her wide-necked sports bottle from the coffee table. It gurgles when he hands it to her. Faye slips the nightshirt over her head, finger-combs her hair back, and finds an elastic in her jeans pocket to secure it out of her face. She fixes it back in a ponytail.
Within a few minutes they are at the apartment door, Connor still shirtless and besweatpanted, Faye wearing jeans and the pink nightshirt. Him, shoeless with hairy toe knuckles, and her, slipping on her flats. Her hand rests on his shoulder for support, sliding down to his chest for balance. Her heart fluttering at the feel of his button nipple under her palm, him resisting heroically, though betrayed by the growth straining against his sweatpants.
Finally, to punctuate the moment, he leans forward to kiss her. He says, “Take the stairs, my girlfriend will be coming up in the elevator.” Then, in response to her strained look, he begs with a drawn-out “Please.”
Faye smiles, nods, and is two steps toward the stairwell door when he calls after her. She stops, smiles to herself, and spins on a heel to face him. The hallway lights flicker off, leaving her illuminated by the sunshine coming through the apartment door and him as an angular silhouette in the light.
“Faye, baby. Here,” Connor says. The lights come on again, and he’s
Faye lies there and then moans when Connor pulls the covers from her. She opens her eyes to see his face, upside down, leaning over her from the head of the bed. His eyes drift from hers to her body. Faye smiles, stretches leisurely for his benefit, and then reaches up, looping her arms around his neck. She pulls him down for a kiss, with which he complies, but she can feel it’s rushed. It’s a shallow, worried, and hurried kiss, an “Okay, I’ll kiss you but you better haul ass outta here right after” kiss.
The spell her body holds over him is broken, and he bustles off, out of her line of sight.
Faye rolls over on the mattress and watches him for a moment. Then she climbs out of bed and puts on the jeans she had folded and piled on the thrift-store nightstand. She looks from one side to the other. She can’t remember if she was wearing panties before Connor ravaged her, so in the end, she doesn’t worry much about it. Panties or not, it doesn’t matter to her.
Connor walks around the room with a plastic shopping bag hanging from one hand, the other loading it with the sporadic wadded tissues and skin magazines and foreign articles of clothing. In the kitchenette, he peels off a condom that’s draped over the edge of the cutlery drawer. Pinching it between thumb and forefinger, he swings the rubber like the limp corpse of some fish … a bright-green, sour-apple-flavored, ribbed-for-her-pleasure, one-dollar, bar-washroom-vending-machine fish.
If Faye ever were to wonder what she was doing with Connor, which she never has to do, she would just have to look at him to know. It’s simple. He’s the best sex toy a girl could ever want. God designed him as a tool with the sole purpose of making her come. He’s a few years older and almost a foot taller than she is. He’s thin with a tight sheath of skin covering an anatomy lesson of musculature. He’s handsome, square-chinned, and perfectly hung for her tastes, pendulous but not gargantuan. He’s strong enough to throw her around the room when she wants it that way but not so strong that he’s a threat. Sometimes he can be an asshole, but she never questions her desire or asks more of him than what he can provide.
That’s how she knows they’re perfect for each other. Neither wants to change the other. It’s all about using the right tool for the right job.
Never use a spoon to cut a steak, Faye thinks, looking around again at the mess.
“I can’t find my shirt,” she says. “Or my water bottle.”
Connor sighs and grabs a pink nightshirt from the kitchen counter. “Here, wear this.” He crosses the room. “And here—” He grabs her wide-necked sports bottle from the coffee table. It gurgles when he hands it to her. Faye slips the nightshirt over her head, finger-combs her hair back, and finds an elastic in her jeans pocket to secure it out of her face. She fixes it back in a ponytail.
Within a few minutes they are at the apartment door, Connor still shirtless and besweatpanted, Faye wearing jeans and the pink nightshirt. Him, shoeless with hairy toe knuckles, and her, slipping on her flats. Her hand rests on his shoulder for support, sliding down to his chest for balance. Her heart fluttering at the feel of his button nipple under her palm, him resisting heroically, though betrayed by the growth straining against his sweatpants.
Finally, to punctuate the moment, he leans forward to kiss her. He says, “Take the stairs, my girlfriend will be coming up in the elevator.” Then, in response to her strained look, he begs with a drawn-out “Please.”
Faye smiles, nods, and is two steps toward the stairwell door when he calls after her. She stops, smiles to herself, and spins on a heel to face him. The hallway lights flicker off, leaving her illuminated by the sunshine coming through the apartment door and him as an angular silhouette in the light.
“Faye, baby. Here,” Connor says. The lights come on again, and he’s
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