I followed
I followed him to Europe. I rationalized the trip with thoughts that being left alone in a hotel room all day would force me to finish writing this thing that has been hanging over my head for over a year. The reality of it is that I sleep late, have leisurly morning fuck with him, then breakfast at the café on the square, then walk back home a different way each time, stopping to buy bread, look at antipasti, the wurst, the crepes, then settle on gnocchi for dinner and buy 250 grams of pesto cream sauce, a wedge of gran padano, and a handful of flat-leaf parsley to go with the half finished bottle of wine from last night.
I end up watching American tv dubbed into the local language and perusing the porn he downloaded off the internet. I book hotel rooms in capital city where he has to work, and although this is the place where I first met him, his capital city is far different than mine. We meet with old friends and former lovers, and establish ourselves as the new relationship with these others that only knew us in the old.
This has been the longest amount of time we have ever spent together. Before it was catch as catch can, making excuses to go to LA, up to him, down to me. Once a week if we were lucky. Now he walks through the door, always in the wee hours, but always back to me. No sleeping until we have had our fill of each other, almost till the sun comes up, but not quite. Not as desperate a connection as when we first met and didn’t rest until we could see each other in the daylight.
I thought our availability to each other and the fatigue and routine would settle the sexual behavior into something calm and easily comforting. Instead it becomes more wicked as we find safety within the relationship. He holds me down hard when I’m under him, hands slowly creeping from my chest to my shoulders to the base of my throat. Aha. I am more greedy and demanding and tell him how to fuck me and where to put his fingers and when to stop, please stop, I want to come with you inside of me, but not there. Here.
After a long evening of red wine and too much grappa and jealous arguing, he turns the light off, sticks his hand in my mouth, bites my breast… then slaps me. I am completely overcome with surprise, about the action, about my response. I yield to him, give myself up, become slick and hot and he slaps my face again, insistent fingers in my pussy, in my mouth. He pushes his cock between my lips, my tongue swirling around the base. I do whatever he wants. He claims me again. You greedy bitch, he says, as he fucks me from behind, and I ache into the pillow and tell him to fuck me harder, to pull on my nipples, slap my tits, slide your thumb into my ass as I wrap my fingers around your cock pumping in and out of my pussy. He slaps my ass again and he groans and he comes. I know I am his.
