Rafael Yglesias - Hot Properties

David stood up, his headache pounding with the movement, and walked toward her. She typed without pause, more like a secretary copying an already written document than a novelist struggling to create. He fought off his surprise at the ease with which she invented by reminding himself it was only a stupid romance book. When he was within a few feet she stopped and looked at him. She had a blank look on her face, as though they were strangers in a public place: David someone she had noticed on the subway while she glanced up to see if this were her stop.

He put his hand on the back of her head, his fingers gripping her hair possessively. He turned her away from the typewriter toward him and pulled her up slightly to meet his lips. She was pliant, willing to be uncomfortably posed, partially off the chair, her neck back, her head paralyzed in his grasp, while his mouth and tongue fired away at her stationary full lips. She left her lips slightly open and only reacted when his tongue invaded, her teeth closing against the departure as he pulled away. David stopped to look at her, a puppet held aloft by his hand, her eyes closed, her mouth open, a fish mouthing at the water for food. She held her balance with the balls of her feet, so her belly was arched, her tight stomach flexed, her hip bones jutting out enough to open a view down her panties, her breasts thrust forward, her nipples making hard points in the soft translucent material of her bra.

With his free hand he reached inside her bra and found one erect nipple and squeezed. She moaned slightly and her hips, moved from side to side as though she were a lonely dancer pretending she had a partner. He let go and roughly pulled his hand out, the bra pulling off crookedly so it covered only the top of her breast. He ran the flat of his palm over her rippling stomach down to her bony pelvis and grabbed her cunt hard. His finger penetrated like a swimmer diving; there was no resistance to his invasion, only watery absorption.

She swiveled on his hand, her body twisting and rocking, her head cradled in his hand. She was like an obscene doll designed for decadent children. She’s a whore, he thought with a dark, harsh inner voice whose tone was alien. And she was so wet, so totally enthralled by sexual feeling: her eyes closed, her lips sighing to be kissed, her body bucking with desire. He could feel nothing but contempt for this abandon, it made her worse somehow that she could enjoy sex with him if she didn’t love him. And he knew she didn’t love him. The jokes were the truth, the protests of love were the jokes.

He pulled his hand out. She quivered sadly at its departure and her behind rested once again on the chair. There was a moment in which he stood there, over her, doing nothing. Her head was down, looking like a penitent awaiting a blessing. Slowly — he thought reluctantly — she reached up to his groin and rubbed his erection through the material. He didn’t move or look down: he stared off impassively, waiting to see if she would do his bidding without even a hint. There was a moment of uncertainty, when she shifted on the chair, drawing one of her legs up under her. But then her small hands came up to his belt and began to strip him.

Silently, motionless, he stood there while she exposed his penis and took it in her mouth, her head rocking steadily below him, the warm funnel sliding with dull regularity, as though she were a sleepy farmgirl milking a cow. He could almost see her dull sense of duty as she serviced him. Flashing into his brain while he put his hands on her head and urged her to take more and more of him each time; answering his question while he felt himself emptied into her mouth: She can enjoy it when I make love to her because she pretends it’s someone else. When she makes love to me, it’s her job, her rent check.

She kept his shrinking penis inside and sucked and licked slowly, a pro finishing with meticulous care. He patted her on the head and walked away. Silent. Ignoring the obvious civility of doing something for her. He waited for a protest, for a demand that would disprove his theory. He sat on the couch and picked up that week’s Newstime. After a few long moments of quiet anticipation, while he stared at the magazine typeface, the black letters dissolving into meaningless zigzags, he heard her typewriter begin again. You really earned it tonight, Patty, he said to himself, and tried to laugh bitterly. Wisely.

Instead, he felt tired. And the dull throb of his headache returned.

Tony Winters stood at the bathroom mirror studying his just-shaved face. It had the puffed whitish look of a baby’s. His hair was lustrous from the shampoo. He looked good: young, open, his eyes shining with optimism. He felt almost as if he were seeing a photograph of himself as a college freshman; smooth-faced, eager, beaming cheerfully at the hostile world, confident it would welcome and praise him.

He walked out, the heels of his new shoes sounding a dramatic approach, into the kitchen. Betty was there, dressed for work, reading the Times. He noticed a headline slug at the top of Section C: “BUNTING, NEW PLAY AT CIRCLE REP OPENS.” and decided he wasn’t up to reading either a rave (depressing — it could have been me) or a pan (infuriating — why are they putting that on instead of reviving my plays’?). Betty was reading the Hers column. He laughed at that. She glanced up casually and then steadied her gaze. “You look so handsome,” she said.

“Thank you, darling,” he said casually, but he was pleased she had confirmed his bout of self-admiration at the mirror.

“Why are you so dressed up?”

Tony walked to the stove so he wouldn’t be looking at her when he answered. “Got a lunch date with Bill Hadley.”

“Who’s Bill Hadley?”

“My roommate freshman year.” He poured himself coffee. “I feel like I’m in college today.”

“You do,” she said, smiling delightedly. “Your short haircut makes you look like a boy.” She put out her hand as he neared the table, and her arm went around his waist. He bent over and met her lips. When he pulled away after a quick peck, she insisted, and brought him back for a longer kiss.

I should have stayed in bed until she left, he thought, waiting for her to release him.

When she did, he took Section A from her and looked at the stories, reading paragraphs senselessly, waiting, waiting, waiting …

“Don’t you have to be at work?” he asked, unable to restrain himself.

Betty glanced at their designer wall clock with its minimalist lines instead of numbers. “Oh my God,” she said. “I’m late.”

She hurried out of the apartment. Tony listened for the sound of the elevator doors opening to swallow her and to remove any chance she might overhear. When he had, he picked up the phone and dialed:

“Sherry Netherland. Good morning.”

“Lois Picker, please.”

“Thank you.”

He had been up most of the night, sleeping lightly, waiting to make this contact, but now, hearing the phone wire click as he was switched from electronic point to electronic point en route to Lois’ room, he felt dread.

“Hello.” Her voice was alert. She had flown in last night, arriving at ten or so. She should have had trouble — falling asleep. He had pictured her still in bed, the heavy curtains drawn. Instead, he thought, she must be fully dressed, a breakfast finished on a nearby table, a flat folded newspaper now crumpled and disassembled.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” she said, the hard businesslike tone softening.

“Should I come up?”

“Sure.”

“Okay. I’ll get a cab.” He hung up, his stomach rumbling. Suddenly he was falling apart — no longer eager, thrilled to have a clandestine life, his body keenly anticipating passionate lovemaking. His legs felt weak, disconnected from his torso, out of step with each other. There was tremulousness in his belly. In the taxi, when it jolted over potholes, he felt as if his intestines were a badly sewn pocket, its seams crumbling.