Jowita Bydlowska - Guy

She bends down to pet Dog.

I watch her back for a moment, fascinated by the straps but also feeling a little impatient. I’m not at my calmest this morning thanks to idiot $isi and her middle-of-the-night tears. And my workouts continue to go badly, so I’m not in my usual easy-flow state of mind. I try to remember the cognitive exercises I taught myself – not to listen to negative thoughts, to think of neutral topics (nature, fashion, travel) or imagine a garden from my childhood – but instead I get caught in every dark place in my mind. In that state, neutral topics become troublesome: travel turns to thinking about the Sudan; nature reminds me of a rabid dog in my childhood; fashion conjures images of $isi’s nipple slips and bad haircuts.

Dolores must be picking up on my mood because she’s quiet, contained – much more contained than she was last night when she went as far as to show me her favourite illustrators on DeviantArt (vampires, girls with skull masks on their tattooed faces, ghostly figures with dresses turning into leaves blown away by the wind) and hipster videos on YouTube (big girls in little-girl dresses talking to clouds, stop-frame animation about a girl’s hang-ups regarding her giant nose, men using their toddlers as weights).

“I’ve had a bad morning, I apologize, I’m feeling unwell,” I tell Dolores, with knowledge that this kind of sharing, admitting to my weakness, is also a great opportunity for her to feel useful and therefore in power, which may, hopefully, even out our balance, at least momentarily, and allow me to gain a bit more of her trust, make the further, necessary moves.

“Oh, don’t apologize. It’s totally okay,” Dolores says. “Anything I can do?”

I pull her close and hold her against my body. I don’t say anything.

She stiffens in my arms, looks up. Her round eyes get even rounder.

Last night’s kiss was a kiss of clinking teeth and too much fumbling on her part when it was time to go: many extra gestures (smoothing her hair, shaking hand, touching my arm and flinching as if it burned) and some more babbling.

Now, I lift her chin up. She opens her mouth. This time it’s much better, technically, despite the fact that her mouth is trembling slightly and her tongue goes in circles then stops abruptly. But she could bite my tongue and it would be fine – she’s wonderful in her idiocy. Her hands rest stiffly on my waist. As the kiss goes on, the hands move equally stiffly until they finally meet in the middle. I run my fingers over the ridges in her skin where the straps of her dress are digging in.

When I finally pull away, she lets out a loud sigh. She’s falling in love with me. This thought, as soon as it forms itself, does something to the anxiety I’ve been feeling all morning. It melts it, pushes its bile back down. I feel better. In my gratitude, I pull her toward me again and kiss her again, this time harder, with my tongue pushing hers, biting ever so slightly on her lower lip, like Albert the vampire would do. This kiss is short. She is left breathing a little too fast when I break it.

We walk back, mostly in silence. I invite her over for lunch later, and of course she accepts.

We kiss again. Same confused tongue.

“See you soon, Princess,” I say.

“Okay. Bye.” She turns around.

I know she knows I’m watching her now because I notice her struggling to swing her hips (sexily?) and straighten out her feet. Her back is so stiff I just know that she’s killing herself not to turn around and check if I’m looking.

Fifteen minutes before lunch, I make buttermilk pancakes with asparagus in a classic white sauce. I serve it hot. Dolores is not late. I don’t have the focus to pay close attention to her outfit because the sauce has just been prepared and the stalks of asparagus are seconds away from losing their firmness and heat. I serve the pancakes with the vegetable and sauce right away. The pancakes are perfectly fluffy.

During lunch, Dolores asks me to make her a gin and tonic. She drinks it fast and I wonder if she may be an alcoholic. Why not? She’s old enough. $isi became a drunk when she was about her age or younger. Dolores’ potential alcoholism seems to be confirmed when she asks for another gin and tonic before lunch is over.

“It’s delicious,” she says. “The sauce.”

“It’s a very simple recipe. I’m happy to teach you,” I say. I realize that I haven’t come up with any way to amuse her until enough time passes to make a move. Perhaps a cooking lesson will do. I say, “We could make the sauce now. We’ll recreate.”

She blushes. “Oh, I don’t know.”

Her speech is not slurred. I can’t be sure the alcohol got to her considering her weight. She stares at her plate.

“What is it, Princess?”

“I want to have sex with you,” she says quietly.

“Come again?”

“I don’t want to cook. I want to have sex with you,” she says, sounding a little angry. But it’s not anger. It looks more like determination. She’s still not looking at me. A vein pulses in her temple. I haven’t noticed that vein before. It will get more prominent with age unless her face balloons from obesity.

“Are you feeling drunk?” I say. I prefer not to have sex with someone who’s drunk, especially a younger girl.

“A little. But I only drank because I had to get the nerve to say it to you, and now I’ve said it.” She burps. “I’m sorry,” she says.

“Oh, no, that’s a huge turn-on, actually,” I say, and she fake-laughs. “I like confident girls like you,” I say.

I take her face in my hands and kiss her on the forehead. Then I lead her upstairs to the master bedroom, which has its own balcony overlooking the dinky man-made waterfall, which makes Dolores squeal. “You’re so lucky!” She runs to the balcony and takes off her shirt.

“Princess.” I gently pull her away from the balcony, turn her around to have a look at her breasts. They are larger and shapelier than I thought they would be. She’ll do well with prospective sexual partners if she chooses to showcase this feature. Some men are really into breasts; they will even put breasts above a good-looking face or intellect. There’s no way I could ever tell her this without sounding terribly insensitive, but I wish I could. It’s useful information.

“You have the most beautiful breasts,” I say, hoping she’ll stick that in her memory vault and use it in the future, whenever she doubts there’s something about her that could be interesting to look at. That’s all I can do.

I take the rest of her clothes off and push her gently onto the bed. I take in the very soft body, the trimmed dark bush, the dark moles on her belly. “You are so beautiful, so beautiful,” I tell her.

“Am not,” she says softly, and I say, “Be quiet, Princess.”

She reaches out and touches my chest with excited hands. She pushes my hand away when I try to touch her back. “No,” she snaps. I know that her boldness is partly due to drunkenness, and I enjoy it even though I prefer to be in control. I let her fingers reach my nipples to tweak them. Then she nervously reaches for my dick. I kneel over her. I lock my eyes with hers. I encourage her gently: “That’s good, that’s perfect.”

Her grip is weak, but it does the job relatively well. Well enough to make me ask her to stop at one point. I kiss her down her wobbly stomach, rut with my nose between the hot, wet folds of her pussy. Eventually, I start fucking her. Her eyes are on me, searching and reaching out to mine. She is quiet.

I turn her over. I reach down underneath her to stroke her as I slowly go at her. I stroke her for a long time and eventually this makes her come – she squeals and whines. She is noisy, finally, after almost-silent intercourse.