Jowita Bydlowska - Guy

“Sit,” I hiss. “Sit the fuck down.” But Dog tenses his back, not wanting or unable to obey. I am not violent, but in this moment I have a hard time not swatting him across his nose.

SHE TAKES HER TANK TOP OFF WITHOUT LOOKING AT ME, unceremoniously, as if this were her bedroom, as if I wasn’t here. She sits on the bed, scratches her ribbed torso, looks down to figure out what’s itchy. I still don’t seem to be here. I try to pinpoint exactly when I lost control this evening. Before this evening. Earlier. Probably when I met her, when she asked to meet at eight instead of seven, and like a dumb motherfucker I just said sure like I had nothing else to do.

She gets up and jump-dances on the bed to Charlie’s newest song. The band has gone almost entirely electronic since the flick they did a song for. It was a smart move for them to abandon their pop rock ambitions and focus on tracks you can really dance to. Just last month, one of their songs got sampled by a popular German tech-house DJ, which gives them cred beyond anything we could’ve created artificially. A nice ambitious track that borrows from dubstep but without the nasty bass wobble. Overall, Charlie’s popularity has risen; there’s a line of sneakers in the making already, and one of the Charlie members was photographed having coffee with James Franco.

The robot voice in the song talks about wanting to do things to a boy.

As she dances and jumps, Bride’s tiny nipples bounce up and down. I want her to stop jumping, her nipples to stop bouncing even though it’s cute.

It’s not cute. It’s annoying. If anybody saw this, they’d wonder if she was drunk, but no. In fact, she’s the opposite of drunk. She is someone who refuses to drink. Earlier tonight, I offered her a drink when we came in after going to the beach, but she turned it down.

“Are you an alcoholic?”

“Ha ha ha. No. I don’t drink, that’s all.”

“Not even a beer?”

“Is this making you uncomfortable that I don’t drink?”

“No. Just curious as to why. Most people in their twenties drink.”

“I’m barely twenty, dude. Anyway, I don’t. I don’t like to lose control.”

Which is why I don’t drink. But I can’t worry about that, about her not wanting to lose control. I can probably get her to lose control in some other way. Her jumping on my bed is not her losing control. In fact, it’s the opposite – it’s her controlling this situation, like a nasty toddler, which I’m tolerating for now because I am a gentleman.

I leave the bedroom to go and make myself a drink. I’m not planning to lose control, but this is one of those rare moments where I think I’d like a drink. When I come back with my vodka and soda, she’s lying on the bed, looking up at me, smiling. She’s now fully naked. She took her clothes off herself; she wouldn’t even relinquish that task to me.

We haven’t done much besides some necking when we tumbled into my bedroom – she pulled me toward it, the bedroom, as if she lived here instead of me; she seemed to know exactly where to go, so I let her pull me and we fell through the door – no leading her to my bed to take her apart.

“Like what you see?” she says.

“Very much so,” I say.

“Are you thinking about what to do to me?”

I’m thinking about plunging into her, flipping her onto her stomach, biting her neck. I’d pull her hair if she had any.

“Like what? What are you thinking?”

“Let me see you,” I say and stand above her, looking down at her little body. She nods. She opens her legs wide and spreads her little pussy with her little fingers, presenting herself to me.

“You’re lovely.”

“Wanna lick it?” she asks in a small voice, a new voice. A porno voice. Daddy’s-little-girl voice.

I set the vodka and soda down on a dresser. She doesn’t let go of my eyes as I kneel in front of her. I pull her toward me until her knees are hanging over the edge of the bed. She’s got big, bony knees – boy knees. Her ankles are thin enough for me to wrap a hand around each. She smells delicious: sour, hot. I start licking her, parting with my tongue, seeking out the little nub.

She makes a noise, a sigh. I finger her tight little vagina with one and then two fingers, and on it goes, the licking and the finger-fucking, until she starts bucking her hips and pushing my head down. She’s breathing fast, “Don’t stop, don’t stop –” Finally, she tenses as her cunt explodes. She moans. The soft wetness opens and closes around my finger. I keep my finger there until it subsides. My dick is rock hard.

“Give me a second,” she says, but I’m not really interested in obeying her anymore tonight. I grab her by the hips and flip her over, gauging the movements of her body, looking for any signs of struggle, but there are no objections; she’s happy to be flipped over, and she makes a loud grunting noise when I enter her slick, tight hotness.

She moans and buries her face in the pillow, the back of her bald alien head vulnerable, the sight of it only making me harder and more determined to fuck – right through her if I could. I turn her onto her back and spread her legs as wide as they’ll go. “Be a good girl. Open your eyes.” I push hard. But she won’t obey; her eyes remain closed. A thought flashes through my head: just slap her . As soon as I think it, her eyes pop open, and then I feel a sharp sting on my cheek, a quick, efficient slap, her little hand like a blur in front of my face.

I don’t know if it’s the combination of me thinking it and her doing it as soon as I thought it, or if it’s the way her face looks as she does it – unsure yet perversely pleased with herself – but I come hard, the most powerful orgasm I’ve had maybe ever. I am blown to pieces inside, my body vibrating in wave after wave of pleasure. I collapse on her hot, crazy body. She wraps her legs around me, enveloping me for a moment, her limbs skinny but strong. Like a spider.

The phone rings so loudly it’s as if something detonated in my head. I sit up in bed, disoriented. I try to remember where I am, who I am and what this is. This is Bride in my bed. She is sleeping. Sleeping, she looks like a child. She is a child, actually – well, not exactly, but she’s close enough to a child to be called one. I touch my cheek, as if I could feel the imprint of the girl-hand that unleashed such violence on it last night.

The phone rings and rings. I’d prefer to go back to sleep, or better yet, wake up this animal beside me and stuff my dick right in its face, but the phone. Rrring , rrring .

I go downstairs. I have to get a new phone. Something quieter. Electronic. Perhaps I could program one of the slower Charlie songs into it, instead of this hysterical ringing. It’s one of those ancient things, a rotary with an old-school cradle, a present from Gloria. Not something I’d buy, as I generally dislike old things, so-called antiques, which is just another word for hyped-up trash. This piece of shit has to go.

On the phone, Gloria says, “I know, I know. We were supposed to take a break. I respect that. I’m not calling about that, or I mean, not about us, that’s not why I’m calling. How are you?”

“I’m great.”

“That’s great,” she breathes.

“What’s up?”

“Believe it or not, business. It’s something important.”

I know this little trick. It’s a girl trick. She’s got business to discuss, something important , something absolutely needing my attention right away, something that has nothing to do with us but that is something that is extremely urgent, perhaps something like a bomb strapped to her throat and me being the only person in the world familiar with the code on its lock. That must be it.