The candle on my bedside table gutters under the ceiling fan as I stretch out naked beneath my dark sheets. I imagine my creamy whiteness and soft curves stand out like the flesh of an eggplant against its skin.
I hear you push through my front door, the puppy wriggle, and then see my bedroom door push open. It’s “very late,” just like you said it’d be.
You come to me, closing the distance, and remove what little clothing you have. Your meat hard and hot in your hand is by my face. I lean over and suckle the glistening head and push my face down farther.
“I’ve missed you this week, Hy. I’m so sorry I’ve been distant. There’s no excuse for that. You certainly don’t deserve it. But I’m here now if you’ll let me.”
My answer is a harder suck…
Only, that’s not what happened. At all. Instead I woke up to a warmly lit room at 1:30 am alone and with no returned message. My phone tells me the last of our correspondence went something like this:
A little after 11 pm, when I got home from a first date with a handsome 30-year-old, I asked, “You win??” And when I awoke, restless and unnerved at close to 1:30 am I checked my phone. Nothing.
I texted again, “Why do I keep waking up and you’re not here?? :( And you haven’t said boo. So not like you.”
It’s almost 9:30 am and I still haven’t heard from you. I’m sure you’re headed to work.
This just isn’t the man I know. All week I’ve struggled with this “no plans” thing. It feels like a line out of He’s Just Not That Into You. Just the week before you were laying plans with me and then I reneged on our “no feelings” policy and here I sit. Angst ridden and feeling slighted. This is, I’m certain, all my fault.
Monday night you met the friends I’ve wanted you to meet. We drank and laughed riotously and headed down to the hot tub. Seven of us, you the only stranger, and you fit in and were charming and gracious as ever. And as I let you out of the pool gate you whispered to me that maybe you’d come fuck me that night, but later said no. Instead, you promised you’d fuck me the next night.
Tuesday night you cancelled on me with a genuine apology, but no promise to come over either. I left the door unlocked hoping you’d come over anyway, but instead you called to say you wished you could get both 8 hours of sleep and fuck me, but that you were opting for the 8.
Wednesday you flat-out ignored a text of mine asking if you were busy and to come over, the door was unlocked. The next day — after I inquired — you said you hadn’t seen my text till 1 am because you’d been busy.
Thursday, I put myself out there again and felt good about it. You gave me hope with your filthy response only to detract it all with silence and absence and yet another feeble “maybe” in your language.
What is going on, dear Neighbor?
Tonight, you need a favor from me and I must admit I’m ill inclined to come through for you. This is bullshit. No one else treats me this way and I plan on pointing this out to you. I’ve been thinking long and hard about my feelings and I’m confident that I’m reasonably upset after this week. And reason is always paramount for me.
I miss you, friend, and yet you are handling this poorly all of a sudden. Where’s the man who was checking in with me nearly every day last week? The man who cleaned my apartment, met my friends, silently got me a chair to sit on unasked before their watchful eyes?
Where did you go??
The date helped peg me back to earth as I cheekily declined a quick fuck with him. I didn’t feel the chemistry. He was extremely handsome and charming, but lacking in some invisible way. Perhaps it was how he told me he loved the idea of a 17-year-old lusting after him and that 18-year-old pussy was a delicious treat. I’m certain the disgust on my face was more than a flash, the look in my eye more than disdain.
But he begged me to come back and to let him fuck me. Begged. I told him I didn’t need notches on my belt anymore and I felt proud of saying no, of doing what you’ve been coaching me to do for months. “But I’ve never fucked someone I’ve only just met!” he pleaded.
“I have,” I replied, “And frankly, I might get fucked again later. How many men am I going to fuck in one night? If saying No to you tonight means I’ve wrecked my chances for a second date with you, I’m ok with that. I don’t need this.”
His pleading was embarrassing. He wouldn’t stop. He was throwing out everything he could think of to turn me around, desperate. I hung up on him and drove the rest of the way home hopeful of seeing you, my young friend who lives next door.
(Funny thing is that dude texted me at 12:30 to ask if the fuck I’d been looking forward to with you was worth passing up on his offer. Oh, the irony.)
I’ve run out of plays this week. I’m not sure what my next move is. I want to hide away and be left alone. I fear you asking me to fulfill that favor in equal measures because I don’t want to and I want to. I never say no, remember? I’m bothered that I’m afraid of the word with you when you are so comfortable using it with me. And that bothers me.
Actually, none of this sits well with me. You are a wonderful guy and I hate that I have these sniveling little things to say. I like being proud of the way you treat me and this week… well, I’m not so proud. Not proud at all.
I hope we can talk today, but the ball’s in your court. It will be up to me to have the strength to leave it there.
Fuck. I hate that that this is what I have to say. Hate it.