He pulls me close and kisses my ear. He must know he stinks of alcohol because he reaches over my head and grabs something, I can't see what it is, but he sticks it in his mouth and starts chewing. At first I think it is some pill to keep him from falling back to sleep. It is green Trident. He turns me onto my back and starts kissing me on the mouth. I taste the mint and l taste the whiskey it hides. He kisses me all over my face and digs a hole in my ear with his tongue. He leaves a trail of sticky stuff wherever his mouth goes.
I don't know how to say this is unpleasant.
Does your family still live in Florida? I ask.
Yeah. It's a shithole down there.
I don't ask why. I just wonder why they left Canada in the first place.
'Cause they're dumb.
It occurs to me that he probably didn't like school very much. This is a hard concept for me to grasp because teachers were always my friends, I always enjoyed reading I just liked learning a lot. Alex has tattoos all over his body and he plays in a heavy metal band and he doesn't have a phone because he never bothers to pay his bills, but I only begin to understand the difference between me and him because of his attitude toward school, toward family, toward home. All those things make me unhappy too, but for different reasons.
I thought for a while that he was a rich prep school refugee who just does heavy metal as some sort of act of rebellion. But lying here, I understand that he is what he is and that's it. He is not slumming. He is white trash. He hates life. Compared to most people I know, my cat is really cool. He has no choice but the one he has already made. It is the prep school career that was an aberration. Everything that has happened since he got thrown out makes perfect sense.
He is now on top of me. Kissing my face some more and nibbling on my hair which is getting stuck together with green gum. I think, We can just kiss. There's nothing wrong with this.
Then his hands move underneath my skirt. I have no underwear on. He massages the most inner part of my inner thighs and I say, Alex we shouldn't be doing this.
I know, he says. That's why we're going to.
Alex, I say. Today my editor just asked me if I've been fucking around with Don Henley and Steven Tyler because he heard some rumors about that from someone at The New York Times. Funny thing is, they aren't true. I've never even met either of them.
Oh, he says.
But this is true, I continue. And this is bad for my professional decorum.
Decorum's the wrong word, he says.
My professional standards then you know what I mean, I say.
'Standards' is a better word, he says.
Alex, I ask, giving up on the last conversation. Alex, how come you never hit on me before? I didn't even think you found me attractive.
The time wasn't right, he explains. You can't analyze these things.
His hands move under my shirt and under my bra. He rubs my chest and his thumbs make circles around my nipples. I say, I'm probably the only woman in New York who wears a bra and doesn't wear underwear.
That's okay. I like bras.
I decide to stick my hand under his shirt, to seem like I'm participating. He pushes my hands down his stomach and pulls my fingers below the drawstring and into his pants and the flesh I touch there is so hard and so long and so large, it surprises me a little. I usually think that tough guys are trying to compensate for what they lack between their legs. But no.
I hold it tight at first and then I run my fingers along the ridges, curious, interested. I worry that I'm not doing anything to make him feel good. Then I realize, he's not doing anything to make me feel good either. But I feel obligated to act like I'm enjoying myself.
I moan. I wonder when this will stop. Usually, with most guys, maybe on the first date, you neck until someone says that maybe we should stop. Just because you've kissed somebody doesn't mean you're going to fuck them, and certainly not the first time you're together.
But I understand that with Alex I don't stand a chance. I crossed an invisible line as soon as I walked through the door. If l stay, I have to do it. My other option is to leave. And I don't want to leave.
over my face and digs a hole in my ear with his tongue. He leaves a trail of sticky stuff wherever his mouth goes.
choice but the one he has already made. It is the prep school career that was an aberration. Everything that has happened since he got thrown out makes perfect sense.
