Thank You

He showed up smelling of herb and alcohol as I opened the door. I had told him to wait, asked for his patience while I “prepared for him”…really just making my mind up whether I cared at all while I did tasks for mom. She wasn’t really here any more but I was, and now so was he.

I opened the front door and he was standing there feigning confidence through liquid courage and slit eyes. What a jerk. But I wanted it. I wanted that chaos he rode, but I wanted to destroy it. I knew how I might.

He stepped over the threshold and French-kissed me a hello. I was immediately nervous. His touch, God, what desperation. He needs what I can do. I need to do it for him. We hugged and kissed and then he reared back and said “hi” through his stupid grin.

I took his hand and led him upstairs. He didn’t know where we were headed and so he tried to push me into my childhood bedroom as we had been before. But I stopped him. I opened the door to the Master Suite of the house. He had never seen this room.

He tried to feel me up as we shuffled into the room and I pushed him off. He grabbed my crotch like any other heathen and I brushed him away. Then I grabbed his shirt, pearl snaps, and tore open to the flesh just covering what may be a heart. I was in charge, he suddenly understood, and his heart would never be my concern.

I led him to the wardrobe and stood him up, his lower back pinned against the drawer top. I grabbed his crotch and he gasped. He openly gasped in shock. I had him. I unbuckled his belt and slid my hand in. He was already at attention. I looked him in the eyes. He flenched, ego vanishing from him to reveal fright. He obediently took off his glasses.

Undoing his pants, I dropped to my knees and took him in my mouth without hesitation. He stumbled back against the wardrobe and I pulled him back into me. He mumbled, drunkenly, but to himself. He could barely stand still. I could not tell if he wanted me to do this or not but I certainly did not care.

Instinct took hold and again and again he thrust into me. Again and again, deeper and deeper I took down his manhood. In a flurry of sweat and a rush of blood and cum he released. Chaos gone, in me, down my throat.

“Thank you.” He muttered.

I led him down onto me on my mother’s bed. He tried to touch me again and I commanded him to be still. Again, he obeyed. I tamed whatever lunacy he brought through the door for those brief moments after I separated him from himself. His weight on me was as satisfying as his release. 

He collected and stumbled into his clothes, letting his bullshit chip fall immediately back on his shoulder, and as he left he made a sly comment about hoping to come again soon. I said goodbye, not caring ever to speak to him again.

“El Fuego”, Orozco, 1938