The Writing on the Wall. Ida J
His housemate returns to find us naked on the sofa, eating delivery pizza and drinking wine from the bottle. He takes this in his stride, clearly used to Henk’s shenanigans. He has some wine with us, we have as civilised a chat as is possible between three drunk people, two of which are not wearing any clothes. The housemate stares at me just a little too long, eyes popping out of his head. “You’re his dream girl,” Henk whispers to me conspiratorially.
The housemate heads to bed, while Henk and I repair to the latter’s room, where we fuck savagely on the unmade bed. He has a small, round, firm pillow that he puts under my hips, clearly reserved for such occasions. It’s 4am as we thrust and writhe, bound up in each other completely. In the heady morning light, sweating in the summer heat, windows closed so the whole neighbourhood doesn’t hear us, he tells me we should get married, we should always be like this, always. I agree, we should cling to each other with all our hearts, it’s not often you find this intensity, this strength of connection. We’ve only just met.
We fuck for an hour at least, my cum making wet stains on the pillow, breathless with all-consuming pleasure as we bone sleazily, and I come in convulsions time and time again. Reason enough to agree to marriage on a first date, really. Finally, with me spread across the pillow, he comes inside me, moving with ferocity, I can feel his cock expanding as drives it in as though he would split me in half with it. His hips moving like they have a mind of their own, his heavy breathing as he roars with pent-up pleasure, then the collapses with exhaustion.
In the morning (afternoon?) he drives me home, another surprise. I don’t know anyone else with a car here, I can’t drive myself, having never had a need for. or indeed the financial stability to afford a car. A$AP Rocky postures through the car speakers. “I love bad bitches that’s my fuckin’ problem,” this becomes our song – appropriate, as we do, in fact, both love bad bitches. We talk about our impending marriage, he says he wants children, I say I don’t. “Ah come on, we’ll have amazing children, I’ll buy you new tits!” He comes up to my flat even, has a cup of tea, gives me some of his ADHD meds to help with my studying. Promising boyfriend material, I think. Perhaps I’ll add him to the rotation.
The next day I’m texting Jared, another recent addition to the growing collection of fuckboys. Turns out he was at the same bar last night, he sends me a picture. What a weird coincidence, that we were both there. I wonder if he got fucked as good as I did, although I refrain from asking.
For a while I don’t hear from Henk, I message him to say hello and get no response, I just assume he’s away or no longer interested. Then one day I come home to my housemate, Wifey, with the biggest look of glee on her face, saying “I have the cutest thing ever for you!” It is a note from him, with his email and number.
Darling, (heart drawing) My phone I decided to leave behind…
He was at a festival and lost his phone. He signs off with kisses and a drawing of a cock and balls. I’m astounded he remembered where I live, the nondescript shabby suburb with identical apartment blocks. He remembered the number even, the note was in our letterbox.
I’m delighted that he’s back and we arrange to meet up again. It’s intoxicating and we are intoxicated. He picks me up as he kisses me hello. I press a thumb into that small dimple in his chin. Such a handsome guy. We’re meant to go to the Van Gogh Museum, to see the exhibition about Van Gogh and his illness, but it’s too busy to bother. We ride around with me on the back of his bike instead, his enormous bike that befits such long legs. His shirt is loose open too far down, a couple of chains swung around his neck and a skinny scarf knotted there too, for good measure. He waves a cigarette around as he cycles.
Back at mine, we smoke on the balcony, the sun shining on us like that sweet summer day would never end. The flat is very basic, on the outskirts of the city, in a crumbling 60s social housing block that has seen better days. But there’s space and light and it costs nothing. I have ripped up the hideous plastic flooring in my room to expose the bare concrete underneath, the bed is a mattress on the floor, all my clothes are on one metal shelf, the kind you put in the garage for tools. I’ve strung fairly lights up, my drawings are on the walls and I own almost nothing, so the overall effect is pleasingly minimal. Or at least, I think it is. Perhaps I come across as a bit ascetic. In that sense if in no other.
Back in the shade in my room, curtain floating over the window, we shed clothes, hushed hazy swoon of summer. A rush of sensation as he does a small dance, shifting from side to side on his feet. A grin spreads across his cheeky face. On the white duvet, I sprawl naked, tingling with sensuality. He lies with me, kissing me, I relax heavily into his arms, as if I were a marionette suspended from the ceiling. Sinking into the puffy duvet as it crunches around us, as though we were falling. Falling to our doom or falling in love, it’s all the same to me right now.
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