We were two steps into my professional bedroom when John slammed the door behind us. He flung me against the mirrored closet doors in the entry hall, forcing me to look at myself. My face was flattened against the glass, distorting my high cheekbones. My breath steamed the surface. I was flushed, wild-eyed, even a bit scared. I heard John tugging at his pants, the telltale zip and clang of metal. I reached for my own pants, pushing them off my hips. As I felt him against me again, I moaned. I couldn’t help it. It was heaven to have him so close.
His smell. His boyish smell was now the expensive cologne of a man, but this close, the layers of scent could be distinguished. He still used the same soap, the same toothpaste. I hadn’t been this close to him since that night we had almost completed the circle; that night where I could’ve had him and kept him instead of it all ending in tears. His movements were rougher than before but also more practiced. I heard the crinkle of a condom wrapper and the smell of a flavored lubricant permeated the air. I wondered if fruity lubricant was what she preferred. I closed my eyes like they could shut out the thoughts. That was unnecessary, because I lost all sense of fear as he pushed into me. He didn’t wait for me to relax, but made room for himself inside by steadily feeding me the blunt head of his cock. It wasn’t polite, but it was good. Sex with John was different, more real. I could feel my body respond to him, open for him and welcome him. It still hurt; even after all those I’d been with, there was always that physical twinge of pain until we were both so turned on that pain and pleasure were hard to tell apart. But I wanted this to hurt. I needed to be hyper-aware of who was fucking me.
I’d played enough rape scenes to know that you don’t turn for a kiss, but the urge to taste him overwhelmed my professionalism. Our lips met and he held me so tightly, I was sure he was going to break my ribs. I loved it. I loved being held so close, like he’d never, ever let go.
I’d never wanted him to let go. I wanted to go with him, to wherever his father would send him to be a straight boy. I would be there, sharing every minute of his life, because he had the other half of my heart and without him I was only half of a person. I couldn’t bear being parted. I thought we both felt that way.
He’d had three kids with some woman he met at Jesus camp. I didn’t even know her name or the children’s names. I’d gotten past the hope of being with him long ago, but now he was pushing inside me, pressing my chest against the closet door. I saw the steamy reflection of myself and his face darkening with lust. There was no doubt who this was, who was in me.
Tears broke free. Was this affecting him the same way? I turned to look; his eyes were closed like he was trying not to see his reflection. It turned my stomach. What was the point? Would fucking me help him on some level? It was killing me.
Killing me to fuck. Great. Now it’s not only a job, but one that’s crushing my soul. Grandpa’s words echoed in my head. If you love what you do, you never work a day in your life. He left out the part about the possibility of being broken.
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