“Write me something dirty. Something sexy.”
I’m sitting in traffic. The light blinks yellow. I tell her she can wait until the next time I see her.
“I guess I can,” she says. “But I want you to do this for me. Isn’t that how you like it? What I want when I want it.”
“And what is it that you want?”
“Well, I want you to fuck me. It’s been weeks.”
“Tell me what you miss.”
“I miss you inside me. Your cock in my mouth.”
“Say that again. Differently.” I stop and look across the way. A woman rolls by on a yellow bicycle. Her blonde ponytail trails along behind her head.
I say, “Pretend you’re writing a story.”
She pauses. I put the phone down on the dashboard at the next turn. The road is empty, mostly. Some old woman. Another bicyclist. Their images are faint, like flat silhouettes. I hear her voice and pick up the phone again. She’s midway into something.
“… of you. I don’t know why, but I hope it’s for more than the way you make me feel after sex. The way you use me like we’re the only animals in a cage. Your eyes are so intense. I feel like you’d yell at me if I didn’t look up when you fucked my mouth. Or, like, bark at me.” She hesitates. She’s always the first to give. I’m right behind her.
“Please. I miss your voice. It gets so deep and… broody.” She laughs nervously. “Is that a word?”
“It is if you want it to be. I like what you’ve said, but we need a story.”
“That’s your thing.” She pauses again. I think to tell her I’m almost there but leave her to finish her thought. “I think that’s all you want from me,” she says. “And I want you to give me the same. I want a story from you.”
“A dirty, sexy story.”
“Yes.”
I feel her accelerated heart beat. Body curled up either in bed or her computer chair. Not smoking now, but the stink of weed in the air. Limp, unwashed hair spread out across her pillow or her tits. Already rubbing her cunt with her free hand.
My teeth gnash.
“Unlock your door,” I tell her. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
“And?”
“And I’ll write you your story.”
