DISCLAIMER: This is fiction; it's all lies.
THE RIGHT THING
"You never called." I don't give him the chance to answer and I just kiss him until he stops trying to push me away; that happens soon enough.
I press my lips against his until he parts them, and he tastes just like he did the last time, like vodka, like Red Bull, like other people. I'm not sure about the vodka because that could be just me. He likes my tongue piercing, I can tell because he keeps tracing it with the tip of his tongue, and I could tell the last time when he was gripping my hair and thrusting himself deeper into my mouth. I made him groan so loud I could hear it even through the music that made it almost impossible to talk.
"I'm sorry," he says unsurely in his accented Russian. He's not completely new to the language, I can tell that much, but he's a foreigner. He's not one of the poor ones who crawl their way into the country because they think what they'll have here will be better--Magnitogorsk is a bit too far to crawl to. He smells like money and I want to eat him up.
My high is fading; the music is all growls and thumps now, and I'm gripping him and he's gripping me and if I listen hard enough I can hear him say "no" but he's talking to himself because he almost sighs when I won't let him go. He's up against the wall and that's right where I want him to be for now.
I'm sinking to my knees when I feel his hands on me, grabbing me by my armpits, struggling to pull me up, acting as if he wasn't just kissing me the whole time I was unbuttoning his pants, pulling his zipper down. He pushes me away into the back of someone who's too full of drugs or music to notice and he starts trying to zip his pants back up, his cock bulging so obscenely he might as well just have left it out.
"Sorry, I can't," he says again, like he's begging me not to hurt him. He turns to go and I grab his arm, twisting it behind his back and pushing him face first against the wall. He struggles to get free, but he's drunk enough to be too stupid to figure out how. He's warm and inviting, and his squirming just makes me want him more because it makes him feel more alive. I kiss him; I kiss his cheeks, the back of his neck, I lick the sweat off his skin and I bite him, I mark him and he talks again but this time he says, "Not here."
So I let him go, and he takes me to Not Here, and he gives me everything I want.
The smell of toast and coffee wakes me up. I pull the blanket over my head, trying to hide from the smell so I can go back to sleep, but the smell has already crept in and it's trapped under the blanket with me. I throw it off me onto the floor in disgust and look around for my pants.
I wake up in strange apartments almost as often as I do my own so I don't care where I am at the moment, but this one looks different. The room is really fucking clean. And there's expensive clothes in the closet. Not nice clothes, just expensive ones.
I find my pants neatly folded on a chair, instead of crumpled in a heap on the floor, which is why it takes me about five minutes to find them. I check my pocket and I smile when I feel that it's still there; sometimes they search my stuff while I'm sleeping and that's why I only carry just enough.
He comes in five minutes later, his nose wrinkled, making him look a little bit like an unhappy puppy, and he frowns at me. "Put that out."
I take a long drag and exhale slowly, blurring his face behind a cloud of smoke. I laugh at him and I think his frown deepens. I close my eyes and lie back down on his impossibly comfortable pillow, holding the joint out to him. "Want some?"
"No!" he snaps, and I feel it snatched out of my hand. I laugh at him some more because he's like something from a cartoon, and after the sound of footsteps away, an echoing flush, and the sound of footsteps back, I open my eyes to see him standing over me by the side of the bed, chewing on his lip.
I yawn at him, stretching as I slowly get accustomed to speaking. "You didn't have to do that."
"I didn't want you smoking in here," he says, unsure again.
I glance at the window, the dirty snow slowly drifting down, and I get out of bed and stand up next to him, close enough to make him uncomfortable; he looks like he's struggling to stop himself from stepping away from me. "I don't want to smoke out there."
He clears his throat, trying to look away from my cock, and I don't know why he keeps trying when he failed the last seven times. He solves the problem by walking away from me out of the bedroom. "I made breakfast, if you want any."
I stand there watching him go, and a little while later I hear kitchen sounds - pans and plates and forks and knives - and I sit back down on the bed.
None of them have ever stopped me from smoking before; none of them have ever made breakfast.
The sound of a foreign language wakes me up. The words are drifting in through the open doorway and he sounds like he's trying to be quiet, but there's nowhere in the apartment he can talk without it being heard in this room; I don't think it sounds like the kind of conversation you want to have out in a hallway.
I know I've woken up in this room before. I recognize how neat everything is, from the way the closet is organized to the way the pictures are arranged on the bedside table. I pick one of the framed photos up; he's smiling, handsome, and I wonder if that's who he's talking to on the phone.
I have a boyfriend. He said that last night between kisses, as if that was going to work better than stop and no and I can't. Everyone has boyfriends or girlfriends; it doesn't matter if they aren't there. He stopped talking altogether when we got back here.
I rub my eyes and I get up, walking over to the window. It's raining that slushy stuff now, the kind that sticks to your clothes and soaks its way in if you're not wearing the right thing. I bend over, stretching, starting to feel the bruises that I didn't feel last night while I was still drunk. Elbows, knees, stumbling into steps--everything adds up while you're numb. I turn away from the window; I don't really remember the last time I was caught in that without wearing the right thing.
I start to leave the room when I see his wallet lying there on the dresser. From the tone of his voice and the few words here and there I can understand, I know he's not going to be coming in here any time soon. I pick his wallet up and I start looking through it. He's frowning in the picture on his identification card, looking slightly to the side as if he's confused by something he sees there--I've seen worse. Name: Petr Sykora, nationality: Czech. So that's what the accent is. I guessed Hungarian but this makes more sense.
There are more cards and other junk in there, but it's the neatly arranged junk of an organized packrat. It doesn't matter anyway, because all I can see now is the fat stack of notes in the back. I don't count how many there are, but I can tell that it's more than he needs to be carrying around; I know too many people who would kill for this. I take a few notes out and I quietly get dressed, stuffing them into my pocket.
I walk out into the living room where he's sitting in an armchair, so deeply absorbed in his conversation that he doesn't see me until I'm standing right in front of him. He looks up at me in alarm, and he quickly forces a smile, pointing at the kitchen table before guiltily looking away. There's bacon and eggs and potatoes but all they do right now is turn my stomach.
I get my coat and I put it on, slipping my hand into my pocket and running a finger over the money. I'm walking out the door as I hear him say something that means "I love you".
He's licking the tattoo on my shoulder, concentrating on that one spot enough for me to know that he's not just passing through. I want him to just go to sleep.
"Why a dragon?" he asks, pausing before the word "dragon" like he's doing a mental translation. I twist away from him, making an annoyed sound, not wanting to talk about going into the mountains with my grandmother and listening to all her stories about demons and dragons when the last thing I remember about her is her lying in bed, too weak to even cough.
He doesn't ask me again but he keeps kissing my back, running his hand over my hips, making me hard again even though I desperately need sleep. I roll over, grabbing his chin and kissing him roughly, reaching down to make him gasp. He tries to push me onto my back and nudge my legs apart but I stop him, growling as I shrug him off.
He shifts away from me, frowning a little. "What's wrong?"
I shake my head at him and force the words out. "I don't do that."
"Oh." He kisses me again so gently that it's maddening and I bite his lip, making him stop.
I can feel his fingers rubbing my my tattoo as I fuck him, and I forget who he is when I come. He's still asleep when I leave the next morning, clutching his money in my hands.
Sasha passes the joint to me, contentedly puffing out a cloud of smoke. Our stash is a lot smaller than the last time I looked, and I wonder if he's even left the apartment in the past three days.
"Want to hear my song?" His fingers curl around my hand and he squeezes. "I wrote it for you."
I nod at him, trying to smile as he plays his guitar, singing some carelessly written, uninspired tune, wanting him to stop so much the words are on the tip of my tongue.
When he finishes playing, I set the guitar aside and I kiss him, feeling him kiss back, wanting who he used to be so much. I run my finger along his cheek and he smiles at me; I fall for it every time. We tangle up together all afternoon and when there's no more light coming in through the window, I get up, shower and get dressed to go to the club.
Sasha comes out to the living room, draping his arms over me, reeking of pot and sweat and come and I kiss him, almost asking him to come with me, almost forgetting that he never says yes. I press some money into his hands, telling him not to spend it all, knowing that he will, and he grins at me, the way he did when I would chase him down in the woods outside the city and finally catch him.
He slides his hands down my arms, adjusting my shirt even though it doesn't need to be adjusted, telling me I look good, rubbing his thumb on a stain I've never been able to get out, knowing that where I'm going it will be too dark to notice anyway.
"Are you hungry? There's beet soup in the fridge. And sour cream." I run my fingers through his hair, trying to untangle the knots, and he tells me that he'll heat some up later, maybe when I get back. I tell him not to wait.
I grab my jacket from the coat rack by the door, and as I open the door to leave, Sasha says, "I love you."
Petr curls against me in his sleep and I move away from him. My throat is parched so I get up and go into the kitchen to get some water. I settle into the living room couch as I gulp down the water, and I look at all the things he has. He tries not to come across as being rich, but he's a hockey player, played in the NHL for years and I don't know much about hockey but I've heard how much they get paid.
Thirst quenched, I go back into the bedroom where Petr has an arm over where I used to be, and I consider just getting dressed and leaving, but it's the middle of the night and I don't have a way to get home. I move his arm aside and ease into bed, trying not to wake him up. As I'm drifting off to sleep, I feel him wrap his arm around me and I'm too tired to push it away.
The bed shifts as I lie there half-awake, knowing it's still early in the morning. I open my eyes and watch him as he goes to the bathroom to take a piss. When he comes out, he sees that I'm awake and sits down by my side on the bed, leaning over to kiss me.
"Good morning," he says, not sounding Czech for once.
I pull him down on top of me, glancing at his wallet lying in its usual place on the dresser, thinking that I won't get anything today. He kisses me hard, squirming against me, wrapping his body around mine and squeezing me tight, the way I haven't been for a very long time. Then he lets go of me abruptly and goes back into the bathroom, apologizing and telling me that he has to go to practice.
I put my clothes on slowly as he showers; I'll just shower at home. I glance at his wallet and I walk over to the dresser, running my fingers over the dark leather, my reflection staring back at me from the mirror. I open it and take what I want, then set it back down exactly as it was. The picture of his boyfriend smiles at my back as I leave the room.
Petr comes out after I've had some toast and put my coat on. He's dripping wet, a towel wrapped around his waist. "You're leaving?"
I nod at him and reach for the front door, my other hand curled tightly around the money in my pocket. He tells me to wait, and I turn around as he comes up to me, telling me with a little awkward smile that he has a game tomorrow night, and if I'd like he could get tickets for me.
I agree, not wanting him to try and talk me into going when I want to be out that door as soon as I can. He grins and he tells me where to go and who to see and what to tell them and then he stops, his cheeks starting to flush. I lean against the wall, itching to be out of the apartment as I wait for him to go on.
He looks down, and then back up at me and his eyes are already saying sorry as he says with embarrassment, "I don't know your name."