Grass is Greener

She couldn’t resist whatever it contained a possibility of.
 
Not at the point she was. Not so late in the night, at her most vulnerable state.
 
She was thankful for the near-complete darkness he afforded her when leading her through the living room to the bedroom, where only a television flickered softly.
 
“How do you want to do this?”
 
Nervously licking her lips, she answered, “However you want to.”
 
He was beautiful but she didn’t like him. Finally they agreed he’d sit on the mattress and she’d kneel between his legs.
 
“Talk to me,” she said.
 
“What?”
 
“Talk to me. I want to hear your voice. Tell me what you like. Instruct me.”
 
“Sure, baby.”
 
She sat back on her heels and prepared to extract from it her own particular payoff. The sound of his breathing gone ragged. The turgid lengthening of his sex, always a little thrill. Raking her nails down the soft of his arms, clutching at his fingers, the resulting feeling of connect. The sheer beauty of the act itself, her own arousal over it, relishing in the friction created by the squeezing of her own thighs together.
 
“Yeah, baby, you like that shit?”
 
Wrong words, asshole. She liked the word fuck, fuck was beautiful. But the words he was saying weren’t beautiful at the moment.
 
Worse yet, she hadn’t realized how big he was. She tried taking him in all the way but couldn’t, gagging. He drove in and out of her mouth but the bile was rising in her throat, her saliva forming a pool on the mattress. He habitually smoked weed and time passed and it seemed impossible that he would come (at least with her), and she was afraid, she hated herself for not being able to relax her throat, her body’s cursed reflexes…
 
Afterward, trying to kiss him. The feel of his slight stubble on her lips, the lingering sweetness of his mouth. He walked her to the door, she trailing behind him, a towel wrapped round his waist. She was entranced by the tattoo on his muscled back, something gang-ish; it seemed so raw and visceral compared with the boyish softness of his placating, heart-wrenching smile.
 
She knew she would remember, often and perpetually.
 
* * *
 
The other one was beautiful, too, but painfully so, and she loved him the moment he stepped into the car, stared at her with these strange hazel eyes like pools of dark water, unlike any she’d remembered seeing.
 
She cared for his sex with infinite tenderness yet vehemence. Often he would say he would procure a room for them. This never happened; they would end up in a small storage unit he rented with things left over from the apartment he and his wife shared. He was much younger than she, though oddly, she felt the younger, intimidated by his silence, his innate stoicism.
 
* * *
 
Bits and pieces floating through her mind. So difficult to function when she knew she would be with him for the twenty minutes or so it took to make him orgasm (perhaps it would take shorter if she did not purposely draw out his pleasure). Asking him to kiss her once, his tongue darting in a bland rhythmic fashion in her mouth, retracting so swiftly. He liked her large, pendulous breasts and asked her to remove her shirt; only this part of her he would touch.
 
His voice when he urged her on, always piercing her. Wanting to consume every part of him, swirling her tongue around his testicles and taking them softly in her mouth, raking her nails up and underneath the taut curve of his buttocks. Relishing his taste on her tongue, his scent in her nostrils, cologne and the natural smell of his sex. She’d rub her face around his penis, massage her cheeks with the round head, smooth it over her lips as if she were glossing them, as if by sheer osmosis she could own him fully. He would slap her lips and face with his sex like they did in the porn movies and she loved it, she loved every touch and gesture and urged him on breathlessly, giddy and moaning, taking his head back into her mouth and sucking fiercely then letting it slip out with a satisfying plop, as if she were one of those sex starlets, lush and beautiful and desirable.
 
Shivering inwardly at every intake of his breath, how surprisingly much he ejaculated. Swallowing him hungrily, or letting him ejaculate hotly on her face, which he loved...
 
He was special, so very special. The thought of him alone, his eyes, his name in bold lettering in her mind, the sweet sibilance of it, making her pulsate and quiver with longing, wet warmth easing from her body like music.
 
* * *
 
Only the fourth time did it begin to hurt so much that she began to ponder not answering his text messages, or the other one’s.  
 
For it was soon becoming not enough.
 
She had hoped that time would never come, she had thought she could keep it in abeyance through denial. Worse, she worried they both sensed it. She was losing confidence, especially with the one whose member was so long she couldn’t take it in fully. He would always finish up by himself out of necessity and she would sit there hating herself and wondering if it was the last time she’d be staring at his lovely face but he’d always phone her again.
 
But the other one, whom she was truly in love with, whom she cried over after leaving - she knew she had to cut the cord.
 
It hurt and stung. So very, very much.
 
But something is better than nothing, she reminded herself.

It was transitory, ephemeral. A shot of junk in a dark room, blessed, lovely, too sweet to resist. Her body and soul lit up white, hot and glowing, incandescent, sidereal. The crash was suicidal, the resulting emptiness and despair unimaginable. But he was with her, for some moments, only her.
 
Yes, it was something.