Rainy Day

A man whose face you haven’t even seen pulls out of you. He entered your apartment about twenty minutes ago, according to the bedside clock. The door was unlocked. At the sound of him entering you called him back to bedroom where you knelt at the ready, on your elbows and knees, ass in the air. He removed his shoes and pants and climbed on the bed behind you and began lubing up. He had questions:

“Am I the only one tonight?”

“You’re the first,” you replied hopefully, staring down at a pillow.

“How many do you usually get in a night?”

“Depends,” you claimed. Though in fact getting men to show up for a “free fuck” has always proved next to impossible.

“You healthy?” he asked, as he prepared to guide his erection to your hole.

“Totally. You?”

“As a horse. But your email said I could bareback you and all, so...”

“It’s OK,” you said. “I had the vaccine.”

You could feel, at this moment, the swollen, spongy head of his cock press against your hole. He pushed in. He moaned. Pushed deeper. He asked if you were OK. With a final thrust he shoved in all the way.

His cock was a nice fit for your hole. About six and a half inches you guessed, based on the depth. Not too thick, not too thin. A good fit, as you say. He had good stamina, too. He fucked you for a solid fifteen minutes or so, again according to the bedside clock. Then, the occasional moan aside, he pulled out, silently.

For the first time you look back over a shoulder. The guy is middle-aged, a little overweight, not good-looking exactly but not ugly either. He’s already off the bed, reaching for his pants.

“Did you cum?” you ask.

“Yeah.”

“Thanks,” you smile.

“For what?”

“For fucking me so well.”

“No problem,” he says dismissively, more interested in pulling up his pants.

At this moment you’re thinking of all the fakers on the sex personals website; all the guys who’ve chickened out over the past many months of posting your ad; all the no-shows. And not just because you’re carrying this guy’s load of semen deep inside you declare, warmly:

“Would you like to come back?”

“When?” He’s buckling his belt, in a hurry. A wife and kids to get back to, probably.

To the extent one can shrug when down on one’s elbows, camel-style, you shrug meaty, rounded shoulders. “Friday night? Next weekend?”

“I don’t know. We’ll see.”

The man is dressed again. Far as you know he never removed his button-down shirt. He asks:

“You do this every weekend?”

“Yes.”

“Seen your ads before,” he says, leading you to wonder why he asked the previous question. He’s reaching into a lefthand pants pocket. “What’s the charge again?”

“Charge?”

“For the fuck. Your fee.”

You blink. You’re conscious of your balls hanging down now, pendant, heavy, having relaxed. You’re confused. No—he’s confused. He’s confusing you with someone else online who’s offering his services, his ass, in return for money. Or “roses” as the euphemism goes. There are dozens of guys out there like that. Whereas you...you’re just in it for the pleasure. To satisfy an itch—a fantasy—a desire. A desperate need. Come fuck me. PLEASE!

“I...”

“Hurry up,” the man says, consulting the digital watch he never removed. “I gotta get back home. Was it fifty? Fifty?”

You’ve spun around and are now sitting in bed’s center, facing your guest, breasts and belly sagging. You don’t know quite how to respond. So you finally nod and say, “Yeah, fifty.”

He’s pulled out three twenties—from an open wallet not from his pants pocket. “You got change for a twenty?”

“Maybe,” you say, climbing off the bed.

“You know, I’m usually not into heavy guys but...I like that fat ass of yours. Lots to fuck.”

As you pass him by the man gives it a squeeze—your bare ass—your plump left butt-cheek specifically. “Thanks,” you say uncertainly, in response to the backhanded compliment. And the unexpected grope.

“I wouldn’t mind fucking it again sometime.”

“Well as I say...”

“But not for fifty dollars a fucking week. Can’t afford it. In these times?”

“Well maybe...maybe we can work something out.”

“Like what?”

You’ve crossed your apartment livingroom to the kitchen. You open a cabinet door, take down what, to all appearances, is a ceramic cookie jar. It’s painted. There’s a bear on it. A bear swatting downward at a beehive. The bear is brown, the beehive gold. The bear wears blue overalls. You fish out two fives from the cash and loose change the tall, wide jar holds. He hands over the three twenties in return.

“Like what?” he repeats.

You shrug again—though this time you’re standing. Naked. Exposed. Small, limp cock dangling. “I don’t know...Forty?”

“Forty tonight?”

Is he trying to jerk you around? Is this how it works? You decide to play it tough, as if this were a regular thing for you. “No,” you reply flatly. “Next time. In the future. If you come over every week. It would have to be an every week thing.”

“So if I come back this same time next Friday night and fuck you...the fee’ll be forty dollars?”

You nod.

“Deal,” he says. “Forty a week I can do.”

The man is hurrying away, stuffing the two fives in his pants pocket.

“Just confirm it with me, OK?” you call out. “Next Thursday?”

“I’ll email you,” the man promises. Then he leaves.

The cookie jar, money for a “rainy day,” is still sitting out on the counter. But before you put the three twenties inside you examine them as if a foreign currency. You rub the bills between your fingers. Fondle them. Who would’ve thought? you say to yourself. You feel both evil and exhilarated.

You smile.