So It Goes

Ass

You tell me to meet you at a certain place at a certain time. You are staying at a hotel nearby, but don’t tell me where. I don’t question you. I meet you at the restaurant.

When we’re done you pay for us, quickly. You always do. It’s something I usually forget, but always take notice of in the moment and deeply appreciate not needing to worry about. If I ever have the chance to even try to argue, you don’t let it last long. I appreciate that, too.

It isn’t a point of pride, either. It’s just something you always take care of.

I would get another drink, but I honestly don’t think I want anymore. You’re plenty.

In general, we’re just catching up. When is the last time we saw each other? A couple of years, at least. It’s your first time visiting out here. You’re traveling on business. It’s not the best time for someone to be dropping in on me. I have a lot going on, but it’ll do. I can’t remember if you offered to let me skip our meeting. But frankly, I would never. Miss meeting you the first time you visit while I’m living here? Absolutely not.

By the time you come back, I may be gone.

As you lead me out of the restaurant, the logistics come up of whether you’ll walk back to the place you’re staying, or if you’ll catch a ride with me. Can you smoke in my car? Do I want to come in? I can’t stay, you preemptively tell me.

“I can’t?” I ask.

“No,” you answer definitively.

“Why is that?” I want to know if it’s a real reason, or a fake reason.

“They booked me in a room with multiple beds, and they didn’t guarantee the room would be private. I might be sharing. So, like, anyone could come in at any moment.”

Bullshit. If you checked in with a group of people, even if you had to split up several rooms with several different bed configurations, you would know by now who was sleeping where. It’s almost 9 p.m. No one is going to surprise you late into the evening.

I play along with your completely one hundred percent fake reason.

“So, you might have roommates?” I ask.

“Yeah,” you confirm.

“But you don’t right now.”

“Not at the moment, no.”

“So, you are inviting me up?” I clarify.

“Yeah, I suppose,” you admit, trying to sound noncommittal.

I load you into my car, where you are thrilled to find out you are allowed to smoke. We circle around to a better parking location near to where you are staying. Confidently, you walk me through a series of doors and hallways all the way to your room. Indeed, you are not lying about the size of the room you have. It appears to be a mini suite, with three beds, a wet bar, and sitting area. However, you’re alone in it.

Your story is entirely plausible, but still not believable for how late in the evening it is. You scored this room by yourself, you lucky bastard. Why aren’t you admitting it to me?

You offer me a drink. You have an open bottle of something. It’s a dark liquor. Something manly and strong, and you can only offer it to me on ice or neat.

“Ice. Not a lot,” I tell you.

“Of the ice? Or the drink?” you ask.

“Both,” I instruct. I prefer to be drunk on you.

I notice your own drink is also on the short side.

Since there isn’t any other better place to sit, we both slide onto a bed. You keep your back against the headboard. I lie on my side, stealing some of your pillows for support. There is an undeniable tension. I bring my drink to my lips.

“I think there are erotic movies,” you say suddenly, grabbing the remote control on your bedside table. “But I don’t think I can bill things to the room.”

I laugh without hesitation. You’re not usually that quick-witted. “The movie title won’t print on the receipt,” I say. I think you remember that one of my old jobs was working at a hotel front desk.

“Thank god for that,” you say. Instead, you flip on something boring and easy for us to talk over.

“How long are you here for?” I ask. We had been talking about other things most of the evening; we didn’t get a moment to address how long you’re around for.

“Late tomorrow. The event I was here for was yesterday. Tomorrow we have some loose ends to tie up, and then we’re done.”

Not that I have a lot of time on my end, either, but this is really the only chance I have to see you. Why does it always feel so rushed? Time is never on our side. It gets so tiresome. We’re constantly chasing this, since we were teenagers. I hate this feeling. It’s a race we never complete, a finish line we never reach.

“Up early tomorrow?” I ask, sipping my drink again.

“Not too bad.”

“So, we shouldn’t stay up too late,” I muse casually.

“Yeah. In fact, you should go before I do something I regret.”

“What in the world is that supposed to mean?” I am surprised by how high you’ve raised the stakes of our conversation. What is the something you might do, and why would you regret it?

You look at me as if I should know what you’re talking about, and then something in your face shuts down again. “Don’t do this to me. You want şanlıurfa escort to keep me ‘up late?’ Is that one of your hints?”

“You’re overreacting. I’m just saying I don’t need to be anywhere tomorrow. So if you do, I want to be aware of your schedule. I’m trying to be polite.” I hold up one of my hands, surrendering.

You pause, thinning your eyes and lips at me. You’re constantly suspicious of my motives. “Okay,” you say, skeptical.

I chuckle at you. “Because, if you’re also thinking I would want to keep you up late, touching your sexy body and having you touch mine…” Your eyes lock with mine, unmoving. “I would never admit to that.”

“Right! Exactly!” you practically scream, your finger pointed in my face.

“Do you want to admit to that?”

“What?” You pretend you don’t know what I’m asking.

“Do you want to admit to being interested in staying up late with me? Touching my body? And having me touch you?”

“No, absolutely not.”

“No, what?”

“No, I won’t admit that,” you say.

“You won’t?”

“No.”

“Why not?” I ask.

“Why not?”

“Yeah.

“You know.”

“I don’t know.”

“I can’t. You know I can’t.”

“That’s not true. I don’t know that.”

“Didn’t you just say you would never admit it?”

I’m quiet. I did just say that. “Yes.”

“So. I won’t, either. Make sense?” You raise your glass to your lips.

Fuck. You win.

Or, is this a stalemate? Perhaps if we both go back to our respective corners, we could come to a truce?

“Fair enough,” I agree with your logic. “I just came up here for a relaxing nightcap and some classy pornographic films. So, I don’t know why you’re not delivering on the rest of what you promised me.” Luckily, my joke lands, and I make you laugh.

“What kind do you want?” you ask.

I begin to slide off your bed, excusing myself to your bathroom. “If you can find some girl-on-girl stuff, that would be hot,” I call to you, as I’m closing the door.

Inside your hotel bathroom, I’m jealous to discover you have a rather luxurious situation. I’m a sucker for a good bathtub, and yours has whirlpool jets. As I’m exiting, I’m about to comment on your tub amenities when I see you are actually flipping through the available X-rated films for your room.

Hold on.

Back up.

“I thought you said—”

“Well, if you really want one,” you tell me, and meet my eye.

You’re still sitting on the bed in the same position you were before, your back against the headboard, your legs out in front of you. You haven’t gotten in bed, undressed, changed the lights, or otherwise surprised or ambushed me. You’re just asking me if I want to watch an erotic movie with you. I think.

I don’t know how to read this. I don’t know what you want. The only thing I can think to do is ask you. I climb back onto the bed, this time getting closer to you. You’ve given me such mixed signals in the short time we’ve been alone in this space, I’m not sure what to think. What I do know is, I get the truth when I’m closest to you.

Sliding as close to you as is comfortable in this moment, my legs tucked under me a bit, I perch next to your body as best I can.

“I want lots of things,” I say quietly. “What do you want?”

“I’m not sure,” you admit. I’ve waited years to hear you say that. I’d rather hear that than something that isn’t true. “Can we resist this?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “Do we want to?”

We seem to look over the whole of each other’s faces and hands. Neither of us speak for what feels like a long time.

“I don’t,” I say, finally.

“Sometimes I do,” you tell me.

I don’t know how to feel about what you’re saying. “Why?” I ask.

“It’s hard to get over.”

Yes, yes it is. Don’t I know it.

As a matter of fact, that’s always been my argument for why we should go into this one hundred percent. If we just go in full-force, we won’t have to keep separating and feeling this pain all over again.

But have I ever made that case to you? Have I ever explained it clearly?

“I know,” I oversimplify.

“It’s just always so exciting when we give in.”

I say nothing. You’re right. I can’t tell if you’re thinking out loud, or trying to gauge how much I agree with your point of view on our situation.

“That’s why we give in so often,” I estimate.

“Probably,” you agree.

My eyes drift to the television, where you halted the menu almost as soon as I came out and rejoined you. I tilt my head toward the screen. “Were you serious about that?”

“Were you?”

I half-roll my eyes at your answer. “If we put on something like that, this becomes a very different evening.”

“Does it?” You look at me.

“What are you talking about?”

“You don’t think we can sit here as friends and watch a simple film together?” Your tone lightens back up, and I’m beginning to think you may actually be serious about this idea.

“That gaziantep sarışın escort kind of film?” I look you in the eye.

“Why not?” you ask. You don’t seem to be kidding.

“I thought you were kicking me out.”

“I’ll kick you out after it’s over.”

“Sure.”

You cock an eyebrow. “You think I won’t?”

“You want me to sit here, on your bed, sipping whiskey on ice, and watch a porn with you. And you think we’re going to get through that by politely sitting next to each other, keeping our hands to ourselves, and then you’re going to ask me to leave?”

“We can try.” You sip your drink. “Can’t we?”

Oh shit. We sure can.

“I guess I’m game if you are,” I say. “But I may need a refill.” I rethink my earlier request for a small amount of liquor. If I’m meant to keep my hands off you, I will absolutely need something to dull my senses.

You oblige me, putting more in your glass as well. When you join me again back on the bed, I have had a minute to scan the details of the film on the screen. You did, per my request, find a girl-on-girl film.

“You actually found one?”

“Are you impressed?”

“Yeah, a little,” I admit.

“So, this is the right choice, then?”

“I mean, I don’t want to pressure you into anything you don’t want.”

“Are you kidding?” You press whatever series of buttons is required to accept the fees.

“What about the charges to the room?” I ask.

Your eyes drift for a second. “They did ask for my personal credit card when I checked in.”

“Oh, did they?” I ask, not fully believing your cluelessness. “And this wasn’t an elaborate plan?”

You look at me after placing the remote control back on the nightstand. “Now you’re overreacting.”

“You think so?”

“Yes,” you say, confidently.

“You think I didn’t assume we might get a little crazy tonight?”

“Wait, what?”

“It doesn’t— never mind.” I shouldn’t tell you any of this.

“Why, what did you do?”

“We’re missing the thing. You just paid for this.” I point at the terrible film, which has started playing.

“Stop it. What are you talking about?” You try to refocus me.

“I just… wore something under my clothes.”

“What?” Your question could be asking what the thing I’m wearing is, or be asking for further clarification on what I’m talking about. Your inflections are sometimes so broad.

“And—”

“And?!”

“—there’s something in my bag.”

“What? What?” This time there is a distinct difference between your questions.

“Are you sure you even want to know? You said we should just sit here.”

“Yes. You have to tell me now,” you insist. I’ve awakened your giddiness. You’re adorable.

Before opening my mouth, I contemplate. It’s not that I don’t want to tell you. I desperately do. Ideally, you would have admitted to me during dinner that you have this room to yourself. We would already be in bed. Your hands would be on me. I’d be telling you how much I’ve missed you.

But so far tonight, you’ve been very hot and cold. In this moment, you seem to be wanting so badly. So am I. And we’re maintaining this imaginary “rule” of not making contact with each other.

Why?

“Why do you want to know, if we’re not going to take advantage of any of it?” I ask. I really want to know. If we’re playing a game, I want to know the rules.

You consider. We often have trouble being honest with each other. Maybe we can put things in the parameters of an actual game, and communicate more effectively.

“What if I asked to see?”

“What if? Are you asking?”

“Maybe.”

“Not touch?”

“I won’t touch.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely,” you promise.

I lean back slightly, not sure of the position I’ve put myself in. Am I offering to get undressed for you, but only for visual purposes? So we can see if we can resist touching each other?

This is very unlike us.

“Why not?” I say. I begin to slip off my shoes and other accessories. When I start undoing my pants, I can tell you are taking things more seriously. When they come off, I reveal what I had been talking about. I had decided to wear a black lace lingerie set. Nothing too excessive, but it was slightly more luxe than your average underwear.

To be honest, I’m not rushing for you. Why should I? You’re basically challenging me to a game of not touching each other for our entire time together tonight. And now you’re, more or less, daring me to undress? I intend to make this painful for you.

I hand you my drink, for safe keeping. I kneel on the mattress and unbutton my pants. I don’t have to bend over so severely when I remove my pants from my hips, but I do. I don’t need to stretch my arms so far to get my top off, but I do.

When I’m finished, and in my simple black lace outfit, I look at you as calmly as I can. I don’t want to disrupt the fragility of the moment. Your eyes trail up and down my body.

“I şehitkamil escort see,” you breathe. I laugh a little. “And what did you say you brought with you?”

I hesitate. “A vibrator.”

You slide off the bed. “Excuse me!”

“Sorry! I got it at one of those parties.”

“You brought it here. You brought it here?” You sit back down, next to me.

“Yeah. I just thought…”

“You thought we might…”

“Why wouldn’t I think that?”

You pause. “A vibrator?”

“Yeah.”

“What kind?”

“Do you want to see it?”

We stare at each other. We’re both not speaking, but not out of hesitation. What direction is all of this going in? You’re deciding on more of the rules in your head.

“Get it,” you tell me.

Obediently, I get off the bed and go to my purse. I slide a sleek satin bag out of it. I bring it back on the bed with us. You are no longer looking at my face. Your eyes on trained on what I am holding. You’re so easily distracted.

“So?” you ask.

“Hold on,” I try to soothe you. “God.”

“Well, what is it?”

“It’s just one of these,” I say, sliding the object out of the sleeve. It’s a simple wireless bullet with a dial at the top.

“Do you use this? On yourself?” you ask. Your brain is fourteen again.

“I mean… kinda.” I guess I’m not doing much better.

“Can you?” Your voice lowers. We’re the only ones here, in case you forgot. “Do you make yourself come with this?”

“Um, yeah?”

You exhale. You’ve been asking to see me come since we were almost too young to know what it meant. Your requests have been so insistent over the years, I’ve always psyched myself out. I love our time together, truly. But I’ve never gotten there with you. It’s so hard to let go.

“What if I asked to see that?” you ask, a little quieter this time. It seems like a question you’re hesitating to ask. You’re shy about it, which is why I think the power should be placed back in your hands. I push the toy into your palm.

“If you want to see me use it, you have to use it on me.”

“Is that one of your conditions?”

“If one of yours is that we are otherwise not touching each other? Yeah.”

You consider my offer. “Okay, fine.”

“Fine.” I recline back on my elbow, which is how I was laid out before. Except this time, I am no longer wearing clothes. Only my fancy underwear, per your request.

You are now holding a vibrator. And we have mapped-out conditions.

You stare at the toy curiously for a moment before fully absorbing the functionality of the dial. A woman’s groan from the television briefly pulls both our attentions away and we look up at it, then at each other. This could not be more absurd, could it?

You turn the toy, grasp it in one hand, and twist the dial with the other. It buzzes, and you jump. You quickly turn it off, then on again. You flash your eyes to me.

“Okay, so where do you want this?” Your shoulders start to lean toward me.

“Hold on, you want to?” I am incredulous. I thought we were trying to resist each other. Are you giving in just like that?

“Yeah, let’s do this,” you say. “I can’t just let you be here… like that.” You gesture to my body.

“You can’t?” I question you. “You mean I don’t just get to lounge here like this? I thought that’s what you invited me here for.”

“Stop it.”

“You’re the one who said we shouldn’t touch. Isn’t that the point of all this?”

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” I tease you.

You twist the dial back on. “Do you stop talking if I start putting this in places?” you ask. I’m a bit unprepared for when you extend your arm out, touch the end of the vibrator to my torso, and begin to slowly trail down toward the top of my underwear.

I do, in fact, quit talking. My mouth is slightly open in a silent cry of surprise as you continue to drag the soft plastic toy across my skin. It gently vibrates on my abs. When it reaches the top of my panties, halted by the thin seam of fabric and decorative lace at the top, you don’t venture further. The small amount of resistance is enough to stop you.

You meet my eye.

“You’re getting warmer,” I say.

I half expect you to keep going. But instead, you lift the toy off my skin and move it to my lower thigh. Then, you start to drag it up. Slowly, you’re inching the little device back up toward my lace bottoms.

Hey, now. Wait a second. Approaching me from this angle is a little more serious. Before, at least, the vibrations were largely being absorbed by my stomach muscles, ab fat, and everything else in my core. Now, you are actually creeping up my thighs, on the fast track to having me part my legs for you.

I can feel you. You’re so close to connecting with the fabric of my underwear. I’m over prepared in a way that is probably unhealthy. My heart jumps when the buzzing device finally touches my panties, sending shockwaves through my blood. My whole body jolts, and you move faster than you had been moving before. Suddenly, the toy is past most of my fun parts, and is resting on the firmness of my pubic bone.

I begin to raise my hand, but then I remember I’m not supposed to be touching you. After feeling like a jolt of electricity has gone through me, and being reminded that I’m deprived of touching you, I lower my back to the mattress in defeat. Why? Why do we do this to each other?

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