This was a rewrite of a prior assignment =]
It was always the same when I’d go up there. Every time, driving steadily for 25 minutes, building up my defenses for what I knew I would endure. Since we had met, by way of facebook of course, I had this terrible desire to feel like I was good enough for him. Never had I met a man who had such control over me. I’m young but experienced and i;ve never been one to croon over anyone or anything but something about John, the queen of Best Buy had me wanting to be number one on his list. I think a lot of it was that he had gotten everyone he had ever wanted, how I wasn’t sure, but the fact that he now wanted me made all the technicalities unimportant.
Each night I spent there, bending him over and showing him that this “kid” as he called me may be young but God dammit knew how to fuck. Each and every time we met up I would slip out from under the covers in the breaking hours around dawn and sneak out into the cold morning air to escape, each time feeling shocked and ashamed I had let it happen yet again. Each time I would promise myself that that had been the last time it would happen but deep down inside I knew it wasn’t true.
I know he never actually wanted me there. I was an object and he could get sex from anywhere but he needed me there because not only was I the best he could get but in reality no body wants a used car, especially not one that sees thirty or so owners a year, but those things don’t really bother me.
He kept inviting me because he knew I would go. He’s always been a pretty hot mess and nothing will ever change that but something about trying to tame that beast was thrilling and turned me on in some weird way. If he didn’t feel the need to make everyone feel as shitty about themselves as he felt about himself then he wouldn't be that bad of a guy but he thrives on bringing everyone down. As sharply witted as he could be, key word being “could” as in usually never was, he lacked just about every other nice quality a human could posses. He wasn’t clever or smart but he was a hard worker and decent looking but otherwise he was an empty capsule.
He was honestly pretty ugly actually; crooked teeth, weird shaped body that stood at hardly five feet and five inches but it was those imperfections that made him so perfect for me. I will never be able to forget his eyes, so genuine and calm, always looking dazed and confused, and always judging. That was what got me every time, the genuine look of true caring in his damn hazel eyes.
I always drove to see him because God forbid the adult in the relationship do anything to make it work. I’d pull up and into his driveway, shut off my engine and wait a few minutes. I’d douse myself in the cheap cologne he liked and breathe in and out preparing myself for disappointment. I’d go to the door, knock, and wait to be let in. When he’d answer the door he always looked so shocked to see me, then he’d hug me and invite me in. The hugs were always so stiff and awkward like I was some disgusting viral plague infected beast intruding in his personal space. We’d talk about nothing, Perez Hilton and Lady Gaga, two of his favorites and watch some stupid movie that I had zero interest in.
I always let him pick because even though he would give me the option, he would shoot down any of my choices. When it wasn’t a movie, it was constant reruns of Will & Grace or music video’s online. He had such boring interests. All we ever talked about was the mutual acquaintances or music. Each time we were together we would lay on his bed, awkwardly distanced, waiting for the other to make a move, some minuscule gesture indicating arousal. Every passing moment would double my regret of being there and even though each time I would swear I would never return, I always made my way back there.
We’d be on his bed, on the light brown sheets that contrasted well against the pale green walls, and he would hint for me to make a move. Whether it was upfront or discreet he would find a way to let me know he wanted me to touch him. The way he always approached me puzzled me because after all the months together I had expected it to go away but he always came at me, skeptical and careful. He would pick at my mind, trying to get me to open up and let my defenses down. He knew I was thick sculled and strong minded and yet he somehow always found a way in.
He had this dumb thing where he “never makes the first move”. So instead I was always expected to. The awkward and shameful touching would begin with cuddling that led to kissing which would escalate all the way to full fledged sex. It was uncomfortable for us both. We were no more than pawns, objects to each other and we felt that passion or intimacy of any kind were forbidden in the game we were playing with each other. Sex between us was mathematical, not romantic.
Once we’d begun he’d usually start touching me awkwardly, making the already uncomfortable experience worse. He’d gently and slowly graze his fingers up my leg to my thigh, moving his body beside mine, but never on top of me. He needed to be in control but not completely. He always left me to delegate the interactions as if I were the one who knew what I was doing when he had been hunting for years and I only had about a year’s worth of experience behind me with only a fraction of the amount of men as he. Each time we’d kiss, he’d out his neck back waiting for me to kiss him, as if it were my job in this sad excuse for a relationship.
He had one key quality I really liked about him; the feel of his skin. His skin was pale and always cold but smooth as silk and whenever he would touch me, chills would shoot down my spine. It was the one thing that really made a difference for me during all of our sexual interactions. Even though I wanted to shave his damn stubble off every time I got there, the softness of his skin made that scratching of his face against mine bearable.
He knew the contours of my body so well. Each time making sure to touch all the right spots; my thighs, my hips, my chest, all my favorite places. Whether or not he did that for my enjoyment or his own is beyond me but regardless, I loved the feelings. I’m tough to please in such a way but he could always excite me enough to get me off. That was probably most of what kept me going back. I hated the dirty talking, the whispering in my ear and the muffled grunts and moans. It was something he did and it was something I had to accept.
I had a lot to accept. Such as the fact that whatever this was, this interaction between us, was nothing more than physical. It was something I knew all along just something I never wanted to accept. I knew John had never wanted me, he never loved me, hell he probably doesn’t even know my last name but that didn’t mean that somewhere inside of me I didn’t want him to love me and want me and need me. I just couldn’t let myself accept that he was a player and I was played.
He isn’t a bad guy or anything and I’d never wish bad things upon him he just wasn’t good to me. I’m sure deep down inside there’s an honest and good man in there somewhere waiting to be let out and until then the world will just have to accept that John Lewis is a waste of space.
Each night I spent there, bending him over and showing him that this “kid” as he called me may be young but God dammit knew how to fuck. Each and every time we met up I would slip out from under the covers in the breaking hours around dawn and sneak out into the cold morning air to escape, each time feeling shocked and ashamed I had let it happen yet again. Each time I would promise myself that that had been the last time it would happen but deep down inside I knew it wasn’t true.
I know he never actually wanted me there. I was an object and he could get sex from anywhere but he needed me there because not only was I the best he could get but in reality no body wants a used car, especially not one that sees thirty or so owners a year, but those things don’t really bother me.
He kept inviting me because he knew I would go. He’s always been a pretty hot mess and nothing will ever change that but something about trying to tame that beast was thrilling and turned me on in some weird way. If he didn’t feel the need to make everyone feel as shitty about themselves as he felt about himself then he wouldn't be that bad of a guy but he thrives on bringing everyone down. As sharply witted as he could be, key word being “could” as in usually never was, he lacked just about every other nice quality a human could posses. He wasn’t clever or smart but he was a hard worker and decent looking but otherwise he was an empty capsule.
He was honestly pretty ugly actually; crooked teeth, weird shaped body that stood at hardly five feet and five inches but it was those imperfections that made him so perfect for me. I will never be able to forget his eyes, so genuine and calm, always looking dazed and confused, and always judging. That was what got me every time, the genuine look of true caring in his damn hazel eyes.
I always drove to see him because God forbid the adult in the relationship do anything to make it work. I’d pull up and into his driveway, shut off my engine and wait a few minutes. I’d douse myself in the cheap cologne he liked and breathe in and out preparing myself for disappointment. I’d go to the door, knock, and wait to be let in. When he’d answer the door he always looked so shocked to see me, then he’d hug me and invite me in. The hugs were always so stiff and awkward like I was some disgusting viral plague infected beast intruding in his personal space. We’d talk about nothing, Perez Hilton and Lady Gaga, two of his favorites and watch some stupid movie that I had zero interest in.
I always let him pick because even though he would give me the option, he would shoot down any of my choices. When it wasn’t a movie, it was constant reruns of Will & Grace or music video’s online. He had such boring interests. All we ever talked about was the mutual acquaintances or music. Each time we were together we would lay on his bed, awkwardly distanced, waiting for the other to make a move, some minuscule gesture indicating arousal. Every passing moment would double my regret of being there and even though each time I would swear I would never return, I always made my way back there.
We’d be on his bed, on the light brown sheets that contrasted well against the pale green walls, and he would hint for me to make a move. Whether it was upfront or discreet he would find a way to let me know he wanted me to touch him. The way he always approached me puzzled me because after all the months together I had expected it to go away but he always came at me, skeptical and careful. He would pick at my mind, trying to get me to open up and let my defenses down. He knew I was thick sculled and strong minded and yet he somehow always found a way in.
He had this dumb thing where he “never makes the first move”. So instead I was always expected to. The awkward and shameful touching would begin with cuddling that led to kissing which would escalate all the way to full fledged sex. It was uncomfortable for us both. We were no more than pawns, objects to each other and we felt that passion or intimacy of any kind were forbidden in the game we were playing with each other. Sex between us was mathematical, not romantic.
Once we’d begun he’d usually start touching me awkwardly, making the already uncomfortable experience worse. He’d gently and slowly graze his fingers up my leg to my thigh, moving his body beside mine, but never on top of me. He needed to be in control but not completely. He always left me to delegate the interactions as if I were the one who knew what I was doing when he had been hunting for years and I only had about a year’s worth of experience behind me with only a fraction of the amount of men as he. Each time we’d kiss, he’d out his neck back waiting for me to kiss him, as if it were my job in this sad excuse for a relationship.
He had one key quality I really liked about him; the feel of his skin. His skin was pale and always cold but smooth as silk and whenever he would touch me, chills would shoot down my spine. It was the one thing that really made a difference for me during all of our sexual interactions. Even though I wanted to shave his damn stubble off every time I got there, the softness of his skin made that scratching of his face against mine bearable.
He knew the contours of my body so well. Each time making sure to touch all the right spots; my thighs, my hips, my chest, all my favorite places. Whether or not he did that for my enjoyment or his own is beyond me but regardless, I loved the feelings. I’m tough to please in such a way but he could always excite me enough to get me off. That was probably most of what kept me going back. I hated the dirty talking, the whispering in my ear and the muffled grunts and moans. It was something he did and it was something I had to accept.
I had a lot to accept. Such as the fact that whatever this was, this interaction between us, was nothing more than physical. It was something I knew all along just something I never wanted to accept. I knew John had never wanted me, he never loved me, hell he probably doesn’t even know my last name but that didn’t mean that somewhere inside of me I didn’t want him to love me and want me and need me. I just couldn’t let myself accept that he was a player and I was played.
He isn’t a bad guy or anything and I’d never wish bad things upon him he just wasn’t good to me. I’m sure deep down inside there’s an honest and good man in there somewhere waiting to be let out and until then the world will just have to accept that John Lewis is a waste of space.