Paula Bomer

Two Years

He was the one to give her head when she was on the rag. He liked it, the saltiness, the nastiness of it. He grabbed her legs so hard it left bruises, because she claimed she didn't want him to go down on her when she was bleeding. Yeah, right. Her pussy was so clean anyway, even when she bled. The shock of it. He tongued her asshole, too. Fresh as a daisy, this girl. Broad daylight, on the lumpy futon on the floor of his room in an apartment in Allston, Massachusetts. Totally naked, their skin pale and visibly human-veins, pimples-lit by the sun streaming in, the bright, midday sunlight. Some torn sheets hanging in the windows, not providing much protection from the fierce light. As they move, dust rises in the streams of light, surrounding their glowing bodies. It was noon, maybe 2 P.M. They'd been having sex all morning. Hungover sex, "hangover helper" he called it. She propped her head up on a pillow so she could watch his face in her cunt, the top of his forehead, his receding hairline, the dark, almost black strands of hair, his long, long hair, falling past his shoulders. Rock drummer hair. He'd look up at her. Pull his mouth away from her and she could see it, his mouth, dark where her blood streaked him. I fucking love your pussy, he says quietly, a finger inside of her.

They didn't have much in common. He didn't read, and she wasn't from the Boston area, but he changed her life the day he ate her out for an hour straight, moving the vibrator around inside of her, outside of her and finally sticking a finger up her ass and-she came. For the first time. A huge, huge blood-curdling, screaming, flying-across-the-room orgasm, that ended with her smacking her head against the wall. Did he levitate her? How'd she get so far off the ground, so high in the air? After that, he owned her. Not that he necessarily wanted to, but he did, and so that was that. And then she was terminally in his bedroom, naked, begging for it. Please, Curt, please. Don't leave me. Don't, don't. Taking her clothes off, wanting him so badly, falling to her knees. Her hands gently petting his head, God, Curt, oh, oh, moving his head ever so slightly, as he eats her out for the ten-millionth time.

Actually, it wasn't always that way. At first he had to coax her. Come on, let me kiss you down there. She was barely nineteen and she'd blush. Oh don't do that. That's gross. Oh no it's not. And she'd let him do it and she'd get so excited and yell stop, stop and pull him up and into her. Which was fine. He'd fuck her and he liked doing that. She was ten years younger than him and skinny and-ten years younger than him. Pale nipples on her pointy little tits and a long perfect stomach with the tiniest little bulge resting in her narrow hips. Her pink, little girl cunt, with youth fluffing it up and dripping out of it. You're made for sex. You're built for this. Your pussy should be in magazines. And he'd roll onto his back and sit her on top of him and lean her back, with her knees stretched as far apart as they could go, and instinctively (or maybe someone had told her, but he doubted it, because every other guy she'd fucked before him was some young, dumb college jock who'd fuck her cloggy style with the lights off), gently, saying, yeah, yeah, with her left forefinger and middle finger, she'd pull herself wide open for him. Wide open in the middle of the day. He liked it. Liked seeing all that.

Later, they'd go shoot pool down the street. Or he'd be playing and the bass player would pick them up and drive them to the club. She'd watch him play drums. Standing directly in front of the stage with her friend Katie. The two in nearly matching Betsey Johnson skintight minidresses. Her mouth slightly open, shiny pale lip gloss, moving awkwardly to the music. She was a horrible dancer. And afterward, she would come right up to him. Stand next to him, step on his foot. Sorry, she says sheepishly, her brow anxiously furrowed. He just wanted to talk to his friends. And sometimes he had schmoozing to do-label people, a guitar player who may want to use him. His mother might be there. No matter, there'd Sonia be, right next to him. Her breath stinking of beer and cigarettes. She'd drink four beers during his set and smoke half a pack. Her arms folded nervously over her tiny chest. Her hair limp against her moonish face. Her mascara smeared. Okay, okay, sometimes he'd be talking to a cute girl. He played in a band for God's sake! Most of the time, the girl would be a friend's girlfriend. No matter, Sonia would freak out. Her face stuck in this weird nervous position. He noticed then her double chin, from the way she held her head smooshed back into her neck. She wasn't fat, she was skinny, but she'd tense up and her chin would fold into itself. It was ugly. Her insecurity made her ugly. He hated her then. Wanted her far away from him.

But then he'd drink four beers, and eventually Katie would drag Sonia away somehow, so Katie could talk to some guy, and he'd have fun talking to his friends. Smoke some weed. And then the bar would be closing-this was Boston, the bars closing at 2 a.m.-and he actually would want to bring her to Nat's house, some of the times. Sometimes, he didn't want to bring her. Sometimes, he just didn't want to deal with her, her being nervous and jealous. Other times, he wanted her warm body around, her cute, young, young body, her skinny legs sticking out of her tight minidress, wanted all that nervousness even, that he would pound out of her later. Pound pound pound her late at night, early in the morning, in the dark of his room, on the futon, sometimes as the sun came up. She was loud when he did it. And so it would start all over again. And as the sun trickled through the sheets in the windows, then he could see her. Another day wasted in the lemon freshness of her youthful pussy, another day of playing with her young body and she bent over and under him with such desperation and abandon. Later, at four or so in the afternoon, he'd get her to buy him breakfast at the diner down the street. Then she'd go home to shower and change into another one of her slutty outfits-he didn't let her keep clothes at his house anymore. That he put an end to. He'd be listening to Neil Pert drum solos, playing air drums, and he'd hear the answering machine pick up, "Curt, Curt, are you there?"

Sonia, Sonia, go away! Why was it so hard to make her leave him? He treated her like shit-well, except for the fucking. He fucked her right. He couldn't help himself. A woman's body in his face and he had to do his job. It was enough for her, or so she claimed, but she was miserable. She'd given up all her self-respect, and for what? For his face between her legs. She was crazy. Sometimes, he blamed it all on her ass, but you can't base a relationship on an ass. Her flat, white, smooth as silk ass. Skin like a baby's. It killed him. A shapeless ass, small as a boy's. He loved her ass and loved opening her legs up underneath her ass. He didn't love her anymore-maybe he never did-but when she showed up at three in the morning, letting herself in with the keys he needed to take away from her, not turning on the lights, saying, I need you, I need you, slithering in bed with him, crying, breathing unevenly, uninvited, what could he do? Her mouth on his cock and he'd be hard in seconds and then it was too late. He had to get those keys from her. And tell her it was over.

He asked for the keys outside of the diner on Harvard Avenue one warm spring afternoon. She'd just bought him French toast with bacon, orange juice, and a cup of coffee. He asked her for the keys, saying, this is not working, I need my space right now, it's not you it's me, like that, on the street, so that she couldn't start taking her clothes off. Or throw too much of a hysterical fit, although she wasn't much into self-control. During that last breakfast in the diner, she'd been weepy and whiny, we only see each other twice a week, I mean, I guess it's okay, but why don't you want to see me more? What's wrong with me? What don't you like about me, sniffle, sniffle? I can change, I can, I really can.

No you can't. No one can. I can't either. He tries to tell her that that is what he doesn't like about her, the what don't you like about me, I can change. The sheer lack of pride. He can barely look at her when she starts in with that pathetic shit. How could he have let it go on for two years? Two years…

So what happens next? He already started fucking that girl in Portland, the one with the nice Volvo. She stunk of money. And she lived far away. Although he could see a future with her, her money, her scowl, her no-bullshit attitude. The opposite of Sonia's wimpiness. He needs a hard-headed woman, just like Cat Stevens says. Meanwhile, lots of hang-ups on the machine. Then a message from her. I need to talk to you. He doesn't call back. More hang-ups. Then a week later, another message. And then, a week after that, he picks up for some reason and it's her. Just let me see you one more time. I need to talk to you. OK, he says, I'll drive over in the cab, I'm driving tonight.

He drives over. It's dark, around 9 P.M. He honks. He's not parking. He's not going in there. The cab idles in front of the yellow house where she lives. He sees her come out the door and he steps out of his cab, leans against it. It makes him feel secure. She's lost weight, she's even skinnier than before. Her hair seems longer, stringier. She's wearing a tight miniskirt, like always. Those skinny legs look like he could break them with two fingers. She walks down the steps and onto the sidewalk. He folds his arms. He's not gonna let her make him feel guilty. He doesn't owe her anything, except seven hundred bucks. He doesn't owe her himself though, he doesn't owe her. He's afraid she's gonna fall down, she seems so weak, so pale, so helpless. Did he do this? It's her life, it's not his responsibility. Give me one more chance she whispers, and he can barely hear her, the motor of the cab hums loudly. Did he read her lips? Please, give me one more chance, I can change, she croaks. One more, one more. But his arms remain folded, and he shakes his head, no. He gets in the cab and he sees out of the corner of his eye that she's walking back to the yellow house, and he's so relieved, he was afraid that she'd do something crazy, jump on the cab, throw herself at him, and he drives away, wishing he could go all the way to Portland tonight.

Ah, Sarah in Portland. Lays there like a board, but her pussy's as slick as a seal. When she comes, she makes the tiniest of noises, moves her hips one centimeter. Blip. And it's over. It's as if all that money keeps her mind off of her body. It's a relief. It's… low pressure. It feels like fucking a wife would. No more screaming and thrashing about. No more hysteria. No more Sonia! No more.

Curt drives, his breath a little uneven, to a parking lot behind a convenience store. There, he rolls down his window and smokes half of a joint. It costs fifty bucks to lease a cab for the night. He needs to make at least fifty bucks. Christ, he wants to do more than break even. The pot starts numbing his mind. He feels better. He feels relieved. A tiny bit of sadness creeps into him, but he shrugs it off.

He pulls over to the cab stand on Harvard Avenue. A gaggle of BU girls walks down the street, swinging their glistening hair around in the clear New England night. They get in the cab in front of him and he pulls up to take its place, then turns on the radio and a Rush song is playing and he thinks, this is good, this is a good sign, and he takes his hands off the wheel, and with the utmost precision, air drums all of the fills. Tonight he'll try his luck with the rest of the college students in Boston, those girls out on the town who, drunk and terrifyingly young, hopefully will need a ride somewhere, and pay him to give it to them.

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Paula Bomer has an M.A. in creative writing from the City College of New York. Her work has appeared in Global City Review, Open City, Feed, Ms., and other publications.

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"Two Years," © 2000 by Paula Bomer, first appeared in Nerve (Nerve Publishing LLC, 2000); www.nerve.com. Reprinted by permission of the author.

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Paula Bomer
Two Years