jc.tryps

We sit down on the stairs. It’s just him and me now. No one else around. And I know this will  lead to something I don’t really want. I know I shouldn’t be here. I should go. But I don’t. I stay. We talk. At first. It’s like waiting for the inevitable. He asks me things about me. Things I don’t really want to tell. So many questions. As if he cared. As if he wanted to crawl under my skin. As if he really wanted to know me. This, is making me seriously uncomfortable. This, is making me want to tell him to just shut up. This, is not part of the game.

Then, when he leans closer, it almost comes as a relief. I know this. This I can do, this is familiar. Now I understand what he wants. Now it’s simple. His arm around me. His hand on my cheek. He caresses it gently. Too gently. He whispers something I can’t hear and he looks at me. I can’t meet his gaze. I close my eyes and wait. I wait for what I know will come. Step one: he kisses me. Step two: he touches my breasts. Step three: he asks me to come to his room. And from there it goes fast. Step four five and six. All part of the pattern. Beginning to end. A to Z.

Step one. I feel his breath on my cheek. It smells of alcohol. I feel his lips on mine. Surprisingly soft. Then he parts them, ever so slightly. I know what will happen next, what is expected of me. I part my lips, do what I am supposed to. His tongue in my mouth, his hand in my hair. He starts to breathe heavier, kiss harder. So I do too. Because that’s what is expected of me now. In this situation that’s what you do. Step one.

Step one always lasts surprisingly long. I never understood that. To me it seems would make more sense to get to step five as fast as possible, but I guess it’s all part of the game. Then step two comes creeping. His hand is slowly moving closer to my breasts. For every centimetre his breathing becomes heavier. And then, when he finally touches them, I can hear something resembling a slight moan. So I moan back, some sort of reply to his action. My reaction. And now events start speeding up, his hands become more eager. One. Two. Three

“Do you want to come to my room?”

This is when I should say no. Tell him I don’t want to. But I don’t say no. Because that’s not part of the plan, the game. Because that’s not what is expected of me. Because that’s not what he wants. Because if I do, he will leave. Because if I do he will resent me. He will ask questions. Questions I won’t be able to answer and then he will leave. And I don’t want him to leave. Because I am that lonely. I should say no. But I don’t. Because I can’t. Because no doesn’t really exist. Because I am that fucked up.

So I nod and he smiles. We go to his room. His room. Just like any other. Bed, shelves, desk, bathroom. 18 square meters standard student room. Just the same. The stage is set for step four. Now all we need is some additional props. Music. He’s going to ask me if I want to listen to some music. I never ask for something I like at this point. I don’t want songs I like to be tainted. But maybe I should. Maybe it would make it easier. Or make it nice. I know it’s supposed to be nice, and I try to pretend it is. I try to like it. Sometimes I almost manage to convince myself I like it. And that’s what I tell everyone. I tell them I like it. I tell them I do it for my own sake, for pleasure, because I like it. But I don’t. It’s I lie, I know that. But they don’t. Sometimes I think they all lie. Because I don’t understand it. I just don’t get it. I don’t get why this would be something good. How this could be good. Or nice. Or pleasant. But I guess it must be. To them, to others. Just not to me. Because I’m fucked up.

“Do you want to listen to some music?”

“Sure! Put on something you like.”

And I hope he’s going to have a shitty taste in music. He puts on a CD I don’t know. Perfect.

“Is it ok if I smoke?”

I just  need some time to prepare. I don’t even wait for him to answer, I just light it up. Five minutes to prepare. He say’s it’s ok. He goes to the bathroom. The music sucks. I look at his CD’s. Some are good. I’m happy he didn’t choose one of those. I could leave now. While he’s still in the bathroom. But I guess he would hear me. Would he try to stop me though? You never know.

He comes out of the bathroom. Smiles and comes up to me. Takes me in his arms. Whispers that I am beautiful. Step four has just begun. He kisses me. I tell him I have to put the cigarette out. He takes it for me, takes a drag and then puts it out. Kisses me again. Then his hands are all over me. He takes my shirt off. Whispers again that I am beautiful. I think he’s lying. I smile. I take his shirt off. It’s all part of the game. Part of step four. He takes me to the bed. I see dirty underwear on the floor. He kicks them in under the bed. Mumbles:

“I’m sorry…”

I smile. He kisses me again. On the mouth, on my neck. He undoes my bra. Touches my breasts, kisses them, bites my nipples. And I moan, because I’m supposed to. I don’t like it but I know I am supposed to, so I try, but I just don’t like it. He takes off my pants, I take off his. His kisses are no longer soft, they are eager, impatient. I know he wants me. So I let him have me. I play along. I moan, I groan. I touch his crotch. And he groans. I start rubbing even harder and I feel him grow. I slip my hand under his boxers and take his dick in my hand. Yes, I know I am good at this. But I will not take it in my mouth. That’s too much, even for me. The trick is to make him eager enough, impatient enough. Basically to make him so hot he wants to fuck me before he wants me to blow him. Usually it works. I feel his hand in my kickers, on me, in me. And I know I have to moan now, make my breathing heavy, because that will turn him on. It works.

“Just let me get a condom….

He’s lying on top of me, fumbles with the drawer in his nightstand. Finds the condom. I take off my knickers while he puts on the condom. Step four is over. Step five can commence.

He sinks down on top of me again. I spread my legs, I help him get into me. It’s all mechanical. I just hope he will shut up. I hate it when they talk. I focus on his breathing and synchronise my breathing with his. When he moans, I moan. And he thinks I like it. He thinks I think he’s good. And maybe he is. I don’t know. So far he shuts up, that’s good. And he doesn’t look at me, that’s also good. His head is buried in the pillow next to mine. He’s breathing right into my ear. I try to listen to the music. It really sucks. Some sort of soft electronic music. Very bland. He starts breathing heavier, moaning more. So it will be over soon. I move my hips, meet his thrusts, moan a bit louder. All part of the game.

“Oh you feel so good… I can’t hold back… come… come…”

If only he would shut up… Talking disturbs my concentration. I dig my nails into his back and start moaning even louder. Hoping he will get it. Just shut up and come… He trusts harder and harder, faster and faster. I just hope he will come soon. That it will be over soon. Just over and done with. There is a certain amount of pain now. He’s sort of big. I just hope he will come soon. Because it’s getting hard to block out the pain now. And he keeps on moaning, pleading for me to come and it’s really starting to get to me. Destroying my concentration. I just wish he would shut the fuck up and just come. So I moan and try to block it all out.

“Oh my god… oh my god…”

So he’s one of those guys who call out to god when they come. I never got that. I start making the orgasm sounds. So yes, I fake. So what? He will never know anyway. I play my part of the game and I do it good. I can hear him come now. His breathing and the groaning sounds. And I can feel his slight contractions inside me. He makes a few more hard thrusts and then it’s over. It’s finally over. Just no kissing and no talking please. I gently strike his back. Hope he’ll fall asleep, I hope he’ll shut up. We’ve reached the final step now. Step six. And I really hope he won’t want to talk now. Gently he pulls out of me, careful not to lose the condom. Takes it off, ties it.

“I’ll just get rid of this…”

He kisses me on the cheek and goes to the bathroom. I want a cigarette. There are cigarettes on the nightstand. I steal one, light it. I hear the toilet flush and he comes back. Crawls into bed beside me.

“Can I have a drag?”

I hand him the cigarette.

“Was it good for you too?”

Oh shit. The cliché question. All part of step six. But do we really need to do this? I guess we do. He wants confirmation. So I give it to him. Then I go to the bathroom.

I stay there longer than I need to. I look at my face in the mirror. No. I am not beautiful. My make-up is smeared. I try to fix it. I hope he will be asleep when I come back. No. I am not beautiful at all. He’s a liar.

When I finally come back he is almost asleep. But he wakes up and smiles.

“Turn of the light, will you?”

He smiles and lifts the covers for me to get in. So I do. But before I turn off the light I memorize where my clothes are, where the chair is. I get a picture of the room and memorize it. Outside the window there’s a street light seeping its dim light in through the cracks in the blinds. And I’m thankful. It will make it easier. He puts his arms around me. He’s tired now. And drunk. This is good. He’ll fall asleep soon.

Again I listen to his breathing. It feels like it takes forever. But finally his breathing becomes heavy, slow, and his grip around me loosens. When I’m sure he is fast asleep I carefully move his arm and slowly wiggle out of his embrace and out of the bed. Silently I gather all my clothes and put them on. Very careful to not bump into something, to not wake him up. Then, quietly I open the door with my shoes in my hand and walk out into the corridor. Once I closed the door I put my shoes on and hurry outside, hurry away. I don’t want anyone to see me, I don’t want to see anyone. All I want is to get home. To have a shower and sleep. The night air feels cool and soft on my face. No one else seems to be around and the windows of the surrounding houses are dark. It’s four o’clock in the morning and the world is asleep. I light a cigarette and start finding my way home. I can feel the alcohol leave my bloodstream and I want to get home before I am sober. I want to be asleep before I am sober. I want to forget this ever happened and I never want to do this again. But I know it happened. And I know it will happen again. This was not the first time and it won’t be the last time. And I know they all say it’s something good and I know I have to play along, but right now, I have a hard time seeing the point. What is the point of it all? Why did I do this again? And why do I keep on doing this? Is it because I think if I just try enough times I will finally understand what they are talking about? Or is it because I want to pretend I am normal? I want to pretend I am like them? All I know is that they must be talking about something else because this cannot be it. Or maybe it’s just me. There is something wrong with me. The problem is me. And I just wish I was home.