Was It Good For You?

His hands press smooth against her waist as he guides her into the
frantic club. The blast of heat and music hits them both. Now they are
past the bouncers and the ticket counter, skimming past the teens in their
translucent skirts and carefully bored expressions, down the stairs to the
over-21 hangout, where he promises her interesting conversation and
air-conditioning. Once there, pulled into a booth by his over-friendly
friends, he curves her body to his and loosely links his hands around her
waist. His thumbs etch small, slow circles on her belly through the thin
black tank. She wonders if he remembers that she is seeing someone else.
She wonders if he cares.

***

My first fumblings took place in my parents’ finished basement,
age fifteen. A neighbor boy and I sat cross-legged, facing each other
beneath the staircase. When he asked if he could kiss me, I was so
flattered that I said yes at once, that I actually had dreamed of his
older brother. This kiss was not quite what I’d expected — damp and
squishy, rather than exhilarating. His rough hands groped eagerly through
my shirt, gently mauling my breasts. After a bit more groping, he pulled
my hand to his crotch and asked me to rub. I pulled away, but offered to
remove my shirt instead. He agreed this would be a fair exchange. When
shirt and bra were removed, he bent to suck my nipples and I wondered,
“Is this all?” An unpleasant week after, I manufactured an imaginary
boyfriend to rescue me. That was the end to my sexual exploration for the
next two years.

***

His hands move to her back, at first a gentle rub that no jealous
lover could have protested, had one been there to see it. Fingers slide
along the curve of scapula and spine, rise to caress her neck and rub
tense shoulders, and butterfly-dance along stretches of bare skin. Palms
press heavy against knots of tension, slow circlings. Fingers rise again
to slide through her heavy weight of hair and rest against her scalp. In
one swift movement he clenches his hands in her hair, pulling her taut
against him breath warm against her neck… then, with a laugh, releases
her. She laughs too, shivers racing through her, muscles clenched. The
conversation swirls around them.

***

In college, I met a man. We had absolutely nothing in common, but
those sparks so conspicuously absent two years before were flaring high.
Fucking in private and semi-public, on soft beds and concrete floors, to
the dismay of roommates and the abandonment of dignity. I was even a
little in love, as was he. For a while. When the sparks died for him,
they still raged in me, and I pursued him for far too long. When he
finally acquiesced, it was swift and joyless, in a place and time not of
my choosing and in a manner that brought pleasure to neither of us. It
did have the salutary effect of killing any last thoughts of salvaging the
relationship.

***

Impatient with this slow seduction, he stands, pulling her up with
him. They move upstairs again, to the dance floor which at this hour has
become a solid mass, a slowly writhing, sweaty black void. They insinuate
themselves into the creature, pressed close by necessity. Her groin is
tight within her, a twisted heat radiating to her skin, to each cell that
lays against his slickness. She makes no resistance when he grinds
against her, palms tight against her hips. Eyes closed, she moves as he
wills her. One of his thighs slides between hers, and she lifts one leg
to wrap around his hip. Thus locked, one of his hands is free to slip up
her body, beneath the tank to cup and caress her breasts. They have long
since crossed the forbidden line, and now she wonders if there is any
point to resisting further. He bends to run teeth along her neck and she
shudders, biting back a moan.

***

Years later, I lived with a man I loved. The sex had always been
good, occasionally great, and the conversation was better. There were
times when he could bring me to the point of coming with a kiss, or a
whispered promise. So how could I protest those few times when his
interest outstripped my own, when I would rather have curled up with a
good book and a mug of cocoa? He was unfailingly gentle, always patient,
so what harm could there be in simulating more pleasure than I actually
felt? The emotion was there, after all. I wanted to please him…
pleasing him pleased me. I convinced myself that that was enough.

***

They leave the club, his arm firm around her shoulder. Driving
home, his hand roams across her body, but exhaustion rises in her now, and
she merely simulates response. In her apartment, he strips confidently,
knowing that she will not back out now. He is sure in his ability to
please her, and assiduous in his attentions to her needs. His mouth
travels the paths his fingers had patterned in the club before, and when
he slides within her, she is wet. He holds off on his own climax, waiting
for hers, and under his gentle, unwavering assault, she surrenders, and
moans for him.

*****

M.A. Mohanraj