I should entirely just hate you.  This is the third or fourth or possibly fifth time in my life that I should entirely just hate you.  I said, “No” because I meant “No” and the fact that you look at me and see your very own fucktoy, your own thing to fuck as you please is a misunderstanding on your part. And your apparent belief that you could get away with fucking me for an hour or a day and have that be Enough is madness.. I said, “No” because I love  my boyfriend and I love my life and I knew that crossing that boundary between Chaste and Unchaste was crossing the Styx and nothing but Tartarus awaited us on the other side. You did not listen. The answer to “I’m not going to have sex with you,” is never, “I don’t care.” Even when said with heaving breasts through lust-swollen lips, even when said by your very own fucktoy.

“Oh Bets," you said, "I look at you and all I think about is fucking you.  I've been half hard all day, just being with you. My wife won’t be in the city for two hours. That hotel we used to stay in, sometimes, when we were kids…it’s right around the corner. Let’s go.” 

My god. The taste of your skin. I suddenly craved it like a drug. I took a long breath, looking west at the sun setting over the Hudson.  Until this moment, I had not thought it was possible that you would want me. Yes, I'd felt your gaze on me all day, and although after you said aloud, a few hours ago when we were downtown at 7B, "let's leave this bar," I heard you add, "Or I could just fuck you in the bathroom here," because you only said it in my head I ignored it and pretended I thought I made it up. Pretended that there was nothing more complicated going on than two old friends having a drink. Even as I was aware of you trying to draw me in, your wanting me was so Inconceivable, the lessons from all those years ago learned so hard and baked into such solidity that it just didn't seem plausible. What seemed even less likely was that I would want you. My lips twist as I write that, mocking my own foolishness. The things I had forgotten. Now, I was drunk, on a rooftop decorated like the movie Beetlejuice, with the man version of the boy I'd loved beyond all reason wanting to fuck me. In one moment I imagined not the hotel room and the fucking, but the aftermath. You, zipping your pants and being completely reabsorbed by your wife and children, while I crawled home, your come leaking out of me, my own relationship hopelessly sullied, to crave you and miss you and ache from jealousy. I remembered, of all things, the end of us when you were living with Amanda, a phone call when she tore the phone out of the wall and that number never worked again.

I quieted all but the most rational voices within me and said, carefully, forcing each word to come out clearly and with meaning.

“I can’t talk about. Fucking You.” The last two words were the hardest. Saying them and looking into your light blue eyes negated the four that came before so that those last two reverberated between us, making them real as I said them. 

I added a flurry of other words to fill the spaces around the verb and subject that seemed to have developed a life and rythm of their own. Fucking you. Fucking you. On my back, my knees on your shoulders, my thighs pressed against your chest. Fucking you. God.

""This…can’t go there, “ I said, “and if that’s where we’re headed, we need to get some distance between us. Now. “

I moved past you and strode hurriedly towards the elevators. You followed, and on the ride down we were silent in front of the elevator operator, and there was a sudden tension between us. I was sad that such a lovely afternoon had ended with this awkwardness. We stepped out of the elevator, into the long dark cinder-bock side entrance that led behind the main lobby of the hotel and served as direct access to the rooftop, and you pounced.

In a flash my back was pressed against the rough cement wall, my body pinned against it by the weight of yours. I felt the hardness in your pants through the thin fabric of my dress. You looked at me, your eyes boring into mine, and I could feel you willing me to open up to you and this time it worked. Despite every part of me that is decent and not a piece of shit, I felt that Click, the opening of the connection that made You and Me, and then I felt that giddy swooning that comes from accepting the implied dare in the unspoken question in your eyes, "so you're my other half?" 

I should go to hell for this, but it was too much to bear. My resolve cracked, I succumbed to the glamour of your eyes and the pressure of your body -- your body -- against me and I said, "Just one kiss."

And with that your lips devoured mine and the contact ignited the Higgs-Bosus explosion that happens when we come together. I gave myself one moment to feel you solidly real and for me to touch. I kissed you back,  greedily, your thin lips bruising my full ones, opening my mouth to your tongue. I felt the soft fuzz of your close-cropped head. The pointed end of my tongue allowed one short trip along your jawline, one tiny lick of your earlobe. Your hand squeezed my breast, moving quickly and quite cheekily to pinch my nipple, hard, making me moan.

"Your breasts are amazing," you said.

I ran my hand down your broad back. "I can't believe I'm touching you," I said, putting my hand on your ass and pulling you even closer to me. 

Beyond all reason, after all this time, my cells seemed to recognize their magnetic opposite and some deep crocodile part of my brain kept repeating one singular message: Mine. Mine. Your lips were on my neck and my hands were on your body and my body was in your arms and as huge and tremendous was my desire to keep this going, to surrender to you entirely, it had to stop. Some sober corner of my brain caught hold of a knotted rope of sanity and I clung to it, steadying myself, finding words to drag myself out of this tempest and back to some solid ground. I pulled away from you. 
 
"That should not have happened." I said, as if my words could erase the last three minutes from the record of existence and return my day to something not-awful. I turned to leave.

"No." you said, and quickly caught hold of my ponytail, wrapping it around your left hand, bending me backwards and dragging me into an alcove in the hallway.  You slammed me against the wall, where we were partially hidden by a tall service cart. Your right arm penned me in on the other side. 

You put your mouth to my ear, and in your soft voice, your love-voice,  you said, "I'm going to fuck you, Bess."

"You can't," I said, "We're in public."

"I'm going to fuck you. Right here.. In this hallway." You pulled my tights to my knees. My panties followed. 

Your hands slid between my legs."Oh god. That's your pussy," you purred, your mouth at my ear, the vibrato of your voice, as ever, somehow connecting directly to my nipples, making them ache and making my pussy gush.  

"I just want to be inside you. Let me inside you, Bets." I heard my own voice at 17 saying those same words to you on a bench in Central Park, believing absolutely that if I could just get your dick inside me, that the purity and power of that skin to skin connection would make us one again.  

"You can't," I said, "I've got my period."

Your thumb found my clit, pressed hard, despite myself I pressed back. You. Touching me. There. Oh.

"I don't care about that. I'm going to fuck you. My dick is so hard, Bets, you've got me so hard. Feel me."

And it was Out, there in the hallway, looking entirely the same as the last time I'd seen it, more than two decades. ago. You took my hand and placed it against your warm, hard dick, and I felt its dry weight and soft skin against my palm.  You. Your dick, in my hand. the thing in my head repeating,"Mine" began to shriek and I was unable to resist closing my fingers, grasping your thick penis and giving it one squeeze. I moaned. Mine.  

"You can't....I'm wearing a tampon and we're in a hallway."

"Then I'll fuck you in the ass. You might as well relax, Bets. This is going to happen."

Your voice thickened at the prospect of reaming me. "I'm going to fuck you in the ass."

You pressed against me and your dick was between my legs and I felt its insistence slide past the slick entrance to my pussy and thrust, hard, twice against my closed anus. Even Dan Savage admits that ass-fucking hurts, which is why I don't do that, and realizing you fully intended to cram your hard dick right up my unprepared, unlubricated ass, memories of the awful, tearing, wrong-feeling pain of anal sex swarmed me and self-preservation kicked in. As much as I wanted you, I didn't want you like that. I pushed you off of me, ducked under your right arm, picked up my purse and my panties and my tights in one move, and as I maneuvered around you I said, angrily, "That was Horrible. I actually love my boyfriend and I don't do shit like this. I'm going home. Now."

And I ran. I ran down the dark strange entrance to Bar XVI and into the sunlight, where a taxi slowed just as I reached the corner of Eighth Avenue. I jumped in and relief flooded me. I breathed deeply, steadying myself, feeling the solid reality of the pleather seat, and, like someone awakening from a dream, reassuring myself that I was there, and awake, and really not having forced anal sex with you in a hallway.

So really I should completely just hate you.  

But like an earthquake splitting  the ground open and revealing fascinating long-buried lost civilizations, their long-abandoned artifacts bright as the last time they were touched by live human hands, that thing that happened continues to expose layers  of  feeling that are equally long-buried and equally vivid in their sudden resurfacing.  I view them as a gift, and know their luster won’t last, but for the moment it’s so pleasant to pick them up and turn them over, to marvel at all that happened and that anything survived.

Know that you’ll never see me again. That receipt of this story or parts thereof constitute weakness and obsession in my character,  an entrancement with the shiny daydreams of a love set to spectacularly against a backdrop of an equally Mythic New York.  That this glamour has no place in a rational or well-lived life, and should really be left completely alone.  But I’m the sort to pick at scabs as they heal, and you chose to reopen old wounds. And the thoughts of fucking you aren't going away.

So either I commit myself to hell, make up some work-related excuse, hop on a plane to install myself at the Marriott Tampa International, greet you at the door wearing nothing but a filmy, flesh-colored pegnior and let you violate me every way imaginable until your cock is too sore and tired to fuck me again, or I try this.

Remembering and writing.

Because as often as my wandering mind goes to that fantasy hotel room, and I imagine my nearly-naked self opening the door and seeing you there, hunger in your eyes and an amused smirk on your thin lips because if I'm there you've won, I've caved, and admitted that my pussy is always yours to fuck if you want it, in any time and place, as clearly as I can feel the pressure of your lips and the weight of my breast in your hand through the sheer fabric, rubbing against my erect nipples as we kiss and walk and stumble to the bed, where you slide your hand between my legs and feel the thin soaked silk covering my pussy, before you move it aside to thrust two fingers all the way into my eager slit, I know I can't have that. I can't put my knees over your shoulders, the backs of my thighs pressed against your chest as you -- with lube, for heaven's sake give me that -- slide first one finger, then two, and then your thick dick right up my tight ass. Slowly, watching me with round eyes as you press and split and drive yourself into me as I moan and squeal.
"I'm hurting you."
"Yes."
"Do you want me to stop?"
"Does it make your dick feel good?"
"Oh god yes. Your ass is so tight."
"Keep fucking me."
And you move inside me gently, with my ass squeezing your dick so hard the slightest friction brings you exquisite pleasure and me exquisite pain, until you feel the orgasm building and you, folding me completely in half, thrust, hard, cleaving me nearly in two as you take your pleasure in me,  until your dick shudders, filling me your with hot essence and making me explode as well. 

I can't.