to go. I want to fuck you.” And that’s why I didn’t want to go. Because he wanted that.
AFTER THAT NIGHT, I didn’t see Richard for a few weeks. He had his parties and people came and went. I heard their talk through the walls, and the women too. I wanted to know what it would feel like to have a sound like that in my mouth. But it was only ever the women I heard. He was silent, breathing quietly, probably.
I asked him why he never made any noises, not even a grunt. “I’m concentrating,” he said. He always talked that way. Easily. He told me what it felt like, for him, for a man, and what it was like having sex with a woman. I had never known that. He told me things I wished my mother could have told me. I wanted to know how he talked to a woman, how he got them to come home to his apartment, how he undressed them, how he knew where to put himself, if it was the same each time. He always asked them, Can I do this? Is this all right? You’re okay with this? The way he described it to me, it was like I had done it too, like I had also been inside them, just like him, as a man. There was no metaphor, no seed and soil and growing flowers. Just the facts.
AFTER ROSE LEFT for the weekend, I knocked on Richard’s door. I tried the doorknob and went in.
I could hear the shower going, and when he came out, he said, “You hungry?” Just like that. As if he’d expected me all along. He was a good cook. I watched him bringing out plates, the pan, opening the cupboards, the fridge. I liked that he wasn’t mad at me for what happened last time, when we had gotten so close. “Why would I be?” he said. “Don’t have sex with men who get mad about things like that.” He smiled at me and said, “I liked that nothing really happened. We were close. That’s the best part. To be that close. And to let nothing happen.”
Soon after, we were sitting on the edge of his bed. I sat on top and I had Richard between my legs. I kissed him. It started off really slow and gentle. And then I kissed harder. Then he pulled his mouth away from mine. His mouth was open, and he was breathing heavily. His head tilted back when I leaned forward. We were so close, breathing into each other’s mouths. Then I lowered myself onto him and said, before I pushed further, “Do you want me to pull out?” I meant stop, but he knew what I meant and why I didn’t say that. He laughed and said, “No, no. God, no.” His lips were red, his cheeks pink. “Tell me you love me,” I said. “Even if it’s not true. Say it.” And he did. I wanted to feel what it was like to have someone inside me again, and so I pushed him into me.
IT WAS THE END of August, and Richard didn’t have his parties as often. We were spending more time together alone. He’d call me on the phone and ask whether I wanted to come over. I knew what he wanted me over for, and I wanted that too. I went over whenever he called. Sometimes we spent the whole day together, not talking at all. We didn’t have much to say, doing what we did. What I liked about the sex we had was how slow it was, and how long we could go, how he waited for my body to respond. When we began it was usually dark outside, and then we stopped when there was light. He told me, “You should get a boyfriend. I can’t be your boyfriend.” But I didn’t want a boyfriend, whatever that was these days. I wanted what I had. I didn’t say anything. I just watched him put on his clothes. Then he turned to me and asked if I wanted to go with him to see his friend, Eve, the next day. She was in town, and she wanted him to meet her new boyfriend. He said he didn’t want to go alone.
THE NEXT MORNING, I stood on the front porch of a house on a small street, and Richard went inside to get Eve. She was at the back of the