33 Hours

There is no way to describe the 33 hours I spent with her. What we planned and how it got sideswiped immediately. I went out drinking with friends instead of napping before I met her at 1am in a crowded bar. It didn’t matter. None of the plans mattered. She drank. Some crazy, drunk lady who insisted she was straight and married hit on her. We laughed. We looked around at the crowded bar and the douche bags filling up San Francisco these days and left. Fucking assholes wearing name tags and ordering shitty drinks. Wondering why the bartenders ignored them. Some guy jammed his elbow into my back as he crowded the bar and she stomped on his foot with her boot and held it there, not looking at him. I felt snobby in my disdain of the straight, obnoxious drunks who liked to look. Yes, girls like us fuck each other. Yes. We do.

Let’s be snobs tonight. Let’s know we’ve got a secret they don’t have. We know how to have a really fucking good time. Let’s go do that. We drive over the bridge. She’s drunk. I’m sober but so tired it’s absurd to be driving. We’re silent. Staring at the brightly lit up span. It’s all new and so strange. We mourn the dead bridge beside us. She calls to it and thanks it for carrying her over the bay for so many years. It’s touching. Her speech moves me more than I can explain. 


This is all true. This is a true story. She deserves so much more than that. She already knows this one. She knows what happens. How we were tangled. How we slept. How we woke and decided not to go anywhere. Not to do anything. How we fucked and ate and fucked again. How she took me to a place I didn’t know about. How we were little boys together and then sweating, panting women looking at the mystery between us. How we smiled at those red lines left on my upper arm for hours. How we nearly argued, or maybe we did argue, as we ran to make our reservations. How the waiter appreciated our visit and was in on the whole thing somehow. How we laughed and stared at each other and felt filled with awe. Everyone knows that story. When you get down to it, it’s the story everyone knows already. I don’t need to write it down for you. There’s more to it than this.


Sometimes you meet a person who already knows you. Who takes your hand and leads you into a small, bare room where she strips you and fucks you right back to your childhood. Here’s the story she doesn’t know. Here’s something new.

She led me to the safest place. She took me there. She asked me for exactly what she wanted and then threw me over and held me down and changed everything. She drew me a new map. I found myself in a strange place. Not where I expected to be at all. I looked at her and felt myself trusting everything all at once and completely. She told me a story. She told me where we were. She told me who I was. She told me I didn’t have to like it. She told me she wouldn’t tell anyone. She told me to be quiet. I struggled like any wild animal does until it’s too tired to resist. But I wasn’t too tired. I wanted to be tamed. This was my desire. I wanted to find how deep it went.

My eyes bulged. My chest heaved. She held the strap tight. At first she was sweet. Telling me everything would be okay. She whispered to me the whole time she fucked me. She told me where we were and what was happening. She calmed me down. No one would ever have to know. I didn’t have to like it. I didn’t have to want it. It was going to happen anyway. Freedom. Religion. Absolution. The dark cave. The tangled woods. The tiny boat on the ocean. The belly of the whale. The death and the resurrection. It’s all the same. I’ve been there. 

And then she turned me over onto my belly. I felt her eyes on me. My own powerless never more clear than in that moment. My desire dripping onto her fingers. Tears welled up in my eyes. I stared at the floor of my room and knew I was lying powerless on my own bed in my own room with my ass in the air and my arms held tight behind my back by my own belt. Getting fucked. Having been usurped. I felt low. Humiliated. Dirty. Craving. Look at her underwear balled up in the corner. My own underwear barely down to my knees. Look at my dirty sock half under the bed. I cry out as her knuckles pound against my pussy. I have never felt my pussy ache with a darker need in my life. I am begging her to fuck me. Silently. I’m whispering it in my brain knowing that she hears me, “Fuck me so hard you rattle my teeth. Fuck me with my head hanging off the bed and my feet scrambling behind me. Fuck me like this and drain everything from me and I will know who you are after this and you will know me.”

When she turned me over onto my back, my pussy opened for her and I muttered incoherently. She knew just exactly what to do to make me come so hard I thought my back would break. My body arched high off the bed, shaking. Everything shook. I didn’t cry then. My tears had dried up. I was an electric jolt of energy and then nothing. Limp. Doe eyed.

She loosened the belt that bound my arms. We traced the lines. She stretched her body out next to me and said sweet things. “Hold me,” I said, “I need you to hold me now.” And here was the thing. It was in that moment when everything fell into place. She wasn’t sure. She didn’t know. We didn’t know. And then I asked to be held and soothed. And she held me and pet my face and kissed my forehead. It was everything. 

Twice now we’ve fucked and known that there were things we wouldn’t talk about. One time I fucked her and said so many things and I felt her go somewhere and I felt myself take her there and somehow I know just where it was and yet I don’t know and I don’t want to talk about it more than that. And then here, this story, when she took me and fucked me and I was in that place and she was there with me and I know that she knows yet doesn’t know and I don’t want to talk about it more than that.


Still, this is all true. This is our true story. She already knows it. And I know it. And yet we don’t. And we don’t need to talk about it any more than that.