101918 It was almost ten o’clock by the time she got out of the salon. She had pigtails behind her ears, a ribbon on top-- Put a bone in her mouth and she’d be the perfect image of a dog,fresh from the groomer’s. It made me laugh. Let’s get some of this shit off you, I said, as soon as we got into the hotel room. I wasn’t able to afford the fancy hotel--the Windermere--so I was staying across the street at the Hotel Caravaggio--a place well known for robberies, cockroaches, and other delights. But when I said that, she just looked up at me and smiled ruefully, and said, “woof.” Sigh. It was going to be one of *those* kind of nights. We stayed up for a long time talking--well, I was talking (didn’t know what else to do) and she was listening. She would cock her head sideways every now and then. Sometimes she would smile a little but mostly she just stared soulfully at me as I spoke. it was truly unnerving. I didn’t even really know what to say, but I just talked because, like I said, I didn’t know what else to do. At some point I said, Hey do you mind if I-- and I went to get a flat fifth of bourbon out of my coat pocket. of course she didn’t say she minded; she wasn’t saying anything. I offered her a drink but of course she didn’t say yes or no. At one point I put a glass in front of her, just in case, I mean I didn’t want to be rude, but she just looked at me quizzically; almost genuinely worried, even. Hating myself and feeling extremely sketchy, I went and got a bowl out of the cabinet above the sink (Hotel Caravaggio has little kitchenettes, dating back to when *it* was the classy place; back in the days of wooden roller coasters and visitors from the big city who used to ride out here on the electric rail line; back in the days when this sad outpost of a town was a real destination!) and filled it with water and--ugh--placed it on the floor. She wagged her tail (cute, but unnerving) and circled around on all fours and actually bent down to lap up some of the water gratefully. Not knowing what else to do (what else is new), I sat at the table and poured myself some of the bourbon. It stung, it burned, it warmed, it was good. Instead of getting back into the chair when she was done drinking, she went over and hopped up onto the bed, circled around, and lay down on her front, propped up on her elbows, and looked over at me, with a mixture of expectation and guilt. Was she expecting me to yell at her to get off the bed? Was that what I was supposed to do? I didn’t. I didn’t want to say anything else at all to her at this point. I just wanted to go to bed. But. But god damnit, I was getting hard. God damnit. I set my glass down, glanced over at the door to make sure the deadbolt was locked, and got up, pushing my chair back. It made a loud theatrical scraping noise. I got up. I was done talking. Obviously she wasn’t going to say anything back anyway; nor was she going to acknowledge that she had understood anything or everything I had been saying. She was committed to her role, I’d give her that much. Feeling almost coerced or compelled, I crossed the short distance between the table and the bed. She looked up at me, right into my eyes, the whole time. Time lines. It was one of those times when the lines of time seem stretched out; when you can’t tell what’s too slow or too fast; there is no up or down in space and there is no early or late in a time like that. As I walked I felt the roughness of my jeans as my erection pulsed and grew with every step. I didn’t say take your clothes off because I knew she wouldn’t “understand.” So when I got to the bed I just gestured for her to sit up. She had on a cornflower blue chemise with white lace trim. It had a couple little buttons near the neck line; these I unbuttoned with painstaking slowness, with the fingers of one hand. The slight dress was deliriously soft to the touch. The little hollow under her chin was warm and fragrant as I moved in close enough to be in her personal space and I breathed in, breathed in the warmth of her breath, the sweetness of the perfumed products they’d put in her hair. It was the warmth and smell of pure vulnerability, mixed with a peculiar kind of glowing power, and it made me close my eyes for a second. I tugged upward on the dress and she raised her arms and it slid right off, silky, over her head. She had nothing on underneath. She sat there on the bed, knees bent, her haunches resting on her ankles, her knees out at a slight angle--a pin-up pose, only instead of looking sassy or brassy she looked a little bit scared, tender. Wide eyed and breathing quietly, deeply, hotly now. I moved in close to the bed, my knees pushing against it, put my arms around her, and pulled her in close. Her face pressed against my chest and she let out a sigh. I could feel the warmth of it through my shirt. She bit at one of the buttons, then pulled her face back and looked up at me again. Time lines. That was when the lines of her face changed. You wouldn’t have been able to tell if you were just looking at her. But if you were there pressed up next to her like I was, in that inner space, in that cloud of scent and warmth and expectation, with the slightest buzz from the bourbon, you could tell. The bottom dropped out of my stomach; that’s how I could tell. She just looked at me. Just looked and held eye contact. That’s all. Did her jaw get more firm? I don’t know. Did her half-distant half smile get more...carnivorous? Hard to say. All I knew for sure was what I had to do. I back up two paces, three. I felt the casual masculinity of my gaze get softer, turn to liquid, swirl down some invisible vortex. I blinked. I looked down, then back at her open, gorgeous, honest face. I looked back down at the floor then, waiting. My face was hot. Looking down, hard, I heard the springs of the old bed release themselves as she got up. I could feel and smell her closeness and heat as she walked all the way around me, slowly, once. Twice. It was like being in the company of a sentient fire. She stopped in front of me and with one slender finger under my chin lifted my face to hers. The delight and horror that filled me-- like a roller coaster-- I-- She looked pointedly at my belt. Then back up. The instructions were clear. All I knew was obedience. To be obedient was what sang in my blood and nerves. I fumbled with my own belt. Did she almost barely smile? I looked down again, ears pounding, butterflies roiling. My pants fell to the floor with an ignominious plop. With one unpainted fingernail she flicked the button she had bit before. As quickly as I could with my quaking hands I removed my shirt. It was summer. It was hot. The Caravaggio has no AC. I was shivering. I had goose bumps in all the places she wasn’t touching me. She leaned back on one heel and appraised me coolly, and I knew I wasn’t enough. She started that slow, punctuated walk again. She stopped behind me. I tasted my heart. She waited. I was frozen. She waited. I bent my knees. One popped. I folded, slow as an apple tree turning golden in the fall. When my knees touched the rough thin carpet, I felt the inevitability of leaning forward. My hands met the floor. She waited. I bent my elbows. The apples from the apple tree were turning to wine on the sidewalk. My face met the floor. Years and years of dilapidation, desperation, and depravity were sewn up in the bumpy fibers of that frayed rug. There was a pounding sound from somewhere. I felt her move closer; the universe contracted and expanded in the space between her nakedness and mine. I arched my back; the stretch sent spasms of proto-pleasure up my spine, all the way into the back of my brain. I wished she would speak, but knew she would not. She touched me, and I have never made a sound like that before. It was the fleshy pad of one of her fingers lightly against the unevenness of my asshole. She just ran it down once, so softly, so casually, like a painter daubing a bit of color absentmindedly onto a palette or a tabletop or any nearby surface. She stopped while I tried to control the heaving of my breathing. I arched my back even harder, so even more of the hot secret inside of my asshole was exposed to the open air and possibility. She waited. I was screaming inside. Then just when I wanted to start crying, she did it again. *swipe* real quick like that, this time from bottom to top, just a desultory pass of the finger. She waited again and I pulsed. My check pressed the floor and my mouth was open and my eyes were closed and my entire life was concentrated down into that one point, and I pushed it even more impudently into the air, rocking my hips back as hard as I could to expose as much of myself as possible. I wanted to be totally open, unequivocally available to her forever. She waited forever. A slow exhale from the back of my throat could have been crying if I’d pushed it just a little bit. Finally, thank god, oh my god, she did it again, and this time it was from top to bottom again, and dear god, this time her fingertip was wet. The delicious coldness of the quick swipe this time sent zigzags of electricity rocketing up and down my entire torso. A primitive vowel escaped my lips, and then she did it again--*slowly* this time, and I could feel her fingernail ever so slightly grazing my most tender inner skin. With all my heart I wanted to thrust and grind into the floor, anything to touch my pulsating hardness against something, anything, and answer the urgent craving, but with even more of my heart my only goal in life was to keep my ass up, open and hers, all hers. Please please please please please please please and then finally after an entire lifetime, she did it again, and this time it was even slower, with a little bit more pressure and that fingernail almost hurt a little bit yes, god yes, please please please please I was nothing but breathing and arching and paying attention. *I was a good boy.* Slowly, slowly she walked again, My face was pressed hard against the floor and she walked around to the side where I couldn’t see her. But I could hear and sense and smell the warmth and the soul-consuming soft fragrance of her and I heard her weight shift and heard the floor squeak a little bit, softly, like a mouse, and then she was crouching down beside me and she brought her low, sultry voice next to my ear, all wet and juicy and mean and sweet, and her lips were so close to my ear when she poured this breathy sound into it, like poison, that I could feel her hot soft breath, and tingles radiated across my face, around my skull, into my upside-down guts, and she said: “woof.” There was a beat, and then we both burst into laughter. Hers was big, like a gallon jug of laughter just opening up and pouring out all over the room, splattering all over the walls and the hard floor and the rickety bed. Mine was more like convulsive gasping, as my shoulder muscles gave out and I crumpled and rolled over sideways, still fully hard and desperate. I mean I *was* laughing but it was pretty much indistinguishable from crying at this point. I rolled over the rest of the way, belly up, erection bouncing, and her smile was bright and delighted and guileless as she surveyed my pitiable state. She seemed to be enjoying my helplessness. She got down on my level, knees out to the side again, and watched me squirm for a while. Finally, she ran those lacy delectable fingertips down the length of my penis. It was like a river of astonishment, erasing my peripheral vision and all thoughts other than the persistent image of her incomprehensible loveliness. She bent down and gave me a little kiss, just a little flurry of her lips on mine. Shooting stars erupted at the base of my soul. I was literally, unquestionably in love. She stood up quickly--her knees didn’t pop or creak--and I was startled by how tall she was. Her body stood comfortably, relaxed, strong and soft at the same time, as if it had a good working relationship with gravity. A thick shaft of warm light from the grimy window crashed into the left side of her face. Come on, she said. We’ve got work to do. She retrieved my pants from over by the bed, and threw them at me. They landed right on my aching cock, and I lurched upright. This was a million times worse than getting out of bed to an alarm clock. But a choke collar is incontestible, and the one she had on me was invisible but palpable. I pulled my jeans on, carefully so as not to increase my pleasurable misery. The bulge was a bit comical after I--very carefully--zipped up. I didn’t bother with the shirt. She was already at the table by now. She had slipped her dress back on. Her hair, sweaty, pushed back from her forehead was *just so.* I could have looked at it, at her, so bright and present, for hours. She had poured a couple fresh drinks, and slid mine over to me. She picked hers up and held it high. “Long live the revolution,” she said. I agreed wordlessly, and our glasses clinked in the murky summer swelter of the Hotel Caravaggio. It was time to get back to work. The time lines stretched on, endlessly in both directions, forwards and backwards and everything in between. There was a pounding sound from somewhere. I was alive and I knew it and I drank and it burned and I loved it. I was in love. It was time to get to work.