One Night Stand

The words we choose have a funny way of affecting our lives. "Would you mind being quiet?" will evoke a separate response to telling someone to shut the fuck up, even though the sentiment is more or less the same. Likewise, adoration is infinitely different than love, which is distinct from lust and infatuation, though some dictionaries may disagree.

This is where my problem started, with connotation and denotation. A simple change of words, and things might have gone differently. What I wanted to say was, "I love you, Josh. Make love to me." But, as you can imagine, that isn't what I'd said at all. I was young, and there simply isn't any reason to dwell on it. It won't change anything, anyhow, because I didn't tell him to make love to me.

With two simple words, I'd managed to fulfill my every wish and terminate the sheer notion of the thing in one contradicting instant. Two goddamned words: "Fuck me. . ."

Somewhere in the tangle of sweaty bodies and sloppy kisses, our clothes had wound up strewn across the room, and now he loomed over me, his hard cock placed precariously at my entrance, silently asking permission. He'd hesitated, his hands tangled roughly in my hair, his breath coming out in anxious pants. And that's when I said it. "Fuck me."

He kissed me tenderly, something akin to sadness in his absinthe eyes, and pushed gently in. I wanted to stop, to ask him what was wrong, but as soon as he entered, there was only room in my mind for the velvet rush of pleasure. He pulled out slowly and my muscles clenched desperately around the retreating member, begging for the bitter sweet ache and stretch of his cock. A swift flick of hips, and he slammed into my core. I screamed his name and clawed at his back as though the utter ecstasy of this moment would cause gravity to fail unless I held on.

When he was certain I'd adjusted to his size, he began a steady rhythm and the world grew quiet, except for the drum of wet flesh and our lunatic moans. "Oh, fuck," he said in a low, primal grunt, lifting my leg and pounding mercilessly into my dripping pussy. "Oh, fuck. . . Zoe."

"Oh, god... Josh. Harder, baby...Harder!" I screamed, and he thrust so impossibly hard I swore that I was going to rip in two. He kissed me: a passionate and delicate step in the wild, primitive dance meant to soothe the pain. That's when the regret sunk in. His lips moved deliberately and tenderly against mine, slow and loving despite the relentless crush of hip to hip. "Josh, I—"

"I'm close, Zoe..." he whispered into my ear, bucking fast and wild. His breath oozed down my neck like liquid midnight and all amorous notions were lost. "Zoe..." he said, and my name on his tongue was more beautiful and intricate than any orchestration could ever hope to be. It was Bach; it was Puccini; it was fucking heartbreaking.

"Cum for me, Josh," I breathed, a ragged and graceless sound, "I want every drop of you inside of me." I felt heat building up in my abdomen, the embers burning in my belly that could mean only one thing. He nipped gently at my neck as he thrust violently, and I quivered under him, whimpering nonsense like Ophelia in the dawn of her madness. His teeth clamped down hard, grinding the flesh of my throat in their grasp. I screamed impossibly loud when his teeth broke the skin as he came. The heat that had wound itself tight in my stomach exploded with brilliance, combusted and spread like liquid nitrogen through my veins.

I felt Josh go softer by degrees, his diminishing member still inside of me and nothing in the world that mattered but the steady intake and release of his breath. He kissed around the fresh wound on my neck, lapping the blood and sweat in movements as dangerous and graceful as a street cat's. I stared at the ceiling, enjoying the fallout. He kissed me passionately, and the rust and salt taste lingered on my tongue as he pulled out. My eyes never left the ceiling as he dressed in silence.

"I've got to catch my flight," he said, straightening his tie and meeting my eyes in the mirror.

"You'll visit, right?" I asked, childish and hopeful.

"I'll try, Zoe." He kissed me on the forehead and headed out the door.

It was the last time I ever saw him. And even now, when I find myself in the arms of fair weather lovers and meaningless beauties, I remind myself to be careful of my words. As a matter of fact, I usually don't say much at all, killing promises and moans with half-hearted kisses and gyrations. It's simpler that way. You can't regret unspoken words.