Every Few Weeks, I Meet A Man In A Hotel Room For Secret, Rough Sex
He wants to hear that nobody fucks me like he does, and I say it to him, over and over.
“I’m sick”, he announces. “So I can only kiss you like a priest”.
This comment is accompanied by a sardonic raise of his eyebrows, a phrase uttered by a man who lived in an orphanage run by priests and nuns from age four till 15, and saw things no child should see.
I ignore what he has said, telling him I don’t care. Time with him is too rare and too fleeting not to make the most of every glorious aspect of it.
We’ve barely spoken apart from the exchange on his sickness. He was already naked when I arrived, his clothes for the office neatly folded over the chair. I’ve walked in, taken off my dress, unpacked the champagne and glasses which are in my bag. It’s been rolling around in there for a while, so when I open it, it sprays all over the table top, and my new black lace lingerie which I am wearing. He grabs a towel, wipes it up, then leads me to the bed. He tells me he has a surprise for me later.
The sex today is rough. He knows I saw other men last week, and I can feel him reclaiming me, reclaiming his territory, reclaiming my body. He wants me to tell him about the other men while he is inside me, wants to hear that I missed him and the way we are together. He wants to know what they did to me, and why he does it better. When he is behind me, he grabs my hair and pulls my head back so violently that I hear my neck crack. At one point he is above me, telling me to open my eyes and look at him, he wants to be sure I’m not thinking of anyone else. He wants to hear that nobody fucks me like he does, and I say it to him, over and over. It’s true.
Often when we are together his hands run all over my body, massaging, pushing, guiding. That is not the case today. Those hands barely touch me, except to push me, pull me to where he wants my body to be, in the right positions with the right angles for him. His hands are punishing, holding my hair back tightly, and slapping my ass and even my face, correcting me for an error I don’t know I have committed.
I’ve told him some of my encounters with other men are too fast, that they can’t contain themselves. So he makes it go on and on, barely giving me time to catch my breath. He is in full control of the situation, and I’m fine with that. Somehow we end up on in the bathroom, standing, bending over the bath. Then I’m on my knees in front of him, then flat on the tiles of the cold floor.
He showers, and I join him. Those hands have transformed in a few short seconds, and are now carefully soaping my body, cleaning all traces of him off me.
He gets into bed and asks me to join him. The hotel gave us two single beds, pushed together, as they seem to do every time it is him who books the room and checks in. I wonder if they are judging him, trying to curb the ardor of this man who turns up to the same hotel with different women monthly, fortnightly, weekly, I don’t know, and has been doing so for years.
When it is me who does the booking, we are always given a large bed, and often a Suite. So I go onto my side of those single beds, feigning a distance I don’t feel, and when he opens his side up to me I snuggle over immediately. Legs around legs, heads on arms, kisses on his chest, this is far more intimate than what was happening between us just 10 minutes ago. I fit into him in a completely comfortable and unconscious way.
It is now that we talk. Sometimes we talk about his childhood. Sometimes we talk about past lovers and sexual experience, and that leads into more sex. Today he jumps out of bed, and presents me with a gift. I’m unprepared, and empty-handed. The gift he gives me is a box of chocolates, which he bought in his country for me the last time he was there. I quickly do mental calculations… that was three months ago.
Three months ago he bought something for me now, for Christmas. The skeptic in me says that he must have brought back five boxes, and is distributing them as he best sees fit now. But I’m still incredibly touched when he takes the time to explain that these are limited edition chocolates and to read out the part where it says that they are “Made with Love” in his country. He’s funny like that – he says things without saying them. Sends me songs with amazing lyrics in them, but shrugs when I ask if he wants me to stop seeing other men, saying that he has no right to ask me anything.
I know he has had relationships with other women like me, sometimes with two separate women at the same time, that have lasted for years – six years for one, eight years for another. I wonder how it is that he stays so centered, so unattached.
We talk logistics – when can we see each other next? We both have our families coming from different countries over the holidays, so there is no time for another month. He talks about a friend who is coming here in June to see him, who he wants me to meet. June! He’s planning six months away.
We have sex again. This time it is faster, partly because he has to get back to the office, and partly because he no longer has anything to prove. The time I spend with him is incomparable to any of the other moments I have with other people, and he knows it.
He leaves first, rushing. I go down, drop off the room key and walk to my car, realizing that my lip feels sore. I look in my car mirror and lift my upper lip up to see that where it hurts the lip filled with blood. That must be from when he slapped my face. This is the first time he has left a mark on me, even unwittingly. My body is always pleasantly sore the day after being with him, muscles remind me that they don’t move in those ways either that vigorously or that often enough, my scalp is usually tender from the hair pulling.
I smile to myself, feeling the slight pain that this produces. Now I will have a physical reminder of him that will last me a few days longer. Next time I’ll ask him to bruise me.
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