Getting Over Him

If my boss had not spoken those awful words to me while he was deep inside me, who knows, maybe we would still be having our affair. But he said them. I remember clearly: we were on the couch in his office; it was after six in the evening and outside it was already dark. The door was locked securely and we’d been doing it for several minutes. The side of my face lay flat on the leather upholstery; my body was bent in an upside-down V shape, with my butt pointed up at the ceiling. His thighs were busily slapping, smacking against my rear, rocking me in a steady rhythm.

“C’mon, baby,” he said suddenly, “Fuck me – and let me feel that pussy!”

I realized immediately what was going on. He was fantasizing about being in a porn movie. A wrenching pain gripped my stomach; I wanted to cry. His thrusts continued, his pace remained steady. Never before had I waited so impatiently, so desperately to hear the whining groan that would signal his coming. A fish tank stood on a table opposite the couch. It was lit up brightly. I watched graceful tetras and angelfish swim silently from one end of the tank to the other, back and forth, never altering their speed. The same words coursed through my mind again and again: “Please come now, you bastard, please come, I just want to get out of here!” Moisture slowly filled my eyes and my vision blurred. He never noticed.

He had barely disposed of his condom when he reminded me, as he typically did at this point in our post-coital interactions, that he needed to get home right away. His wife had dinner waiting for him. Usually I would precede him out the front door of the building, and he would leave a few minutes later. This time I told him that I needed to tidy up a few things on my desk, so he should go first.

As soon as he was gone, I began to empty his desk drawers into trash cans. When the trash cans were full, I littered the floor of his office with every item of portable property I could find. John, my lover-boss, liked his collectibles. He always kept a dozen antique paperweights lined up in a row on his desk. These were heavy little glass domes with colorful advertising slogans emblazoned on them. The first one shattered the glass of his office window as it sailed toward the alley outside. Several more followed. I laughed with unbridled glee as each one flew out of sight. Then I opened his computer, removed the hard drive, and smashed it to pieces.

I thought that I should leave a little note for John. What better place to leave it than tacked to his office door? He came in late most days, so the secretaries would see it first thing in the morning, well before he arrived. It would certainly get some attention posted to the office door of the senior editor of a prestigious literary journal. “C’mon, baby,” the note read, “fuck me -- and let me feel that pussy!”

When I applied for unemployment compensation benefits, John was too afraid of me to fight my claim. Two weeks later I began collecting my weekly checks of two hundred and eighteen dollars. I was twenty-seven, single and unattached, an assistant editor fired from a well-known academic press. I knew I could never find a comparable job. The arrearages due on my student loans from undergraduate and grad school were already staggering. My future looked bleak indeed.

During the two weeks before my checks began to arrive I spent most of my time in bed. My sister would come over to visit me now and then. She’d find all the lights out, the refrigerator empty, my laundry scattered in piles around the apartment. She was worried.

Eventually she made me realize that I wouldn’t be able to afford my apartment any longer, so I moved in with her and her boyfriend. They had an extra bedroom, which was really a large closet. I moved in there, and after I spent a few more days in bed they began to urge me to see a therapist. In principle, the suggestion was fine with me. I would gladly have taken any pills a therapist felt like prescribing, but I had no health insurance.

Despite the lack of medication, I gradually began to speak again. At first I spoke only to my sister, and our conversations were limited to one narrow topic: How much I hated men. I would not speak to men; I did not want to see any of them; my only wish was that I could think of some flawlessly legal way to hurt as many of them as possible. During this time my sister’s boyfriend became her fiance.’ They were planning to marry in the spring. Needless to say, my conversations with her never proceeded very far.

February ended, some of the snow disappeared, and I began to take walks. In the afternoons I would stop by coffee shops and bookstores, spending most of my time in the women’s literature sections. I frequented a Lesbian bookstore where the clerk, a perky young woman with large round glasses set on a delicately upturned nose, greeted me warmly whenever I appeared. Sometimes I would find myself gazing at her from behind a row of books. The sunlight streaming in through the store window would glow in the undulating waves of her auburn hair, and I would begin to feel just the slightest tinge of desire.

One afternoon I was browsing in a straight used bookstore, and as I reached the end of the Women’s Studies aisle, I ran into Bob. He was standing by the Science Fiction section, engrossed in a book. Bob had been the mail room clerk in the office where I used to work. He was not much over twenty, a tall lanky guy with hair down to the middle of his back, always tied in a pony tail. Sometimes during breaks at the office he and I would talk about books while we sat downstairs in the little lunchroom. He was quiet and unassuming, and the predominately female staff of secretaries and assistant editors scarcely seemed to notice him.

Bob asked how I was doing, and for a few minutes I updated him on the joys of living on unemployment benefits. We walked out of the door together, and as he began to unlock his bike I did something quite astonishing. I invited him to my apartment for dinner that night.

When I informed my sister and her boyfriend that I was having a young man over for dinner, they kept their sarcasm to a minimum. They graciously agreed to leave the apartment to me for the evening. However, as they were leaving, my sister couldn’t resist one parting comment, “There’s some good strong rope in the kitchen drawer,” she said, “in case you want to tie him up.”

Shortly after Bob arrived, I set out my vegetarian curry casserole – one of the few culinary specialties I’ve ever mastered. He happily accepted seconds and assured me it was one of the tastiest dishes he’d ever had. I suggested that after dinner we could go for a walk and have dessert out.

Our interactions remained a little strained through much of the meal. There must have been at least a five year difference in our ages. I had never found myself in the role of the “older woman” before, and as awkward as I felt, I could see that the age disparity was even more unsettling for him. He listened politely while I talked about the literary journals I used to edit. He said that sometimes he read parts of them in the mailroom before he packed them off to subscribers. He had noticed how tedious and arcane the scholarly debates tended to be, and I had to agree.

Bob hadn’t gone to college, but he read a lot. He actually read for pleasure. He said that he lived alone in a room that was piled high with books. When I suggested that I’d like to see his collection some time, he laughed, shook his head, and demurred. “Why?” I asked, “would you be afraid to have a woman over?”

“No, it’s not that at all,” he said. “I’d be flattered. But look, I earn eight dollars an hour. I don’t own anything except my bike and my books. You’d laugh if you saw how I lived.”

I said that I certainly would not laugh, and now that we had broken the ice, I could see that his features were beginning to relax. We were making regular eye contact now, and I noticed that his irises were the brightest green I had ever seen; their color sparkled in the light like mint jelly. Below his blushing cheeks, his smooth wide jaw moved nimbly as he spoke. Tonight, as always, he wore his long sandy hair drawn back tightly over his ears and fastened in back with a clip. I found myself wondering how his hair would look untied and unfurled across his back.

When I asked him if he knew why I had left my job, he admitted that he knew about my affair. The drama surrounding my departure had already become something of an office legend. Then he mentioned that my conduct in vandalizing my boss’s office had not really surprised him. This remark startled me. Had he known about my affair even before that eventful night? If so, how had he known, and for how long?

He explained that he had been aware of my affair for several months before I left the job. He worked late most nights, and sometimes, after everyone else had gone, he heard us together in my boss’s office. On a few occasions he had heard sounds that revealed the distinct nature of our activities. Later, he would notice me leaving alone, sometimes with tears in my eyes. He said that he would feel helpless whenever he saw me in that state, and afterward he would think about me for a long time.

At first his revelations deeply offended me. He struck me as a kind of petty voyeur to some of the most humiliating moments of my life. At the same time I felt a conflicting emotion. His interest in me was intriguing in some strange way. A voice in one part of my mind was telling me to order him out of the apartment immediately, while another voice was telling me that it would be all right to reach out and place my hand gently, discreetly on his arm.

I did neither. Instead, I changed the subject completely, hoping that by the end of our meal my mind would be more settled. I let him talk about his passion for science fiction. He explained that he had a particularly strong interest in the sub-genre of utopian science fiction. What seemed to attract him to these stories was their unabashed optimism. He loved tales in which benevolent beings from distant galaxies or from parallel universes came bearing the gift of enlightenment, the solutions to vexing age-old human problems, and these aliens would leave humanity happier and better off for their visit. “I always feel like the authors write these books for people like me,” he said, “for people who don’t quite fit into the world as it is, to give us hope that life could be better some day, maybe somewhere else.” He smiled shyly, content to have expressed this simple truth about himself.

A realization flashed in my mind as he spoke. I thought of the countless hours I’d spent dissecting women’s studies texts during seven years of higher education. Did those works perform a similar function for me? Did they give me a sense of hope for a better world, a world where even I might fit in? I almost revealed these thoughts to him, but something held me back. I still didn’t trust him completely.

When we had finished eating, I took Bob by the hand. We didn’t leave the apartment for dessert. Instead I led him into my little room, closed the door and locked it. I asked him to take off his shoes and socks. Then as he stood perplexed before me, I silently unbuttoned his shirt, moving my fingers slowly from one button down to the next. When his shirt had fallen to the floor I unbuckled his belt, unfastened the waist clasp of his khakis, and unzipped his fly. I drew his pants down his long legs and told him to step out of them.

He was wearing bright white jockeys -- those little boy briefs with the heavily reinforced pouch in front – and his pouch had swollen to an outrageous size. He looked as if he had hidden an inflated balloon behind the thick cotton fabric. He seemed unsure of what he should do next, so I slipped my index fingers into each side of the waistband and pulled down. His erect male organ bounded forward, its bright pink cap uplifted toward me. His cock was long, smooth and sleek, and it seemed to have a life of its own. It was swaying from side to side, searching, inquisitive, as if trying to pick up a scent. Its assertiveness appeared to be a source of acute embarrassment to its owner.

“Why don’t you lie down on my bed?” I said. “On your back.”

He did just as I asked. I kept all my clothes on and sat down next to him. His long prone body, naked from head to toe, lay stretched out over the full length of my bed.

He reached up to touch my shoulder. I took his hand firmly and put it down at this side. “Don’t touch me,” I said.

My hand drifted to his face. I caressed his rosy cheeks, his dark eyebrows, and I stroked the expanse of hair that was drawn tightly like a thin sheet over his ear. The strands of his hair were clean and fine, amazingly light to the touch. My fingers traveled over his forehead and lost themselves in the silky depths behind his ears. With a gentle nudge I raised his head and unfastened the hair clasp in back. Then I unfurled his hair, spreading it out on the pillow like a glistening halo around his face. I brought my lips to his, softly pressing my mouth against him, giving the lightest puffs of kisses.

When I looked down upon his face again, his eyes had become glassy. He lay below me, in awe, immobile, and I began to stroke his face again. My fingers kept retracing a course from the corner of his eye, down his warm glowing cheek to the tip of his jaw. I savored the contrast between the downy softness of his hair and the coarse stubble of his nascent beard.

When I leaned down and sucked on his male nipples, the tips rose up stiff and wet beneath my lapping tongue. He raised his hand to stroke my curly black hair. Again, I grasped his hand and placed it back at his side. Soon the broad flat plain of his chest was glistening with my saliva.

I sat up again and surveyed the full length of his body. His flat belly was pale, white like sand; his hips were delicate and thin. From between his hips his cock sprouted up, swollen thick with blood and still swaying, yearning to be touched. I slid my fingers through his dense pubic curls. He gasped when I touched the loose wrinkled skin of his scrotum sack. My sharp nails grazed over his shifting balls, and his whole body trembled deliciously while I held one floating oval shape between two fingertips. “Lie still,” I said.

In one quick motion I straddled him, squeezing his slender hips between my thighs. I remembered my old riding instructor’s advice: “Hold him tightly between your thighs, always stay in control.” I looked down and saw that his scrotum sack was now pressed tightly against the crotch of my jeans. The two little egg shapes stood out distinctly from beneath the delicately veined skin. His long cockshaft rose straight up past my waist. I took it in one hand and rubbed it along the denim thigh of my jeans. He moaned. I knew that I had his full attention now. The head of his cock was swollen like an overripe fruit ready to burst, its color brightening to a flaming crimson.

While I held his cockshaft firmly in one hand, I guided the index finger of my other hand in a circle around the rim of the head, just below the upturned edge. I moved my finger as slowly as I could, and he cried out helplessly until I stopped. To exert so much power over him felt intoxicating. His cries sent warm surges of pleasure rushing through my body.

“Don’t move a muscle,” I said. Then, I began to question him: “So, Bob, you used to listen at night while my boss was fucking me?”

He didn’t want to answer. I stopped touching him. After a long pause, he responded, “Yes, sometimes I could hear you.”

I pumped his cock a few times, drawing the silken skin up and down the hard bone-like shaft. “Do you remember the sound John used to make when he came? It was a kind of whining sound, wasn’t it? You must have heard it.” I paused again in my stroking.

“Yes, I heard him.”

“Did you ever hear me come?”

“Yes.”

“I would moan, wouldn’t I? I’d cry out loud. Is that what you heard?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I want to tell you something. I never came with my boss, not once. I always pretended.”

I stopped touching him. I let my hand rest at my side. “I haven’t come for a long, long time,” I said. “In fact, I can’t even remember when I last did.”

I resumed squeezing and pumping his cock. Clear liquid seeped out of the tiny slit on the tip and coated my palm with its slick warmth. I experimented with new caresses, gauging my power over him by the sudden bursts of his breath, his shudders, his gasps. If he flailed or writhed too exuberantly, or if he spoke an unsolicited word, I would stop. After a while he kept very still, very quiet, and he did not move a muscle. I liked it best when he looked up at me with his jaw set firmly, and the only movement over his whole body seemed to be the quivering of his nostrils and the emerald sparkle of his eyes fixed obediently upon mine. It had taken such a long time, such a very long time, but now I was hot, now I was wet, and now I was ready.

I got up and undressed completely. Then I straddled him again. This time I slipped him into my hole. I sank down upon him, opening up easily, taking him in until I felt the tip of his cock high up inside my cervix. He bucked once.

“No,” I said, “don’t move.”

I leaned forward, my hands locked on to his shoulders, while I positioned myself carefully over his groin – shifting until it felt just right. Then I paused. I didn’t rise and fall on him. No, I simply began to slide forward and backward, rocking ever so slightly, almost imperceptibly, stimulating my clit against the firm base of his cock, rolling my wicked little bud rhythmically over his pubic bone. The blood surged to my pussy; moisture flowed freely out of me and soaked our mingled pubic hair. The sensations were exquisite! Nerve endings that I had not known were there suddenly burst into life, exploding in a riot of pleasure. The universe seemed concentrated in my little rolling seed, in my swollen lips, in my expanding hole. It was not long before my hips were shaking and I was thrusting wildly, convulsively.

Soon I felt my crotch tightening – the nerves and ligaments inside seemed to stretch to their breaking point – then everything inside snapped. The explosion erupted between my legs, shot up my spine, and pounded through my body. I tried to stifle my cries, but for a moment I lost control. With my head thrown back, I let one sharp cry burst out from my lungs. The echo was still resounding in my ears as I sat there moments later, my limbs trembling, my chest heaving.

When the shockwaves finally subsided, I disengaged. I sat down beside him and watched his cock react to the sudden abandonment. Still stiff, it was swaying helplessly from side to side, dripping with my wetness, glowing purple with outrage. When Bob reached out to grasp his forlorn erection, I shoved his hand away. “I want to do it,” I said.

I took him firmly in my hand, squeezing my fist tightly around his shaft. My pumping action was very efficient. With each upward stroke I pulled deliberately on the head. After a few tugs his long body grew tense, his hips thrust upward, and I could feel a distinct throbbing against my palm. I took my hand away just as a white stream shot out from the tip. Like a garden hose left unattended, his cock thrashed about, randomly ejecting spurt after spurt until his stomach and chest were dotted with tiny white pools.

I got up and threw him a towel. In silence he proceeded to wipe himself clean. Only when he had finished did I notice the tears welling up in his eyes. I gasped in amazement; my heart melted. A feeling of tenderness for him swept over me. “No, no, no,” I said to myself, “this wasn’t what I meant to happen! How could I have done this to him?” I desperately wanted to apologize, to express my compassion in words, but I realized that this would only draw attention to his humiliation. So I sat next to him and kissed him. This time I kissed him full on his lips. Our mouths quickly locked together, and my tongue caressed his sweet trembling tongue.

Suddenly his hands were on my bare back. I let him touch me. I let his hands roam freely over my shoulder blades, up and down my spine, all around my sensitive bottom. He squeezed my buttocks with both his hands, pulling me down alongside him, pressing me tightly against the length of his body.

“Touch me, touch me please,” I cried out, “I want to feel your hands all over my body . . . everywhere!” My flesh tingled and burned and sizzled beneath his hands. My skin drank in his touches just as parched soil absorbs the rain from a sudden storm. His fingers were in my hair, pressing into my scalp, and then they were setting off sparks along the nape of my neck. He touched my breasts; his palms slid over my taut nipples. His hands ran up and down both my legs, between my legs, and I opened up wide to welcome him.

With our bodies entwined, we began rolling about on the bed, each of us struggling fiercely to leave no part of the other’s body untouched. As our frenzy increased, our positions on the bed became precarious. Soon we were sliding off the bed, down on to the carpet, where we wrestled like athletes, laughing like children caught in the raptures of spontaneous joy.

And then we were back up on the bed, grunting like wild animals. Suddenly I felt him hard and ready. I lay back in joyful expectancy. This time I let him be on top.