stupid, ridiculous story and now all I can think about are cocks and sweatpants and maybe getting up and going to Wade’s room.
A blush storms my entire body whenever I let myself entertain the notion, but the notion is there nonetheless. I mean – that’s what he was saying, right? He was being suggestive. He was suggesting I get up and go to his room in the middle of the night – or maybe slightly earlier than that, because I’m sure he didn’t imagine it would take me three hours to stew over all of this – and maybe talk for a little while. You know, about old times.
And then after all the talking: fuck his brains out. Just fuck and fuck and fuck his brains out. Hell, if he wants me to masturbate on a bed while he spies on me from the bathroom, we can do that too. I’m feeling loose-limbed and lax and up for anything, even as the neurotic side of me tries desperately to cling to my teetering mind.
He doesn’t want you that way, the teetering side says. He was just being friendly.
Only I know there’s something new here, now, and it isn’t exactly holding hands and sharing tales of happy pigs. I don’t know what it is, exactly, but it’s almost as though I can feel it charging through the walls of this house – between his room and my room and probably Kitty and Cam’s rooms too – when I put my hand on the smooth, cool surface above my bed. Like we’re all connected down this great red hallway we’ve picked as our living space, every buzzing molecule in our bodies breathing life into the Professor’s weird old place.
It’s even something weird – like the thought of the lush crimson carpet out there, gathering between my bare toes – that urges me up, and out of bed, and down toward Wade’s room. His is the fourth door on the right – mine is first, then there’s a bathroom, then comes Cam’s room, and Kitty’s picked one of the rooms opposite – and I know before I even get to it that it’s open. I can see a slither of blue through the crack, because Wade’s room is all navy curtains and swirling sky-coloured rugs, though it’s not those things I’m paying attention to.
No, God, no.
I’m paying attention to the sounds of people fucking. Obviously, vigorously fucking. And for a long, long, frankly pain-stricken moment, I’m not sure what to do. I could keep going toward the door, clearly, and uncover exactly who’s doing the fucking in question. But that just seems like asking for heartache, because really there are only two options.
Either that weird tension between him and Cam was actually intense sexual attraction and they’re both in there doing each other in the ass, or else it’s the far more likely option. Kitty snuck across the hallway well before I ever even considered it, and now she’s in the middle of a marathon sex session with the object of all my hopes and dreams.
God, I hate that he’s the object of my hopes and dreams. I hate Kitty for one bright, burning, selfish second, because she’s brave and I’m not, and she’s lovely and I’m not, and she doesn’t have to be a eunuch for the rest of her life, and I somehow do.
And then I get to the door with my mind this boiling cauldron of stupid ideas – like how I’m going to barge in and accuse Wade of cheating on a girlfriend he doesn’t actually have, or accuse Kitty of betraying a friend over something she doesn’t even know about, or have some kind of ridiculous meltdown where I say words that aren’t even really English, just the blind tumbling result of my stupid heartache – and I just can’t do any of it. I can see them through the crack in the door, and I have to simply stand there and watch my hero twisting into some pretty incredible shapes with a person who is not me.
I have to watch him lift both of her legs over his shoulders until she’s almost bent double on the bed, and then pound into her as though sex is going to disappear tomorrow. Whoever invented fucking is going to revoke everybody’s licence, and from then on we have to spend our days shaking hands or violently waving.
I wish I’d done more than that in the short window of sex we all had. For one far too long and not-quite-agonising second, I find myself gazing at them with my mouth actually open. Heartache falls by the wayside in the face of this, because by God I’ve never seen a man flip a woman like that. He just gets hold of her hips and somehow she’s on her front, even though I’m sure such a move should have dislocated her hip.
Of course, I’ve seen things like this in porn. I’m aware that most people have more athletic sex than I’ve ever had. But even so, it’s different when it’s close up. It’s different when it’s only inches away from me, and I can see the look on Kitty’s face when she turns it to one side and bites at her own arm.
She looks like someone who realises there’s going to be no more sex tomorrow. She looks desperate and blissed out and she’s making this noise – this ah ah ah noise – that I can hardly stand to hear. It forces unwanted feelings through my body, and I know they’re there because I just have to squeeze my legs together against them.
God, what must it be like to feel that way? To have someone pounding into you over and over again, so hard I can see her little cupcake breasts bouncing beneath the curve of her body, and when I dare to flick my attention to Wade I can make out every muscle in his tensing stomach, all ab-tacular and hard as anything and fuck, fuck.
This is too much. Did he look this way, before? He had a good, strong swimmer’s body, I know that much. But I can’t recall him being so hairy or having those ropey, muscular arms or those actual high, firm pecs. He looks so rippling, so hard-bodied – though I suppose the overall effect is added to by the sheen of sweat all over him. It’s as though he slid out of the pages of Men’s Health only five seconds earlier, and I’m not ashamed to admit I can’t take my eyes off it.
Though maybe it’s partly because I don’t want to look at the two most obvious eye-magnets: his cock, and his face. If I look at his cock or his face, I swear I’ll die. He’s saying some pretty dirty things – Take it, take it, you little slut, among others – and that’s enough all on its own. It’s enough to make me press my legs together tighter, tighter, and I can feel I’m sweating through my pyjamas, I know I am, I know any second I’m going to touch myself like the guy in Wade’s story.
And then I look up at his face – just as Kitty says something disgusting like Ohhhh yeah, fuck my slick cunt – and of course he’s staring right at me. Of course he is. He’s staring right at me as he fucks her, this look on his face like something the Devil would do on realising he’s corrupted another innocent soul, and I back right up in a hurry until I crack my shoulder blades against the wall.
I realise I’m breathing hard. Probably hard enough for Kitty to hear, if she takes a second in-between ordering him to Fuck her pussy harder, goddammit. I almost laugh hearing my little pixie girl being such a bossy-boots in bed, but then my mind flashes on Wade’s grinning, mischief-lit face again and I’m too shocked to get the sound out. I think I’ll be too shocked to make a sound tomorrow, actually. In fact, I think I’m too shocked to ever make another sound from now until the end of time, because God I don’t know how I feel about any of this.
I can’t even find bitterness, anymore, which seems very odd indeed. Instead I just seem all juiced up with too much sex, and when I try to walk back toward my room all I can manage is a kind of vague slide along the wall.
Of course it’s only once I’m tucked back in my bed, staring at the ceiling like a ghost of myself, that I actually dare to admit what I wasn’t sure I’d seen before.
He beckoned me in. He jerked his head in the universally accepted gesture for ‘come on in, the water’s fine.’ And then he winked, and I broke my back against the hallway wall, before slithering back to my room like the proper little eunuch I am.
