The Righting Process

Rob

    I’m sitting in my car outside of a hotel. A Marriott. In the seat beside me is a parmesan chicken from QFC. I have forks in my purse. What kind of person keeps forks in their purse? I question myself, but it would be worse not to have forks. My audiobook is droning beside me and stops as a message comes in.

Jess: Is now a good time to call?
Me: No.
Jess: Oh. Okay. Dustin wanted me to tell you that he forgot about ---
I stop reading because I don’t care. It can wait. I’m trying to amp myself up. I am strong, I am sexy.
Jess: So I just wanted to make sure--
Rob: Driving so I just caught up in all the text…. Sad lol
Me: Right, No sweat. I’m listening to an audio book. 
Me: Chicken parmesan
Rob: Sounds delicious I’m 5 minutes away
Me: KK
Jess: Are you there--
Rob (2 minutes later): I’m checking in.
Rob: Where is u?
Me: I’m in my car brt.
Mentally, I begin talking myself into this occasion fighting back fear, I’m going to die tonight. Seriously what kind of woman hooks up with random tinder guys at hotels? Sexy, confident, sexually independent women who are not deathly in love with men who are inherently narcissistic. Women who are not indelibly broken. That’s who. Tonight. Be her. Be the woman you want to be. My heels click a beat as I walk to the lobby. Please look like your picture. Please look like your picture. Please look like your- He doesn’t. He’s better looking than his pictures. Tall, with a nicely confident air. Rob- such a generic white guy name and he’s so beautifully persian. Strong browed, he has a good chin and is clean cut. As he warned on Tinder, he does have a dad-bod. The height makes up for it as he stands at a clean 5/11. As advertised, I think.  I wait for the cut of his eyes. The quick, fleeting disappointed look that I get some of these occasions. It doesn’t happen. Warm eyes smile at me from behind dark eyelashes. 
“Hi,” Rob said. 
“Hi. You look like your pictures. I’m glad. Some people you meet on the internet look nothing like their picture, and you’re like ‘Why do you lie if you’re going to meet me? You think I won’t notice you look nothing like your picture?’” Confident women don’t prattle. I’m prattling. Crap. I’m nervous. Why am I so nervous? Because I’m going to die on a Tinder date tonight. 
Rob finishes checking in and grabs the handle of his bag and heads toward the room. We’re walking side by side and I’m on the right. He’s on the left.

He’s saying words. I think I’m responding appropriately. The words don’t matter. Nothing matters except that in a few minutes, the pounding and noise in my head will stop.
I tip sideways on my heel. Yes, I nearly fall out of my shoes that I wear everyday of my life for 8 hours. I play it off, “Apparently walking is new.” 
He puts his arm around me as we round the corner toward our room. He musses my hair in the hallway. I’m already starting to feel at ease. He shortens his gait to match mine and puts his arm around me. 
“I’m glad you’re chipper,” He rasps his mouth intimately close to my ear. 
“Yep. That’s me.” I laugh. It wasn’t really funny, but the nerves are coming back. He opens the door to the room. I dropped the chicken parmesan on the bed along with my purse. I turn around and he’s right behind me. 
“Hi.” He said. He closes the distance without waiting for my reply which is probably good because it would be something incredibly -- my brain shuts down. It stops. He’s kissing me and oh thank god he’s good at it. I have never been kissed this well in my entire life. His tongue is in my mouth and I’m sucking on it. He pulls back a bit and starts undoing the buttons on my shirt. I told him I liked that. My foot bends, and I almost tip out of my boot again. “Apparently standing is new too.” This time, I didn’t laugh and ruin it because once again his mouth is on mine demanding and pushing. This guy wants me. Badly. I can feel it through his jeans. My shirt is off. My bra is off and I’m pulling at the belt buckle around his waist. 
“Get on your knees.” He orders. 
“On my knees,” I repeat, stifling a smirk. Noone tells me what to do. But he kisses like a god, I think, I can get on my knees for that. I am already so turned on.  
“Say hello,” He says. 
So I do. I spit on it, and I take it into my mouth slowly as recent experience has taught me to do so. (Raj, Nick, etc) 
Except that slow is not what he wants. His hand is in my hair guiding my head faster over his cock. I gag and cough and pull my head back against his hand, but to no avail. I feel bile rising up in my throat and mentally talk myself into calming the gag reflex. He groans and I can feel that groan to my very core quickening my heartbeat and dampening me. 
“That’s enough,” He says. He pulls me up and grabs my head kissing me roughly, his breath a little uneven and heavy. He spins me around toward the bed. There are words, but my head is foggy. And I can’t hear him.
“Huh?” I ask, but the words don’t matter. He’s guiding me with his hands. Big hands. My jeans are on the floor. 
“I like these.” He says fingering the black microfiber panties.
“Thank you,” I say. “They’re new.” Just purchased that day. He had told me he liked shiny things. I had looked for shiny things, but being mostly inexperienced in picking out the right kind of underwear for someone else to enjoy, I settled on a set of two pairs of microfiber panties that were black and red. They were sexy bikini style underwear and were quite different from my typical black cotton thongs. They were more comfy, but not as comfy as my cotton period granny panties. 
His finger grazed the inner thigh of my right leg. I inhaled sharply. He pushed himself against me and I felt his hands run along my back guiding me forward onto the bed. I rolled over onto my back and he followed me. “You listen. Good.” 
He kissed me hard- the kind of kisses that only happen in movies or in romance novels. The kinds of kisses that don’t happen to good girls like me. His kiss was hard and demanding. His chest hair was soft under my fingers and his skin was soft too. But hard in the important places. His hands for example were tough like a person who worked frequently with them. His knuckles were big. 
“Huh?” He asked.
“Everything I said I liked. You listened.” 
Beginning to fuck me, his hands kept running across my throat and I realized he was going to try to choke me. I squirmed away a bit. Seeing the fear, he respected it and put his hands to my breast instead. I’m going to die on a Tinder date.
He kissed my neck and pulled my head back “Over.” He said. I rolled over and slid out of my underwear at the same time, throwing them off the side of the bed. “I just gotta get..” He is up and away from me leaving me ass up in the air waiting for him. He’s digging through his bag for something. He must be getting a condom, I thought. Then I felt liquid pour down my butt. 
He’s going to do me in the ass!  For a second, I feel the kind of fear that always coursed through me at the prospect. The kind of fear that this new me doesn’t feel. I’m not afraid. I can handle anything and I was still so turned on that I didn’t even say no. He pulled me to the edge of the bed again. 
“Oh, Jesus.” The first orgasm bubbles up within minutes of him entering me. I’m still not sure whether he did me in the butt or not, but I assume I would know for sure if he had. At first he teased-fucking me slowly. I pushed my butt against him and felt a whack on my ass. The pain ticked my pleasure sensors which is wrong, so wrong. I’m going to die on a Tinder date. 
He continues to pound into me from behind pulling me and moving me all over the bed. In romance novels, the prized orgasm is the one you have at the same time as your partner. Though I had a lot of sex, I had never experienced that particular abnormality. I assumed it was made up.
“Irene, I’m going to cum,” He was working hard and spanking my ass. 
“Cum then.” I was spent. My whole body was on fire. I could feel every stroke, every glorious inch of him. His hands were everywhere my clit, my breasts, my hair. “O fuck yeah.” 
“Yeah. Yeah. Yeah.” My brain keeps repeating the word but I’m not sure it’s coming out of my mouth. I’m not sure I can formulate words. And then I felt a rush between my legs. I’m cumming hard. And so is he in one of those magical, non-existent dual orgasms. I cum so hard that it pushes him out and he says, “Shit sorry,” as his dick jams my clit but even that pain feels good. 
“Not your fault,” I’m again not sure if the words come out or not. He gets it back into my pussy and his dam breaks. 
I’m instantly sad. Lonely already. This is where we are done on these Tinder dates. I make it easy and run away usually with a lame excuse. He’s gone to the bathroom and is cleaning up. I grab my underwear and put them on. He comes out and smiles at me. 
“Hi” He’s not done. “Come here.” He holds me to him and we start talking about everything under the sun. Things that matter. Things that don’t. I tell him about my childhood and my own kids. He tells me about his sister and his folks. We talk about the Seahawks game that I attended the day before. I feel safe and protected though I still might die on a Tinder date, at this point, I don’t care. We laugh about how neither of us is looking for relationships. I’m too broken. He eventually will have kids and a family. We talk about my next Tinder date which is already scheduled for Friday. We talk about my recent exploration into my sexuality which has more or less just taken an incredible turn. All previous sexual experiences immediately found their way into a trash bin in my brain. This capped them all. I find I’m no longer pretending to be sexy. This isn’t a role. I am sexy.  
“I think you should get him ready to go again,” He nods toward his cock. “You’re a bad teacher.”