Opus

13. Replay

Another ceiling, another tongue, same old feeling.

I lay on the couch−I barely know the guy, no way am I jumping into his bed−legs slightly parted, awaiting the ever-elusive big O.

Rule 1: Have fun!

Bullshit.

Truth be told, I don't like sex. Scratch that. I don't like sex done badly. Seems to me that, when you like sex in itself, you like it no matter what. No matter the setting, partner, state of mind, and so on.

So no, I don't like sex, but it's as if Jaz has opened a floodgate, and I can't get enough. Because I'm not getting it good? Shouldn't it be like hunger? You're starved, you eat, then you're no longer hungry. Simple. Not so with sex, not for me at least. I should ask Bree. Although she's kind of a nymphomaniac; it's like she has no satiety reflex. She's bulimic; I'm anorexic. Take now. We fooled around, but somewhere in the midst of it, I got bored. Maybe I'm turning into a tease.

His raspy tongue's waggles send electric tingles up my sex, but the way I'm feeling, or rather the way I'm unfeeling, he'd have to be a damn defibrillator to reset my thoughts.

Harry−Larry? Barry? Garry? I was in such a hurry, speed-chatting guys in the Competition's bar, I forgot to take note of his name. Hum. OK, I'm pretty sure it's Harry. He looks like a Harry in any case: a bus driver's face, an accountant's body, a shoe salesman's personality. Harry whispers to my pussy, "You like that?"

Another ceiling, another tongue, another mouthy partner. Please proceed. "Uh-huh." My grunt is enough to keep him slurping away.

Clammy David. Slurpy Harry. Players are simple creatures, aren't they? And by players, I mean all players past, current and future, which include, of course, referees. Kendrick enjoyed going down on me too, but contrary to the corn-colored mop of hair currently busy between my thighs, I enjoyed Ken doing so.

After my disastrous set, I ran home (more like limped to my place, but I'm pretending to be a sane person, busy with her normal life). Upon arrival, I showered twice−I should have showered twice more, but I lacked the willpower. I headed to the bar instead, in a cab no less, fuck walking. My legs are done carrying me anywhere for the foreseeable future (or until the next set). Hence, my current predicament, on my back, legs over Harry's shoulders. That, at least, is going according to plan.

Each time I turn my face to the pillow, I take a sniff of my hair, just in case. No piss, vomit, or vermin smell. So far so good.

The truth is, I want to forget the game if only for a few hours. OK, at least for a few minutes. Please. Harry was the fourth guy I asked. My lucky number. Right now, I have to admit it fucked with my radar.

My bruised fists, the cuts on my forehead, my ratty hair served as a deterrent in my quest for an adequate bed partner. I showered but forewent styling or even combing since my hands hurt too much even to hold a brush. I cried soaping up and nearly passed out shampooing, give me a break here. Perhaps I was subconsciously looking for a guy to screw under my terms. That would explain why I went trolling in the game's bar.

Like I said, players are simple beings. Ask enough players, and eventually one will agree, no matter the package doing the asking. Harry seemed desperate enough, or so his mouth's staying power attests.

"Your skin is sooo soft."

"I'm a girl."

"You taste sooo good."

I'll have to lick my soap and drink a sip of my shampoo one of those days because Harry, like Bree, can't get enough. Here again, I don't understand the appeal.

"Might want to take a break there, Harry. It doesn't look like it's going to happen anytime soon."

"No, no, I can do it."

Players are competitive little things. Consider my new friend Harry. I told him not to go down on me. "I want a quick fuck," I said. "Your dick, my vagina. You do your thing; I'll take care of myself."

The idiot saw it as a challenge.

My thoughts veer to Jaz. Moving on.

Bree, Gav, and the bar. Kendrick. The game. How the fuck did I end up here, in Harry's lousy apartment, on this day, hours from another set, ex-player Harry's head between my legs? Lady Life's been a bitch lately.

"Are you too hot? Can I undress you?"

"Nah, I'm fine." A white lie. I'm far from fine. I want an orgasm, damn it! I need the seconds of intense oblivion climaxes bring. I want to feel full, overtaken and crushed, but I need to turn off my brain to reach that nirvana, and I need that nirvana to unplug my swirling thoughts. It's squaring the circle and aiming for the moon rolled up into one Herculean task. "Want me to jack you off?"

Did I mention players were easy?

Harry takes three painful minutes to come. Five minutes later, after washing and soaking my hands in ice-cold water, I leave. Harry's already asleep.

When I get home, I crash into bed, too tired to masturbate. Best laid plans suck.