Puck by Wilder Jasinda

  "So then in the morning . . ."

  I hesitated. "In the morning . . . she woke up at like eleven, and I made coffee, and we had a super awkward conversation. The first thing I told her was that, in case the fact that she'd woken up completely clothed wasn't enough of an indication, she'd passed out in the cab, and I'd tossed her in bed and that was that. I wasn't sure what kind of girl she was, if she'd assume we'd banged or be worried about it . . . I just wasn't sure. Like I said, we hadn't discussed ourselves, like at all. She seemed embarrassed, but also upset, still."

  "Not seeing where this is going, to be honest."

  "Eventually, I flat out asked her what was wrong." I let the silence hang for a moment, thinking back. "She didn't answer for a long time. When she did, it was to tell me that she'd planned on getting drunk, going home, and killing herself."

  "Holy shit. Why?"

  "That's verbatim what I said, actually. She told me she was twenty-one, a virgin, and had terminal cancer."

  "Oh my god," Colbie breathed.

  I nodded. "Now you see where it's going."

  She sighed. "I think so, yeah."

  "She reached up and pulled her wig off, because I guess she could tell that I was feeling a little skeptical, maybe. She didn't look sick, you know? When she took the wig off, she was completely bald."

  "Jeez. What did you do?"

  "What does anyone do in that situation?" I laughed. "I completely blanked. Froze. Like . . . what was I supposed to say? Ask how long she has left? Seems cold, to me."

  Colbie nodded. "I can see the difficulty."

  "At that point, I experienced what still remains the longest, most tense, most awkward silence of my life. I'm not an emotionally comforting sort of guy, you know? I'm still not, and I was even less so, then. I was still pretty hurt and pissed off and fucked up over Raquel, wasn't really in a place where I knew how to comfort a pissed off dying girl."

  "So what happened?"

  "She asked if I'd take her home, so I did, and that was that, I thought." I glanced at Colbie. "This is where it gets interesting. Two months pass, I pretty much forget about her. Then the door buzzer thing goes off at like three in the morning, Tuesday night, Wednesday morning, whatever you want to call it. I answer the door in a pair of underwear, because what the fuck? Nobody I knew even knew where I lived. It was her, the girl. I never got her name, and she never offered. By the time morning came around and she was admitting to being terminal and a virgin, it seemed kind of late to be like, 'oh hey, by the way, what's your name?' You know? So I never got her name. Then she shows up at my door at three in the morning. She's crying. No wig, a lot thinner, looked sick this time."

  "God, Puck."

  I nod. "So, I bring her inside, and she sits on my couch, and says she has a favor to ask." I pause, and then pitch my voice high. "'You can't say no, because I'm dying, and you're not allowed to deny a dying person their last request.' That's what she said to me, verbatim."

  "Dear god."

  "Yeah, pretty much. So I'm like, 'all right, what's your request?' She tells me she doesn't want to die a virgin. She'd been waiting for the right guy, the right time, and then she got sick, and it would be cruel at that point to get involved with someone emotionally. Apparently there was a guy, but she'd pretended she wasn't in love with him so he wouldn't get all invested with a dead girl walking. That was her phrase--dead girl walking."

  "This sounds like a novel."

  "Felt like one," I said. "So I tell her I assumed she wanted me to . . . be the one. And she just nodded. My head was spinning. Like, what the fuck? What was I supposed to do? Again, I was at a complete loss. She said . . . she didn't know my name, and I didn't know hers, and she wanted it to stay like that. She didn't want me to pretend feelings, don't make it weird. But she also didn't want to just . . . get it over with, right? She wanted to enjoy it, but keep it impersonal to a degree."

  "Goddamn, Puck."

  "So, I agreed. Like she said, I couldn't be like, no, I'm not doing that. I mean, it felt fucked up, you know? But, at the same time, if you look at it from another perspective, it didn't have to be that much different than any other random hook-up. I just had to put aside the fact of her terminal illness and just pretend she was . . . just some nameless chick I'd picked up at the bar."

  "And that's what you did?"

  I nodded. "I did."

  Colbie was silent for a while. "So?"

  I eyed her. "So . . . what?"

  She snorted. "You can't stop now. What happened?"

  I blinked. "Um, well . . . I slept with her."

  "And?"

  "And what?" I paused. "What is it you want to hear? A play by play?"

  "Was it good? Was it hot?"

  "It was . . . yeah. It was good. It was hot. I told her the only way I could make sure she had a good experience was if we had sex more than once. I'd never been with a virgin, but I knew enough to know the first time was never very good. And I didn't want her first time to be her only time, and have it be . . . anything less than memorable, I guess. So we started out kissing. Good place to start, right? The girl could kiss, too. I mean, damn. She had that shit down. I let her just sort of . . . dictate things, to start with. Figure out whether she really wanted to carry through with it, you know?" I hesitated, feeling oddly protective of the details. "She was . . . eager. After that first time, she was . . . insatiable. She stayed with me for two days. I called off work, said I had a family crisis to deal with. A boldface lie, but whatever. I made sure she had the time of her life. We never exchanged names, and we never talked about our pasts. Basically, we spent the better part of forty-eight hours eating, fucking, and sleeping."

  "Wow."

  I shrugged. "I . . . I wasn't ever quite able to completely forget . . . the circumstances, but I like to think she was able to do that for those two days."

  "How'd it end?"

  "I woke up, the morning of the third day, and she was in my bathroom, sick. She asked me to call her cab, so I did. She kissed me, told me thank you for giving her a priceless gift, and then left."

  Colbie was silent for a while and then sighed. "And you never saw her again?"

  I shook my head. "Nope. Well, not in person. I was reading the local newspaper one morning about a month later, and I was trying to fold the fucking thing so I could read the comics, and the obituary section fell out. I saw her face." I paused, tugging on my beard. "I put the paper down before I could read anything about her. Threw the paper away and went to work."

  I could tell this threw Colbie. "Why? You didn't want to know? Not even her name?"

  "I wanted to know more than anything. But her request was that she remain anonymous to me."

  "Why do you think that was?"

  "I don't know. It's something I think about, sometimes." I shrugged. "My best guess is that she wanted me to remember the time we spent together for what it was, rather than associating it her with her life. She didn't want to become some mythic, tragic figure for me."

  "Is that how you see her?"

  I shook my head. "Honestly, no. It worked. I know absolutely nothing about her. All I know, all I remember, is two days of what was, if I'm honest, really great sex. When I start to feel nostalgic or start to put some kind of tragic angle on my feelings toward her, I think about those two days spent naked, making her feel things she'd never felt before. I think about the sex, and I make it about that. Because I like to think that's what she wanted. And also because otherwise, I might go a little crazy over the whole thing."

  Colbie eyed me thoughtfully, and I waited for her to ask the questions I could see percolating behind her eyes. "So was it the best sex you've ever had?"

  I shook my head. "Nope."

  "No?"

  I shook my head again. "If I said yes, I'd be romanticizing it. It wasn't the best ever. It's up there, but not the best."

  "So who was the best?"

  I laughed. "You don't mind asking the hard shit, do you?"

  She laughed w
ith me. "Hell no. That's how you get to the good stuff. And if someone isn't willing to answer the hard questions, they're not worth my time."

  I tilted my head. "How do you figure?"

  "Life is too short for bullshit, Puck. I OD'd, I told you that. I realized then that, as cliche as it sounds, life is what you make of it. After that, I became aggressive about going after what I wanted, and ever since, I refuse to waste time on people who aren't worth my attention. If you can't be real with me, if you can't be upfront with me, if you can't handle me asking the hard shit, then what's the point?"

  I acceded the point with a grunted huh sound. "Fair enough. Well, then, I guess the answer would be . . . this chick named Maya. I met her on vacation and we spent a week together in a tiki hut, in bed. I think I had more sex in that week than any other entire month. She was . . . fucking wild, man. Totally batshit crazy, like legit, she was a goddamn lunatic, but she was a fuckin' wildcat in the sack." I squeezed Colbie's thigh. "Your turn."

  "Okay, I guess it's only fair. So, something revealing and personal of a sexual nature." She twisted a strand of my beard around her finger and tugged on it; I debated telling her that the way she tugged on my beard was a crazy-ass turn on, but decided to leave that tidbit for later. "Okay, I've got it. So it's no secret that smack junkies will do just about anything for a hit, right? I'm sure you're familiar with the stereotype, right? Well, I made a rule for myself that I'd never use sex as a tool, no matter how desperate I got. And I never did. Even when I was in the depths of withdrawal desperation, I refused to trade sex for a hit. I was terrified of getting trapped in prostitution, because that was something I saw all too frequently. There was a group of us, homeless people, junkies, alkies--the dregs, the losers, the . . . the castoffs and the lost, you know? We lived in this little community under an overpass. It was hell, but it was better than an alley, or somewhere alone. I wouldn't call any of those people friends, really, but we looked out for each other, to a degree. A lot of the women, they'd get desperate, and they'd turn a trick to get money for the next hit, and then they'd need another hit, and the only way they could get money for another hit was turning another trick. It turned into a trap, and I guess I always held out hope, deep down, that I'd figure some way out. Part of me didn't want to believe that was really my life, or something like that. But I just . . . I refused. I'd been a virgin when my uncle raped me, and I think that helped make it easy to never let that become a way out. The only experience I had was rape, and it felt like even if I willingly let some guy fuck me in exchange for money or drugs, it'd still feel like rape, still be that same thing Uncle Craig had done."

  "Makes sense."

  "I did a lot of other gnarly shit to get drug money, though. Lots of stealing, scams, and begging. It was an ugly time."

  "That's personal and revealing," I said, "but not sexual . . . about sex, but not sexual."

  "What I consider my first time, my first voluntary time, was after I got clean. He was a lot like me, recovering addict, homeless, trying to pick himself up and restart his life. Older than me by a few years, really sweet guy. Perfect kind of guy for my first time after everything I'd been through. It was hard to find privacy in a shelter, but we managed it, and it was . . . nice, but underwhelming."

  "After what'd you experienced, I'd imagine it'd be hard to . . . want that, I guess."

  She nodded. "You'd be right. I wanted to be normal. I didn't want what Craig had done to define me anymore, or to hold me back. And Paul . . . he made it easy for me to get past my hang-ups. I thought maybe he and I would have something, you know? Like we could lean on each other as we worked on staying clean and figuring out how to start life over."

  "I sense a 'but' coming."

  She nodded. "But then he vanished. I threw myself into focusing on the SATs and scholarships and college applications. And then, a few days before I left for Harvard, I ran into him. He was using again. I could see it, feel it, smell it. He was strung out and desperate for another hit. I don't think he even recognized me. And that was sort of the final mental turning point for me, seeing Paul like that. High, crazy, desperate, dirty, so fucked up he didn't even recognize me. I realized then that I'd never, ever, fucking ever go back to that."

  "And you haven't."

  She shook her head. "I barely even drink. The idea of losing myself to anything scares me. Even being drunk feels like something I could get hooked on and then somehow I'd be back out on the street. I know it's silly or stupid, but even if I let myself drink regularly, I have this fear that I'll become an alcoholic. Having known plenty of those, I know how ugly it can be, how completely you can lose yourself to it, and I just . . . I refuse."

  I withdrew my hand from her leg and put it around her shoulders, drew her closer against me. "Not silly, babe. Not at all. My old man was an alcoholic, and that shit will rule you and it will ruin you, if you let it. I've lived a hard life, I don't mind admitting. But I'm very much aware of the fact that Pops was a drunk, and I won't let myself go there either. I'm careful about it. I take regular hiatuses from drinking, just to prove to myself, I guess, that I'm in control, that I don't need booze to have a good time."

  "I'm glad you understand." Colbie rested her head on my shoulder, and even though this conversation hadn't gone how I'd meant it to, I felt like this was better, somehow.

  I wanted the trade of revealing sexual stories to be hot, to fan the sparks between us into something more. I meant it to make things between us sizzle even more, give me an edge. That backfired, it became some kind of intensely personal, emotionally packed moment of revelation. I just told her shit I'd never told anyone, shit I'd never admitted even to myself.

  "So, who was your best?" I asked, in the interest of trying to regain the sparks.

  "Alex Caldwell. The TA of my first Russian class. His mom was Russian, like had moved to the States while she was pregnant with Alex. She ended up marrying some American dude when Alex was two, which was how he had an American last name, but he'd grown up speaking Russian and English, since his stepdad learned Russian so he could talk to Alex's mom better."

  I smirked at her. "Okay. And . . .?"

  Colbie rolled her eyes at me. "There's nothing lascivious about the story. We dated for six months, and he was great in bed. Alex was the one who showed me what sex could really be, I guess you could say. He was my TA, but we made a rule that we'd never talk about the class, and he'd grade my papers like anyone else's, and I'd never get any kind of special treatment. And then the class ended, and that stopped being something we had to worry about."

  "Why'd you break up with him?"

  "Oh, he graduated, got a job in Los Angeles, and that was that. I was sad about it for a few months, but I'd never really been in love with him, and I knew he hadn't been in love with me either. We had good sex together; we got along, had fun, but when he landed the job there was no question of how it was going to go. It wasn't, like, painful, you know? It wasn't some big drama, do I stay for Colbie, or do I move for the really great job I just got? Nah, it was just one of those things that happens in life, and we both knew it."

  "What made the sex so good?"

  She lifted a shoulder. "He paid attention to me, figured out what I liked. And it didn't hurt that he had--" she broke off, blushing a little.

  "A big cock?"

  Colbie nodded. "It was very nice, yes."

  "Very nice," I echoed. "Did he make you go crazy in bed? Did he make you come so hard you fainted?"

  She rolled her eyes at me. "No, Puck."

  "You say that like I'm asking stupid questions."

  "You are."

  I leaned in and bit her earlobe, lowered my voice to a whisper. "See, I don't think I am. Best sex ever should make you absolutely crazy."

  "Like you and Maya?" she asked.

  I nodded. "We'd finish, and I'd just laugh, because it was so fucking crazy. Every single time I was like, whoa, holy shit."

  Colbie frowned at me. "So if I've never fainted from an orgasm
, if I've never gone whoa, holy shit, then I'm not doing it right?"

  I shook my head. "Not what I'm saying. But you should experience that at least once."

  "And you can show that to me, can you?" she asked, skepticism rife in her voice. "Crazy, make-me-faint sex?"

  "Absolutely."

  "And what if I have sex with you on the promise of earth-shattering, life-changing sex, and you don't deliver?"

  I smirked at her. "Colbie, babe . . . it feels like you doubt me."

  She stared up at me, and her expression was difficult to read. "You're promising an awful lot, Puck. Dozens of orgasms, orgasms so intense I faint, sex so good I go crazy. You're building this up a whole hell of a lot, and I'm skeptical of anything that sounds too good to be true." She wrapped an index finger in the end of my beard and tugged on it again. "Call me cynical, but I'm wary of someone promising me the things you're claiming you can do."

  "You raise a valid point."

  She quirked an eyebrow at me. "But?"

  I shrugged and shook my head. "But nothing. It's a valid point. You're absolutely right to be cynical and skeptical."

  She laughed. "You're not helping your case, Puck."

  I touched her knee, traced up the inside of her thigh a few inches, and she shivered, tensed. "I barely touch you, and you shiver. You like the way I touch you, and you want more." I murmured this to her. "You want to know what my fingers will feel like touching your pussy. You want to feel my face between your thighs. The way you tense and catch your breath when all I'm doing is whispering to you and touching your leg . . . when I get my mouth on you, you'll lose your fucking mind, Colbie. You know you will. You already can't breathe, and all I'm doing is talking about it. You can imagine it, can't you?"

  She was frozen in place, not breathing; her thighs clamped down around my hand, arresting my upward progress under her skirt. "Yes, Puck."

  "Yes, what, Colbie?"

  "I can imagine it."

  "And you want it, don't you?"

  "Hell yeah."

  I teased the outer shell of her ear with my tongue. "What else do you want?"

  "You."

  "Me, how?"