his profile said masc4fem, four photos, all from the neck down. mine said smooth and available, which is true in the way that matters and is also the entire story of my life if you squint at it. he messaged once. westgate, 11:30. park dark. i didn’t ask anything else and he didn’t offer anything else and that was the entire negotiation.
i got there early because i’m like this now. parked two streets over from the lot where the streetlight’s been dead since spring, engine off, dome light off, the way he asked. the seat was still cold. under the hoodie i had on the little pink satin set i bought for a night that deserved it; this one, technically, was a tuesday, so i wore it anyway. i sat in it with my hands in my lap and felt the specific thing i always feel in the ten minutes before: less nervous than grateful. i’m twenty-six and i’ve been the thing somebody texts at midnight enough times to know what it means, and what it means when a man says westgate at 11:30 with no punctuation is that he’s not going to make me perform conversation, or charm, or anything else that isn’t the one thing i’m actually good at.
the app said he was four hundred feet away. the app was right.
he got in the passenger side without saying hi, pulled the door shut, and looked at my mouth like it was already his, which for the next twenty minutes it was. then his eyes went down to the lace showing at my collar where the hoodie had slipped, and back up, unhurried, the way you check a delivery against the order.
“you dressed up,” he said.
“yeah.”
“good.”
“hey,” i said anyway.
he didn’t answer. he looked at me for a second longer than was polite — at my lip gloss, which i’d reapplied in the rearview like a girl clocking in — and then he undid his jeans and let his hand drop away, and that was the whole introduction.
i’d been hard myself for a while. i leaned across the console, got my hand around him, and he was thick and hot and already leaking at the tip. i rubbed it into the head with my thumb, once, and he breathed out through his nose, and that little fact — that he’d been sitting in his own parked car somewhere waiting on this too — went through me like a shot.
“pretty little white mouth,” he said, like he was describing the weather. and he wasn’t wrong.
i took him in slow. a few inches, back, a few more, letting my jaw figure out the math. he said nothing while i worked up to it, which i’ve learned is its own kind of compliment: he’d rather feel it than narrate it. his hand came down into my hair, not pulling yet, just resting there, fingers spread against my scalp. heavy. deliberate. the way you put a claim on something.
i went down until my nose hit the base of him and held it, throat full, eyes already watering, one hand flat on his thigh. he let me stay there a beat past comfortable. then i pulled off fast, coughed once, spit running down my chin onto my collar — and went straight back down before i’d even finished recovering, because the whole point of me is that he doesn’t have to say again.
“look at that,” he said. low. almost to himself. “look at you on your knees for a stranger in a parked car.” his thumb moved against my scalp. “you know what you came out here for.”
“yeah,” i said, when i came up for air, wrecked and honest.
“say it.”
“your cock,” i said, and my voice did the thing it does, and he watched it happen like a man watching a faucet he’d just fixed. “i came out here to get on my knees in a cold car and suck your cock.”
“good girl.”
he said it the way you’d sign for a package and it still went through me like a current. then he tipped my chin up with his thumb and looked at my ruined face in the dashboard glow for a second, the way you look at something that turned out better than the photo.
his phone buzzed once in the cupholder. he glanced at it, didn’t pick up. “pretty,” he said. one word, flat. it landed harder than anything anyone’s said to me all year.
he took over then. the grip tightened and he started moving me at his pace, short controlled thrusts into my mouth, hitting the back of my throat on every third pass like he’d mapped it out in advance. the car smelled like cold fries and his cologne, which is a bold choice for a man whose profile photo is a forearm. i kept my tongue flat along the underside and worked the head on every way back up, cheeks hollowed, spit making everything slick and loud. the windows fogged at the edges. the sound filled the small space and he liked it — his hips pushed up every time it got louder, an honest man with a dishonest vocabulary.
then headlights swept the street behind us. a car, moving slow, the way people drive looking for parking or looking for something else.
his hand pressed me down. not rough — just complete. i went to the base of him and stayed, nose against him, throat working, and he held me there in the dark until the headlights slid off the back window. didn’t speed up. didn’t stop. didn’t care enough to pause and didn’t care enough to explain, either. when the light was gone he let me up for exactly one breath.
“don’t move when i do that,” he said. like a note on a paper. “good.”
i didn’t move the next time either, and there wasn’t a next time, because he decided he was done waiting.
“keep going,” he said. then, quieter, with his jaw going tight: “you know exactly what you’re here for, don’t you.”
i did. i couldn’t answer, so i hummed around him instead, and that did it. he swore — the first unplanned thing he’d done all night — and fisted his hand hard in my hair and took the last of the room i had, holding me there with my throat full and my eyes watering and my hands braced on his thighs.
he didn’t warn me. he came down my throat in three hard pulses, held me through every one of them, and i stayed and took it — swallowing around him, throat working, because pulling off right then would have felt like getting a gift and handing half of it back.
when he finally went slack he let go of my hair all at once and checked the time on the dash like he’d budgeted this. he tucked himself away and looked at me for one long second: chin wet, eyes wrecked, still on my knees between his seat and mine.
“same time next week,” he said. “don’t text first.”
he got out, walked back toward the lot without looking back, and i sat there with the windows fogging and my jaw aching and a fact settling into my chest like a swallowed stone, warm from the inside: he’d said same time next week before he’d said anything else in his life about me.
i drove home with the taste of him still in my mouth and didn’t rinse it until morning. the streetlight’s still dead on westgate. i already know what i’m wearing next week.
