His profile said masc4fem. Mine said smooth and available. We were both accurate.
“Outside in 20,” is the whole message he sent, and parking spot six is the whole address, and i knew both facts before i knew his name, which is still not a thing i know. spot six, back row of the lot behind the closed tire shop. he had the engine off and the windows already fogging along the bottom edge. i got into the passenger seat and he didn’t say hello. he looked at my mouth, then at the strap showing at the neckline of the blouse i’d picked in about four seconds flat, and nodded once, like something had been confirmed. two minutes in and he’d already seen more of the effort than most men see in a month.
the seat was all the way back. a security light across the lot buzzed on and off every few seconds, so his face kept appearing and disappearing, which was the most romantic thing about the whole situation.
I asked if he wanted me to go down. He said, “that’s it.” I took that as yes, and as the end of the discussion.
i got onto the floor mat between his feet, back against the door, and undid his jeans. he was already hard, thick enough that i reconsidered the plan for about a second — thirty minutes, i’d told myself on the drive over. i adjusted the math. i took him in my hand first, slow, then licked a stripe up the underside and felt him jump against my tongue. he breathed out once through his nose. that was his version of a rave review.
“pretty,” he said. one word. i don’t know if it was for the mouth or the stockings or the whole production kneeling in his footwell in a parked car at midnight. i’ve decided it was for all of it, and i’ve decided that because i get to decide, because he never told me anything else.
his phone buzzed once, screen lighting the footwell. he glanced at it, didn’t pick up, just let it go dark again. never broke rhythm.
he didn’t wait for me to get comfortable. his hand came under my chin and tipped my face up toward him, two fingers, the way you’d angle a lamp. then he pushed my head down, not hard, just enough to show me where the bottom was, and held me there.
i gagged on the first pass. he didn’t ease off. his palm stayed on the back of my head, fingers spread through my hair, and when i came up gasping he pushed me down again, deeper. “again,” he said, and i went again. “hold it.” i held it. down, hold, up, breathe, down — he set the rhythm with about one word per station and i followed every one of them, because following was the entire job and heaven help me, the job is the whole point.
spit ran down my chin and onto my blouse. my jaw started aching almost right away and i let it. every time i surfaced his hand was already there, waiting to put me back where he wanted me. he never once complimented the pink set. he never once had to. a man who’s not looking at what you wore doesn’t spend the entire performance holding your head angled exactly where the light can find your face.
headlights swung across the lot behind us. a car rolled in and parked two rows over, engine running, somebody sitting in it on their phone. he didn’t pause. didn’t speed up, didn’t slow down, didn’t move his eyes to the mirror even once.
my hand drifted to the door lock. my breath went shallow. i didn’t stop.
his hips pushed up, harder now, and his grip tightened and held me so deep my eyes streamed and my nose pressed against him. “look at me,” he said, and i looked up as best i could with my mouth full of him, and for a second the security light caught us both — his face, my wrecked one — and he looked at me like a man checking a thing he owns is where he left it.
“don’t stop,” he said again, quieter this time, almost private.
i didn’t. he came without warning, hand fisted in my hair, holding me through every pulse, and i swallowed around him until he let go. when i lifted my head he was looking at me with no expression at all, like a man checking a box he’d already checked.
“that’s it,” he said, which was the whole goodbye.
i wiped my mouth on the back of my hand, found my keys, and got out into the cold. the security light flickered on the windshield. i didn’t look back at spot six.
he’s still saved in my phone as spot 6. i got out into the cold and the security light flickered on the windshield. i didn’t look back at spot six. the pink set still has the spit stain. i haven’t washed it. i won’t.
