Sex & Wistfulness

Rebecca. (Or, You Crazy Girls)

1.
As names go, ‘Rebecca’ finds itself remarkably unremarkable, no singing joy of syllables to it — if anything it evokes modesty, decency and a touch of the old-fashioned. Which is fine if you like that sort of girl. Every so often exceptions exist, and when they do I often find myself in love, dangerously, with these remarkable Rebeccas.

It happened once when I was in my teens, with a girl who was older than me by four years but deigned to have me in her presence. It happened to me again nearly a year ago when I met Rebecca the Minx. In a princedom by the sea. Rebecca whose cum-stained grin could launch a thousand ships, but that affair ended in scandal, and I think I’m better off not describing it yet.

And it happened, third time the charm, a remarkable Rebecca came my way one curious night in the form of an unsuspecting text. I was having a drink alone in a bar in Baxley after a shitty day. She was smoking alone in a car in Braamholland after a shitty date. We tangled.

—

2.
I worked late nights as an all-in-one copywriter, media monitor and strategist for a major advertising and PR agency whose name needs no saying (Baxley Place’s tallest skyscraper is ours, if you needed an unnecessary hint) and the stress my work life came with was disproportionate to the amount of satisfaction I derived from it or from anything else I did.

I was unbuttoning my sleeve buttons in the course of my third vodka shot at The Jujumen, a sketchy little British place I had randomly ventured into because its helpful location near the Baxley Place LITE station. The off-white of my sleeves hung limply from my wrists, matching my mood. I felt sick; I didn’t want more. I never drink alone.

My phone buzzed twice and blinked a text from a number I was familiar with but hadn’t saved. This was Rebecca. She had a profile on the website I strategized for during the day. During the night I caroused girls from that site. 

I’m on a shitty date. I’m about to smoke a joint. Save me heroically from this. I’ll make it worth your while. R

We’d caught each other’s attention just the night before, lonely city nights with its great bright lights that bleed through bedrooms and bathrooms and basements, but our textual flirting had been brief. I texted noncommittally, playfully suggesting that a good girl would at least pay attention to her date.

I’m getting a ride home. Do you want to hang out?

The vodka burned me in the cliché manner vodka does, sliding unsmoothly down my untrained throat, but I had a good feeling in me that helped make the increasingly sickening feeling in my stomach subside. I told her that would be great. Tonight?

Tomorrow.

Alright.

I have a date for lunch. I’m so excited.

I told her I couldn’t see her for lunch, not with my schedule.

I didn’t mean you, silly. I’m seeing this tattoo artist guy. 100% my type. Amazing facial hair, big hands, ink all over him. 100% my type.

I knew well enough that to rise to the provocation would have meant marking myself in that category of beta male: constantly trying to prove himself, one-up others, perpetually insecure. At our current level of infamiliarity? I couldn’t care enough. I let her message sit in my inbox unreplied.

Rebecca messaged me again while I was walking to the Baxley Place LITE station, sight unslurred by the substance, although my thoughts were all cloudy and I was starving. I saw a kebab place but decided against it as I walked past, fucking indecision, and I flicked for my phone for the time. 12.26AM turned 12.27AM as the screen shone from pocket level.

He says he wants to fuck my throat. He says he has a really big cock.

In the train I sat beside a college kid who snored loudly. “Will you let him?” I murmured as I tapped that thought out verbatim on my keypad. Four stations and a line change to my stop.

Not tomorrow.

I followed the crowd out of the train at River Interchange to take the red line to New Habbart. I started yawning when I checked my phone, now a habit, for new messages by her. I hadn’t replied. I was thinking about Rebecca then. I had seen her pictures. Her profile photo was a bit of cleavage and a hint of chin. The rest had were mirror shots in various states of undress. She never showed anything above her chin, nor anything below the line where her dark brown southbound hair claimed its fief. Her hair was shoulder length and red: not too obviously dyed, with streaks in them, straightened recently. I liked her figure, everything about it. She was petite and just slightly busty that you could look at her and think she was disproportionately so. I couldn’t see her face but I imagined something appropriate. Either way, Rebecca was 100% my type.

Goodnight x. R

—

3.
The next day I forgot about her as I lusted for my boss, the newly minted Director of Client Servicing, which inspired all sorts of innuendo in me — oh, what one would do to be serviced by her! Charlene was hitting her forties, recently moved from a different company in the group, where she had been the principal of the communications academy that sourced most of my interns. She flitted in an out of the office that day, appearing first at eleven out of a meeting room with a chiseled man too attractive to possibly be the web designer we were hiring to freelance and build a client’s site. The constantly frowning, immaculately dressed Mr. Blake, her contemporary in age and position, followed after them. I always detected a sort of wordless sexual tension between the two.

Sometime around lunch, when I snuck a pita bread kebab to my desk — last night’s missed connection — in bites between reviewing ad campaign copy for our latest guerilla marketing gig, Rebecca texted me again.

I’m about to go on my lunch date. See you tonight at 9pm? 9900 Burnside Drive, Quiethouse. R

I couldn’t understand why I suddenly didn’t want my lunch anymore, but I knew it was because I was hoping Rebecca was going to stick to her promise with Throatfuck Boy. Not today.

—

4.
I got off work late but it was all good because Rebecca had postponed our thing to midnight — “if you don’t mind of course”, which I didn’t — but while I was driving I wondered what she’d look like, and what she planned. Given that we knew each other from flirtatious messages from a casual sex site the conclusion seemed obvious but a part of me preferred wonder and that wonder turned the twenty minute journey to her place into a blur of passing vehicles, mostly lights.

Her place was a miserable looking one story house in a surprisingly wooded area just this short distance away from the center of town. I had trouble finding the right street. A grey Volvo was parked in front of her house. No neighboring houses in a while. Quiethouse was rarely as still as the district’s name implied, but here was quiet as crickets.

As I texted her telling I was outside, my heart sunk speculatively at the prospect of this being a scam, or worse.

But the front door opened and I saw a girl emerge onto the porch just as her message — “Hiii” — greeted my phone, so I exited the car and waved at her and she beckoned me to come over. It was Rebecca in a white nightgown. She had lovely features; I almost blurted that thought out when she smiled at me as I came into conversational range. Hers was a pretty face, prettier than my imagination had conjured, with inquisitive eyebrows over expressive eyes, a mouth with deep pink lips capping the chin I had been studying all last night, and a pierced nose which I would later discover to my delight that she loved to scrunch up at everything that surprised her.

“Come on in,” she said in a whisper. Someone was home, obviously. “I’ll take you to my room.” We tip-toed while I caught brief scenes of her house: kitchen with the lights on and the low whirr of the tall silver fridge; staircase with a third step I watched her skip, presumably because of a creak; the narrow cramped corridor that birthed intermittent alike white doors — she took me to the only door on the right, just past the landing. Her carpeted floor was a tone of dark brown that reminded me of the curls of her pubic hair. I followed her into her room.

—

5.
My pants were down to my ankles while I lounged in her bed with her. She had a single bed lodged in the corner of her room, with plain yellow sheets. I still had my boxers on but the fly was undone and her hand was inside it, coaxing my cock out. It was only a little after midnight but I couldn’t remember the things we had whispered about to have brought us to this point.

“You’re big,” she murmured distractedly, stroking me with a tenderness that seemed reluctant. I remembered us deviating into talking about sex earlier, when she told me how tight she was, how she loved giving head — “How predictable,” I playfully disregarded, “every girl likes saying that, and it’s too rare that someone actually matches what they say with what they do,” — and hated handjobs. She was giving me one all the same. I don’t remember requesting it.

“I’m glad you think so,” I murmured disconnectedly back. The redhead cutie facing me was lying on her side. I had a hand rub up against her bare leg; she was still wearing the nightie, which covered up to her thighs and hid the fact that she was also wearing gym shorts.

“He’s big too, maybe bigger,” she said idly. I would’ve said that she was monologuing if it weren’t for the way she looked straight at me, clear and sharp. I was hardening in her hand, which was dry except where she had licked a moment before. Her hand was delicate and soft and held a delicate and soft grip. The friction was less arousing. I reached over to caress her side, raised upward, inching a little in all directions: stomach, hip, breast, back.

I was watching her and watching her bookshelf, which featured a row of orange Penguin classics, which in turn got me to smile a little. I was now totally hard, and I rocked my hips with the up-down of her stroke. “That’s good, that’s great,” I whispered. A lust-ridden groan exited my lips. I heard a door close, somewhere.

“He took me to his place after we had lunch and then showed me his guitar which was such a stupid excuse to get me to see his room,” she said, stroking still, her body slack, her voice slightly stoned. She had alternated between giggly and dry and conspiratorial all night. The sudden stoned distraction voice got me curious. “He shooed his roommates away when we got there. There was a couch and a chair, but instead I sat on his bed. We talked about sex. I told him how good I was with my mouth. And then one thing led to another and I was kneeling on his floor with my mouth open as he unzipped, unveiling his cock.”

“I’m not sure I want to hear this,” I said in a small voice, that sick sensation coming to my stomach again. Despite it there was the rush of blood from heart to head to cock, and she stroked me further, this time using both hands squeezed together — an extremely flattering wordless compliment.

“He was so big, it was as if he just wanted me to look at it.” Stoned, somewhere-away.

“Really.” Dry voice. Disinterest.

“I feel like a slut. I told myself I wasn’t going to let him fuck my throat on our first date. But I couldn’t resist. I did such a good job too. He really enjoyed it. He kept making these sexy growls and he was so fucking hard. He kept telling me how he only got this hard during penetration. I love a good challenge. He was so excited when I took all of him.”

Rebecca dragged her nightie up and tossed it to the foot of her bed. Her breasts were in a black striped bra, too fancy to be the kind to wear to bed. I massaged the seams where fabric and flesh met. She liked that. “You can take it off,” she said, so I repositioned closer to her and reached around her back, where I undid the fastener, bra leaning loose in front of her thanks to the way her straps had been strayed to her upper arms. She stopped stroking my cock to shrug her bra off. Her breasts looked exactly like I had seen on the website, but her nipples looked pinker and more defined than the photographs could show — they were hard little nubs that reminded me of tiny thumbs — and her aereolae were circlets of pale and pink.

I think she was still telling me about her throatfuck, but I was zoning her out. Everything she mentioned was something I wanted to prove to her, in that primal way, that I could do better.

—

6.
We were both naked. My fingertips were glistening with a wetness I had found from her sticky slickness. I had made her come to me, for me, a tinge of domination rising when I told her she was only going to be allowed to come if she begged for it and kept the pace just as she blurted rapidly don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop. She begged, of course. She begged with the natural desperation of an addict who knew just what to say to get their fix. She came and I came, too, just seconds after her. Why hadn’t we fucked? Why hadn’t the natural progression of the night gone past our mutual masturbation? We were wordless except for voiced threats and temptations. I had white beads of me over my stomach and her legs.

—

7.
“Boy, I’m all sorts of crazy,” Rebecca informed me while I stroked her hair. A minute ago I had inched away to leave but she held on to me, by shoulder, side and leg, with trembling hands and heels and a kiss. She said, with a disconnection that matched her non-sequitor texts: stay. I kept stroking her hair, rich red, thick, curliness creeping back away from the straightened disreality her photos showed. “ADHD, bipolar, depression, anxiety, the whole works. I never want to take my meds because it’s just trading one feeling of shittiness for another. Everybody wants to fuck me but nobody wants to date.”  

And I held back, at the tip of my tongue: but I love all you crazy girls. I love your madness, your unpredictability, your tears and your taste. I love the heartache and heartbreak you crazy girls give me. I can never say no to you. Let all the boys have you, too.