Page 66 of Two Marlboros

I don’t know why I followed that thought, but, after all, I didn’t know where Harvey had been for those three years: he might have caught something. He snatched it out of my hand and reluctantly slipped it on, and I made sure he had unwound it all the way. He looked at me eagerly, ran a finger over me, and rested my legs on his shoulders.

The throbbing increased. Soon he would work his way inside me.

He moistened his fingers with saliva and ran them over my opening, which instinctively contracted. He worked it a little, and I partly relaxed, then brought his sex closer.

I closed my eyes.

My pulse was racing.

Scared?

I felt his tip trying to make me comfortable little by little, but he came forward with one thrust and I moaned in pain. It burned like hell and I felt breathless. I clutched the covers tightly as I waited for that sensation to pass, for the pain to subside.

He did not ask me if it hurt. He immediately began to thrust to give himself pleasure, and he did so with his eyes closed, lost in who knows what thoughts.

The condom, at least, allowed him to slide into me without too much friction. I looked up at him and felt, suddenly, a mere object of his pleasure. The burning was beginning to subside, but with each thrust I thought he might do it more gently.

Slowly I got used to that intrusion and the pain turned into pleasure, so much so that I abandoned all restless thoughts. I wanted to feel him inside me as he made me his own, as he desired nothing but me.

I looked at him and strained to do so with dreamy eyes. I tried to feel my heart on fire because, at last, I was making love to the man I loved. Instead, my heart was just beating, at an irregular pace, and not because I was aroused, and he was my great love. He had masturbated me just enough to make me want it. He had penetrated me as soon as he wanted to. He was thrusting and thinking only about his own pleasure, leaving me to take care of my own.

I tried hard to look at him dreamily, but I couldn’t.

He came soon after, and I followed close behind before he came out, soiling my chest. As soon as the excitement waned completely, I felt a sense of discomfort. Harvey got up and, without a word, left for the bathroom. I dismissed the idea of following him when I realized that it was burning like hell down there, and no wonder, given how indelicately he had entered. I hoped he would not ask for more. I laid back down, blanket on my belly to clean myself up and my eyes focused on the ceiling. The paddles continued to spin undisturbed and cool the room; the closed curtains prevented the sunlight from entering, leaving us in that dismal half-light; the smell of sex and our humors mingled with that of the stale air and smoke soaked into the pillows. There were no colors in that room, because there was no light.

Everything was gray.

Just as I felt my eyes moisten, he returned to the room, saying nothing. I turned away, and a twinge of pain returned. Luckily, it disappeared soon after. I heard him rummaging through his things, resting on the desk; I heard a click and the same smell soaked into the pillows flooded the room. He had lit a cigarette.

With a hint of irony, I thought I had ended up in one of those magazines for couples in crisis.

My husband doesn’t cuddle me after sex.

My boyfriend takes up smoking after making love.

I was pretty sure I had read about someone playing guitar after doing it.

Yet, that was exactly what it was. Harvey had gone to the bathroom, cleaned himself up, and was now smoking a cigarette, saying nothing. What did it cost him to cuddle me? Or even ask me if I had enjoyed it? All I would have needed was for him to ask me what to make for dinner. Instead, he sat down at the other end of the bed, holding his cell phone. For a few minutes he read something with great interest, perhaps texts, then he blocked the keyboard and threw the phone on the mattress. He semi-sat down, his back leaning against the headboard. And he smoked.

The light that filtered in was barely enough to allow me to see the trail of smoke coming from his mouth. I looked at him, but his only thought seemed to be that cigarette he was clutching between his fingers. Nothing else existed. All that time I had hoped he would give me a glance, he would pay even the smallest attention to me, to let me know that he loved me, that making love with me had been good. None of this came, except for a silence that filled me with embarrassment.

“Maybe you could go a little slower. More gently, I mean.”

He looked at me for a moment, then understood. “Don’t tell me I hurt you.It’s that or nothing.”

And he burst out laughing. I was speechless. He had even had the nerve to joke by making fun of me.

Grow up!

Yes, I had to.

Because I was no longer a little boy, no longer the inexperienced kid he had known and taught sex his way.

“Yes, you hurt me. I wish you would go slower.”

I fixed him with a look that admitted no reply. He looked at me for more than his usual few seconds.

“Oh, I see we’re serious. You’ve grown up, huh?”

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