“Normal people have no idea how beautiful the darkness is.” ---source unknown
I’ve never understood why so many people are afraid of the dark. If we’re being honest, the dark has its advantages when you’re meeting another person. It isn’t the dark, per say, but the absence of light that allows otherwise failed interactions to be resurrected; where otherwise unhavable moments can take place. In the dark we can be the version of our self that we normally keep secret from the world; where the truer version of ourselves can be given voice to speak in words too vulgar for proper society.
Tonight, in this place, in this darkness, I had one of those moments with him.
We met in that room where everyone gathers to forget who they are when they’re not in that room. You know the place well, don’t you? The music so loud as to drown out the thoughts that would caution you against your own poor decisions; the floor literally vibrating with a bass created to make you feel the energy of the room. The man (or woman) along the wall has everyone’s favorite poison at his (or her) fingertips, awaiting request, and served in the fanciest chilled glass. On the open floor bodies smash together, and move in such synchronicity as to make us all tribespeople of the first order; we worship the gods of flashing neon lights, and our holy water burns on its way down our throats.
That’s the place where I met him; the dark man with the light eyes, his face a perfect balance of all those features that remind you, with no uncertainty, that you were fated to be born a woman. He saw me, miraculously, from across the crowded floor. And maybe even more miraculously I saw him see me, and I returned his gaze with all the darkest thoughts that had traveled so rapidly from the throbbing between my legs, up to my brain. I sent those thoughts to him like a laser beam, cutting through the violent dancing of intoxicated bodies. He knew that I saw him there, and suddenly we were somehow alone; the only two bodies in this house of worship, and worship we would.
He approached me, of course, walking across the room to the place I stood waiting; the prey anticipating the hunt more than the hunter. When he found me I didn’t even look at him, I played the role of resistant, unwanting woman perfectly. We did the choreographed mating dance; the requisite words and desirable gazes, the exaggerated giggles and touching of shoulders. We did it all, and we did it well. What happened next was all but expected at that point. He took me in his car before he took me in his bed, a quick ride only a few blocks away; the cool summer breeze blowing against my face as we drove too fast, the excitement of what we knew was coming dominating our every thought.
Inside we wasted no time at all. It was as if we were fated to end up in that room, at that exact moment, with not a word spoken. It wasn’t like what you see in movies or read in books. No corny dialogue, no telling each other what we wanted the other to do, no Hollywood fiction. There was only the flow; the effortless rhythm of form; our bodies dancing together as if we’d practiced these particular movements for decades; but in reality we had only just met an hour ago.
I don’t remember how I got on my knees; obviously I either dropped to them, or he put me there, but origins became incidental once the enormity of his cock found its way into the warmth of my mouth. I reached around with both hands and grab on to his ass with hands that spend most of their time in my normal life clicking away at a keyboard in a cubicle. In here those hands were the worshiper of his hard, perfectly muscled body. I squeezed his cheeks and pulled him forward, deeper into my mouth, until I thought I might gag, and then I pulled back. I’m never that bold—not in the boardroom or the bedroom—but in there I didn’t need to be myself, I needed to be his; and the woman he wanted would treat his cock like she were its servant.
Before I’m finished he lifts me to my feet with two hands under my arm like I weighed nothing, on my feet I just reached the bottom of his chin. But height didn’t matter because he lowered himself to meet my lips, and wrapped my body with his arms as he did so. I didn’t realize that I was in the air, and that he had lifted me up, but before I knew it my feet had left the ground below, and as he pulled me in I snaked both legs around his body. I still remember how fucking good he smelled; not a scent that you could buy in a store, just him.
Before I knew it we were both naked. Who can remember the details of those things when a man like him is holding you; his cock as eager to be buried in your wet pussy as it was to be buried in your mouth. Who cares about clothes, or how they got off, or where they end up in a messy pile on his floor. None of that mattered. Clothes were an abomination; a social construction for decent society, invented to suppress the truth of moments like this: that we are nothing but pleasure beasts, and our only real job is to make our bodies feel like they felt that night. The rest of it—the bills and the dates and the mindless TV shows—all mere distractions from the truth; the collective lie we tell ourselves to feel less dirty than we really are.
But that night we both knew the truth, and as he slid inside me I felt completely satisfied; the girth of his manhood so thick that it filled me, and I had to bite my lip to stop from screaming in pleasure. The longer he was in me the less tight it felt, his thrusts slow and methodical at first, then getting so fast that I thought I’d come at any moment. I surprised him, and myself, when I put my feet back on the ground and pushed him onto his back on the bed. It was a small bed, but we didn’t need much space. I knew that I wanted to ride him, and I knew that he wanted the same, so I climbed him effortlessly, swinging my left leg over his hips, and guiding him back inside of me with my right hand. Even being as caught up in the moment as I was, I still caught all of the little things that let me know how good I was; the quick and subtle rolling of his eyes, the bite of his lips to avoid yelling out like I know he wanted to; the minuscule, almost imperceptible, beads of sweat that lined up across his hairline like an army in perfect formation. I don’t have that sort of confidence in myself. That wasn’t me at all.
But we met in the dark, and the dark let me be whoever I wanted to be.
Just the other day my gorgeous best friend, the one I dread standing next to for fear of being considered the funny one,” was telling me to “put myself out there,” and reassuring my insecure self that there were plenty of guys whose type I was. That was all code for “I’m hot and you’re . . .” whatever euphemism for “not hot” you find most satisfying, and there are many: cute, beautiful in my own way, a different kind of pretty, blah blah blah. I’ve heard them all, and they all hurt. I wonder what she would have thought of me last night, as I climbed atop this beautiful stranger with all the confidence of a climber about to scale Everest.
I rode him until I came. It sucks to admit this, but I didn’t care how he felt in that moment, I felt sensations I had never known before, and it was all that mattered to me. I felt the building tension and magical release of the orgasm he gave me; but more than that I felt wanted, I felt . . . beautiful, and I never wanted that to end. It did end, of course, it always does. But that’s what memories are for, right, to remember the times in our lives that we can’t replicate very easily. Last night was a memory that I won’t soon forget, and one that I know he won’t either.
We met in the dark; in a room designed to hide the truth of who we really are, and in each other we found that truth, and submitted our bodies to one another. Soon it will be light out, and none of this will have ever happened, and the wickedness of reality will erase all that’s transpired between us. I never got his name, he never asked mine, but what did our names matter? We shared something more intimate than a collection of letters our parents had decided on decades earlier. Our names didn’t matter; our jobs didn’t make any difference; our dreams and ambitions were just abstractions that could wait until another day to be entertained.
I can see the sun rising now, revealing all that was hidden, and hiding all that in plain sight. By the time it’s fully risen I won’t be her any longer, I’ll just be me, the girl everyone thinks they know; the one who smiles politely and is always so considerate of others. I’ll be the girl with the hot best friend who gets the second (or third, or fourth . . .) cutest guy at the bar; the one who’ll marry the nice, sensible guy with the good job, and who’ll be complimented constantly for being such a great mom one day. When the sun finishes rising I’ll be the me that I recognize from the mirror; the good girl who doesn’t do things like I did last night—with him. But that’s okay, that’s the way it’s supposed to go, and I’m just fine with it. But I know that I’ll always have the memory of last night, of that place where we met in the dark, and of the way he made me feel. A Note from the Author I hope you enjoy the sparse number of original words I can offer in between books. Inspiration comes from all sorts of odd places—so much so that I’ve denied my normally analytical nature and decided to not even question it. If you’re looking for a source, I re-read an absolutely brilliant short piece of writing by Zadie Smith, entitled Two Men Arrive in a Village, published on the New Yorker Website. This is about as unrelated to what I wrote as another piece of writing can be, but I can’t recommend this piece (and all of her work) enough. The inspiration wasn’t in the content, but in the narrative style, which I tried to pay some sort of terrible, unworthy homage to. I liked the idea of no context—of telling a very narrow, brief story that also somehow speaks to larger themes, but giving the reader as little as possible. No character names, no real setting, no backstory, just the narrative. The woman can be any woman; the bar where they meet can be found on every street corner in America. It isn’t much—certainly nothing so worthy to be called a “short story” (although it is short), but a bit of a writing exercise for all of you to enjoy, and I hope that you did.