He’s strung me along for years and I fall for it every time. Sometimes it’s a day before he calls again, sometimes it’s months. But when he does, I’m here, like always, an obedient, lovesick puppy.
We’re watching nothing in particular on TV, flicking through channels of game shows and sitcoms. He’s sprawled across the battered couch, I sit on the floor next to the couch, hoping he’ll make a move, but he doesn’t. He mostly ignores me, other than to occasionally ask me to grab him another Budweiser. Just when he senses I’ve had about enough and I’m ready to leave, he says “Wanna take a shower with me?”
Alan doesn’t really give me much choice, not that I would say no anyway. He takes my hand and leads me to the bathroom. The faucet squawks in protest as he turns the water on. It’s an old trailer home, so the bathtub is made of cheap molded blue plastic. The tile was white once, but it’s also cheap and it’s turned a tobacco stained yellow here and there. Every girl’s seduction fantasy backdrop, I’m sure, but it’s all I’ve got.
Then he kisses me, his breath heavy with the scent of stale beer. My knees weaken and my anger melts away. I know he loves me, why else would he keep me around all this time? I’m just being too harsh. I let him undress me, he tosses my clothes in a crumpled heap on a stack of dirty damp towels. He peels off his own clothes, folding them carefully and placing them on the counter.
The bathroom mirror steams up, I get in the shower and he tells me he’ll be right back. Suddenly music blares from the living room, loud enough to make me startle, even under the white noise of the running water.
It’s Ozzy. Of course it’s Ozzy. It’s always Ozzy.
Alan comes back, then gets under the spray. He kisses me again, water dribbles down our foreheads, he turns me around, kisses the back of my neck. We soap each other up, sliding against each other and laughing. He sings along to Ozzy, and he’s goofy and sweet, like when we were just kids, and my heart leaps.
Then Alan asks me if I remember our first time together. Of course I do, I remember everything. This is the game he makes me play, where he tests my loyalty. He was my second choice a very long time ago, and he never lets me forget it.
“You did Cliff first, not me,” he murmurs, sliding his hands over my body.
“I know,” I say, “but I’m here now.” I try to kiss him so he’ll shut up. His eyes darken. I grab his dick, get on my knees, plunge him into my mouth. This pacifies him. He staggers a little, then steadies himself against the yellowing tile.
I pretend to try to say something with a mouthful of cock, and he laughs. It’s a private joke from years back, another part of the game. His face brightens and he pulls me back up to him. We kiss again, hands and mouths everywhere. The water starts to chill, Alan shuts it off. We run into the bedroom, soaking wet, too horny to dry off.
We fuck like crazed animals, long enough that now we’re dripping with sweat. We stop occasionally for beer or cigarettes, but I make sure he stays hard. I always fuck him like it’s our last time together, because someday it will be.
Finally, slippery and sore, we’re both exhausted. We lay next to each other, sharing the last cigarette either of us have left. I try to think of all the times we’ve done this, and try to imagine how many more times we’ll do this. Shadows creep along the walls, it’s getting late and I tell him I need to go.
“I love you,” I say, but he doesn’t say it back.
He never does.