Neurotica: Erotica For the Slightly Anxious
He pulled me close to him, his hips grinding up against my own. “I promise you,” he said. “I’m not into you because you remind me of my mother who was emotionally distant after my father died.” I kissed him, my heart pumping furiously now that he had answered one question that had been plaguing me all along.
“Are you sure?” I asked. “You’re not just saying that because you know it’s what I want to hear? If you are, just tell me. I’ll be fine with it. But honesty is really important to me.” He stopped my ramblings by covering my mouth with his hand. “I’m not just saying that,” he said, then dropped his hand to my waist. Before I could say anything, he added, his hot breath against my neck, “I washed my hands with soap and hot water just before this. Don’t worry.” I sighed, relieved that I hadn’t just been exposed to a handful of New York City germs. Did he use brand soap or generic? I should have checked his bathroom more closely when I had gone in earlier, but I had been too busy examining the mold-less shower curtain. “Brand,” he whispered as if he could read my mind. “Mrs. Meyers’ Clean Day.” He was sanitary and eco-friendly. My knees weakened and he pulled me towards him again, this time with more force.
He started unbuckling my pants. I was too drunk to stop him and he did it without asking whether I was ready to move on to that level of intimacy. We had just met. I imagined my therapist and the way he would claim to be entirely non-judgemental about my decision to have a one-night stand. I was conflicted in the same way I was always conflicted when ending up in a stranger’s bed, which was something I really needed to work on.
He stopped, leaving my pants on. “You’re not into this, I can tell,” he said. “Do you want to make a pros and cons list? I have a legal pad around here somewhere.” He scooted off the bed and looked in the top drawer of his dresser. I pushed myself onto my knees and peeked over his shoulder to see the contents and to assess whether, if need be, there would be enough room for me to eventually store some of my things in it. There was.
He found a notepad and pen and sat down next to me. If he had noticed that I was checking out the measurements of his drawer, he didn’t say anything.
“Okay, pros,” he said, writing the word in crisp Arial-like font. I looked at the blank yellow paper and back at the man who was holding the Pilot Dr. Grip pen. Possible pen-holding failures aside, which could technically be a symptom of a larger problem like weak finger muscles (was that genetic?), or could just be that he never learned how to hold a pen properly, he was the perfect man.
“We don’t have to do this,” I said, pushing the pad to the floor. “Even the fact that you would care enough to make a pros and cons list with me shows that it’s worth it.”
“Your lips are moving, but all I can think about is how beautiful you’d look basked in the glow of my computer screen as we legally streamed Game of Thrones after you’ve caught up completely.”
“You would wait for me?” I asked, my lips twitching with desire. “You would wait for me to finish all four seasons?”
“And read the books first, if that’s what you wanted to do.”
“You’re really something special,” I said. “Someone,” I added quickly, hoping he didn’t think I thought of him as an object.
“I know what you meant,” he said. “You’re really special too.”
Without saying anything else, he closed his eyes and slipped my tight satin shirt over my head. He turned around and grabbed a t-shirt from his closet.
“Here,” he said, his eyes still closed as he handed me the shirt. “You’ll be much more comfortable in this. It’s new and 100% cotton.”
“You can open your eyes,” I said, once the shirt was on. He looked at me and smiled. “You look beautiful,” he said, extending his hand. I took it, wondering what romantic adventure he had planned for us. He led me over to the bed. I lay down willingly, and he got in next to me, pulling the comforter over both of us.
“Let’s just lie here, cuddle, and talk about the different female comedians that could take Jon Stewart’s place,” he said.
“That sounds perfect,” I said.
He switched off the bedside lamp. The faint lights of Bleecker Street gave his half bedroom a hazy glow. He propped his head on top of mine.
“This is the best night ever,” he said. “Five out of five stars.”
“And no one’s bribing you to write that review?”
“Then you get a five out of five too,” I murmured into his chest. I looked up at him, his shiny eyes, the way his scruff was perfectly trimmed so he looked manly without permanently scarring my chin when he kissed me, and at his gentle smile.
I sighed, closed my eyes, and went to sleep, dreaming a beautiful R-rated dream full of sunshine, picnics, and non-public displays of affection.
It was amazing.
Sonia Weiser is a writer and functioning adult living in New York City. You can follow her on twitter @weischoice or read more of her stuff here.