Santa Monica, The Huntley Hotel in Valentine’s weekend. Two moments narrated from Lucas’s point of view.
1 - Friday
As every weekend for the last seven months, we had another of our marathon sex events, but this time instead of lasting the usual three to four hours, it lasted FIVE. I am the one who takes the beating during the first hour and do the moves for the remaining three or four while she lays having multiple orgasms. Granted, her butt has to endure a lot of pleasure too, but I can barely move when we finish, and the poppers make it worse. Let me be clear: this is not a complaint.
But this time, after the fifth hour of surreal lust, I exclaimed with my last drop of life: “this is killing me!”
As I was passing out, I heard her say “maybe you don’t want me anymore.”
I think that’s what I heard last.
2 - Saturday
Saturday morning the sun woke us up earlier than we would have wanted. The drapes weren’t closed. Physical exhaustion pulls us down, brings gloomy visions. So Deane was saying these things that made me blue.
She began by saying my last words Friday before succumbing were grumbles about the upcoming move. This may be true -I was under the disconnecting spell of Ambien- as I dread moving boxes from one place to another. But then she went on and claimed that my grievance uncovered a troubling lack of commitment to our relationship.
Maybe pizza would change our spirits. I was beginning to feel optimistic at the Promenade parlor when she placed the baboon on the table. “I feel used”, she sputtered; I stared at the baboon’s eyes, blank-minded. “Yes, after some months I always reach a point where my distaste for men clashes with my desire”, she said. “I’m beginning to feel used”, she said.
Three hours later four toys of different colors lay next to me, one in my hand, crop marks on my body, felt like pitiless sunburn. We were already two hours into it. “Here, use this vibrator, it’s stronger”, she dictated.
“I’m beginning to feel used”, she had said.
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