Page 65 of Intoxicated
Chapter 21
DREW
My father was never big on teaching me important life lessons. By the time I was born, he was absorbed in his work and completely checked out from the family. My sister was old enough for him to take under his wing and show the ropes from the time she could recite her ABCs. (Which was obnoxiously early, of course.) That left me to flounder my way through life as a trust fund kid, always looking for a little meaning in a life set-up to fail in the most fantastical of ways.
So I got few “talks.” Those fell upon his step-mother, who took it upon herself to teach me the birds and the bees and how to prevent syphilis when I inevitably ran out there and started sticking it in any girl who would have me. I can’t tell you if that was a boon or not. I mean, what man wants to hear about sex from hisgrandmother?In retrospect, she also left out a lot of crucial things. Including facts that could have only come from a man, like my father.
Like, oh, say… the difference between infatuation and love.
I’m well acquainted with infatuation. Desire.Need.For a woman, specifically. I know all about seeing a beautiful woman and instantly wanting to get to know her, both intimately and carnally. She can tell me her childhood dreams while I rub my stiff cock up and down her body. Hum her favorite Sunday school song while she blows me. Help me study for my chemistry exam as she sensually strips for our entertainment. Go ahead, girl! Knock yourself out!
Yes. I know all about that. My whole life has been an endless stream of women who infatuate me, both those I genuinely pursue and those who I’m paid to woo.
Love? Real, passionate,romanticlove? I’m not sure I know what that looks like. Nobody’s ever been around to show me. My own parents are a mess of ignoring each other’s cheating. My father has always had a mistress of some sort, and my mother? Occasionally I hear her flirting with a man more around my age than my father’s, but for the most part, she sequesters herself in sexless bubbles. My sister is the only one who has had “real” relationships, but considering how quickly she goes through them? Meh.
If you’ve lasted this long listening to me whine about this crap, then you know what I’m thinking. Who am I kidding? You’ve been snickering in my direction from the moment I encountered that vixen in a downtown Portland lounge. You probably would’ve laughed had you been around for my first meeting with Jason Rothchild, the man who hired me to completely destroy Cher Lieberman in all the ways she destroyed him.
Uh huh. We’re all yucking it up now.
Do you think I don’t know that woman is poison? Every time I kiss her, I drink a little bit more. Merely brushing my hand against her cheek or her damned ass brings me closer to death. People don’t call her black widow for nothing. I’m quickly en-route to become the next man caught in her dastardly web. Why? Because she sucks cock like a goddess and screams like a lustful siren when we fuck?
No. That’s infatuation. Let’s be real. While love can certainly encompass all the blissful ways two people come together in their bed,onlysex is attributed to infatuation. Isn’t that one of the core differences between lust and love? Damnit, why hasn’t anyone ever been around to teach me these things? I’m thirty-years-old. I shouldn’t be figuring this out on my own! Although, to be fair, I always assumed I would know by now.
Wouldn’t I know if I’m in love?
What does it mean when I can’t stop thinking about her? For every memory of the curve of her body, the gasps of her orgasms, and the clench of her cunt around my cock, there’s a glimpse into her sultry smirks and the honest way she cackles when I’ve amused her. If she’s using me for my money and bed, then she’s doing an admirable job of making it look like she fancies me. Even if we both acknowledge that this is a casual thing that will come to an eventual end – probably sooner rather than later – that doesn’t mean we can’t be friends. With benefits.
That only works if we’re on the same page, though. If she truly is playing me for a convenient fool, or as a way to get back at me for what I do, then I’m fucked. In more ways than one.
This is something I’ve been suspecting for a while. Since the morning I saw her humanity displayed on my bed. No, I’m not talking aboutthat.Whatever you’re thinking. That’s not it. I don’t need to see a woman bleed to know she’s human, for fuck’s sake. I did, however, see fear and anxiety on that morning. Two very human things that I’m sure most people never see in the likes of Cher. She guards her heart like I guard my reputation. Yet that wasn’t enough for me to assume I might be in love with her. That didn’t come until she was in my Seattle abode, commanding my bed like she might command an entire army.
If she’s Helen of Troy, sending thousands of men off to their deaths, then that makes me some poor Grecian sap about to spend the next twenty years bumbling about on the waves. Didn’t that poor fucker also have to deal with sirens? I apparently live in a hell where one woman has taken the mantle of every female in Greco-Roman lore.
We didn’t just make love that one night, when a little high and drunk enough to think it a fantastic idea to go all night. We went on into the morning. The afternoon called us to get something to eat, but then we were at it again, two people who one moment pretended to not know a single thing about each other, only to follow it up with accusations of seduction and delusions of grandeur.
Cher is a woman you take every which way to Sunday and then want to go on for another week. She leaves you both completely satisfied and hungry for more. It’s not enough to make such sensual love to her that she’s biting her lip and squeezing her eyes shut in crowning ecstasy. You have to fuck her so hard she’s screaming your name and begging you to completely ruin her in ways you were not paid to make happen.“It’s our little secret,”she whispers in your ear, her naked body pressed up against yours as her hand slowly encases your hip.“I won’t walk right ever again. Because that’s how hard you go. Bruises up and down my thighs from the impact of yours. Now, flip me over and do it again.”
Right when you think you can’t go anymore, she says something or moves in such a way that you’re hard all over again. And it’s not thefunkind of hard. You keep banging away at her, yet none of the sweat, the curse words, or the ejaculations sate you. You’re not halfway to finished until she finally falls down to your bed, breathless, her legs slowly closing as self-satisfied giggles fall from her lips. Only then do you collapse into a heap of exhaustion, your whole body angry at you for pushing it so damn hard.
You struggle to think of ways to show her your appreciation – ways thatdon’tinclude more sex. You buy her dinner. You treat her to the movies. You buy her train and airplane tickets to wherever she wants to go, although you better be going with her. Wouldn’t she look beautiful in a summery sarong? How about those jewels you see in the store window every time you go to your favorite pub?
Then you realize… it’s only been two full days together, and you’re already acting like this! You’re acting like she’s your girlfriend! Your fiancée! Your soon-to-be-wife! You’re in deep, man. Deep like your cock in that trap of a pussy. Or that ass, when she cheekily reminds you of what you said when you were high off your rocker. You live for the way she growls at you to keep going, to satisfy her needs before you think about yours. You want to subvert her expectations, to take complete control of the situation and tellherwhen to come, but one perfectly timed look later? You’re filling her up onhercommand. She’s the queen of your body. You thought you owned it. You thought bodily autonomy was a done-deal from the day you were born. You were wrong. Cher has arrived, and she’s going to ride you until your eyes roll back and you tell her she can have whatever she wants.
So, yeah… I’m fucked.
