Page 48 of Hitch
Duane’s question catches me off guard, but considering our circumstances, I guess I should expect it from Duane. He’s never been one to dance around the subject.
“Sometimes,” I say.
“Sometimes?”
“Michael liked to use a vibrator on me when he was high, but he never touched me with his hands or mouth.”
A flash of annoyance bubbles under Duane’s expression, and though it takes me aback, I know it’s not meant for me. It’s meant for Michael. If anything, Duane is irritated that I would date someone who wouldn’t fuck me like I wanted, like it’s a personal insult to him.
“Why not?” he grunts.
“I don’t know,” I say. My skin prickles with self-conscious nerves. “One time, he said it was because heknewhow to make women feel good. That if I trusted him, he’d make me come instantly.” The frustration and self-loathing come rushing back, and I turn away, not able to meet Duane’s eyes with tears in mine. “I knew he was paying me, that I shouldn’t care what he wanted to do. It was a job, not love. But I swear heknewI faked it, and he didn’t care. He didn’t listen to what I wanted. And then I felt hopeless because I had to stay with him for my mom. And so, it just made me feel like I would never be enough—”
My nostrils flare uncontrollably as I try to keep the emotions in. Duane pulls me toward him. My body tenses, but he holds my shoulders, giving me the space to explain everything that happened.
“He told me he didn’twantto have sex with me,” I whisper, running my hands over my body. “He said it would make him lose control and ejaculate too soon, or something like that, and no matter how much I said Iwantedthat—that it would be kind of hot if he came too soon, like he couldn’t resist me—he refused.” I dig my nails into my palms until the pain shoots to my jaw, then I straighten my fingers. “He said he was paying me, and that I needed to do whathewanted. And he didn’t want to touch me or lick me. I was only providing a service. I wasn’t a person.”
The contradictory nature of it all isn’t lost on me. My fantasies are about being used like a plaything, but what Michael did had nothing to do with me. It was like I was wallpaper to him. A photocopy devoid of any personality. It wasn’tmehe wanted; it was the idea of being able to pay someonelikeme, and to have the power to dictate our sex life. He clearly had his own intimacy problems, but no matter how much I tried to talk to him about it, it never changed anything. He had to have the power. After all, wasn’t that what he was paying me for?
On the other hand, as power-hungry as Duane is, he wantsme.And that desire makes him lose control. Makesmefeel wanted andneeded.
His need returns the power back to me.
Duane shifts, and I try to read his face, but it’s blank, like he’s holding back the emotions building inside of him too.
“I guess everyone has their preferences, but it made me feel—” I pause, trying to find the words. “It made me feel like I was useless, inside and out. Like I was powerless. Like I didn’t deserve anything. Like there was nothing I could do that could make him want me. And it didn’t make sense, because he was paying me, right? He obviously wanted me. And besides, he was just a paycheck, but still, I couldn’t shake the thought that there was somethingwrongwith me.” I laugh nervously through the tears. “I know it’s stupid.I’m stupid.But—”
“You’re not stupid,” Duane says.
His blue eyes cast down on me like a shadow on the bottom of the ocean floor. There’s no warmth inside of him, but I’ve got this feeling like he wants to protect me from those dark thoughts about myself.
“I’m paying you too, Reggie,” he says.
He’s right, but it’s different with him. He chased me through a cornfield. Held a gun to my head multiple times. Cut my throat enough to make me bleed. Snuck into my house to take my ass.
And somehow, I still think Duane respects me more than Michael ever did. Like there’s somethingmoreto our relationship than client and sex worker, or even drug maker and seller.
Duane sees me as his equal, not just someone to fulfill a service.
“I don’t care if she’s paid or not. A man who doesn’t worship his woman is a sorry excuse for a person,” Duane says, his words deliberate. “I’ve got no sympathy for someone like him.”
“Worship?” I ask. It’s a funny word to use, given the context.
“That’s right.”
I tilt my head to the side. “It’s not like you’re on your knees in front of me.”
“Worship doesn’t always come in the form of submission,” he says, his voice low and erotic. “Sometimes, it’s listening to what your woman wants, even when she won’t say it out loud. Even if she only says it with her body.”
A dull buzzing sensation wraps its way around my stomach. I study Duane, trying to come to terms with what he’s saying.
Worship doesn’t always come in the form of submission.
Does that mean that forcing his dominance over me is another way to pay tribute to me?
And I’m back on that first night, sitting in the truck with him, humming with tension, knowing that he could kill me. Knowing that he may have been the man I just sucked off in the glory hole. How I wanted him to chase me and fuck me before I even started running. Before I saw the corpse in the back of his truck. After years of feeling useless and undesirable, how I just wanted to feelwantedfor once.
Could Duane see straight down into my soul, even then?
