Not nearer any point of pain

He liked cars with tainted windows. Cool inside and laced with the sickening odor of Glade air fresheners. To protect oneself from the gas exhausts, he said, and the noisy traffic-jammed highway. He had his way with me: he was paying for the rides. While my head turned against me, my stomach churning and turning. A stupid ailment, he called it, but would not deign tell the driver to turn off the aircon and open the car windows to let the sun and breeze in, like I wished, for fear I would make a trail of vomit in the air. At his hotel he would drag me up the stair, gagging my mouth with my own hand lest I puke on the feathery carpet, and in the bathroom his face would be distorted with panic as he rubbed my back up and down, up and down, all on the wrong places and not any nearer any point of pain.

He limped. Left leg shorter than the right. Hid his defect with a skip to his gait. Good leather shoes, fine clothes, finer manners. Nice car. He didn’t have to walk long to expose himself.

Gay men scare him. His one encounter stained him for life, he said to me one night that I was reading on one side of his bed. He was sitting alone inside this movie house staring at the screen when this man to his left stood up as if to go out. Before reaching the aisle the man stopped. Stopped between his knees. I sat bolt upright. What did you do??? I ran, he said. He was pushing his cuticles with his nails, a slight pout on his lips. I screamed. I said to him I’d tell my dad. Swore I’d get a gun and kill him.

He always slept with his back to me, pants on. Why do you do that? I asked. He said you never know when a fire burns the hotel down. Why not put your socks and shoes on as well? That’d make you readier to run! I'd say. He would leap out of bed, arms thrashing in the air. It’s all sex you could think of! he would scream. Not really! I'd say to him, putting the book down. Besides, we hardly had sex in all those years that you made it out to your colleagues and fans you have hot sex with me! My hands shot out of me, palms open. Then have sex with yourself!

He would cart his pillows and blanket and drag them about the room, pitch a tent on the floor.

I would read until I dropped off to sleep. But at dawn when he would be snoring by my side I would quietly make love with myself. I'd feel better afterward that I could kick him out. Move out, Big Dumb Boy, I'd hiss in his ear, I’m going to sleep now I rather want the bed to myself. He liked that. He would gather his pillows and blanket and set himself on the sofa. In the morning, he would be feeling so sexy for having been asked last night that he would nuzzle my shoulders and nape, kiss and hug me from behind, and go out of the room humming.