New York Without You

I think it’s strange that this is familiar to me: taking a trip I imagined with a lover, by myself.

I had memorized the contours we’d trace around the city, could almost feel my hand in his; the slow mornings in a downy white hotel bed doing all the things he wrote to me; nights with palms against floor to ceiling windows foggy with sex wanting everyone to see. Fantasized fucking in the bathroom at art museums, walking new neighborhoods like new lovers do, every moment a confirmation that the time spent apart was worthwhile, every kiss a little death knowing the trip was finite.

This has happened to me twice before, and those times, I covered the clocks like Miss Havisham, unable to bear knowing when they were meant to touch down, knowing when I would’ve been leaving for the airport to meet them, knowing I would have been in their arms by such and such a time, if only we had lasted until we could see each other again.

One lover never booked the flight to come see me. Another lover did, and still made the trip—I knew he was in the same city as me, staying at the place I’d picked for us without me. Both times killed me.

This time, it wasn’t a promise, only a wish. Sometimes hope is worse. I knew I’d have to rearrange my brain so I didn’t get stuck in the abyss of what-ifs. New York would be my mistress. She is eternal. But I had to ask if he’d be there—

I thought I’d see you like a ghost on the streets, I would need to know if the ghost was real.

“I won’t be there. Sad.” He answered.

Sad. What a damp word when it’s sitting alone. It’s wading at the edge of something that tells me how he feels. It’s turning his nose up at the slush puddle off the curb, deciding to take a cleaner route.

Where do the feelings go? Since feeling is first. Mine are right under my skin. Sometimes it’s the butterflies from before when I see a message from you. Sometimes it’s a gut punch when your response is terse where it used to be gushing. It’s always an unfulfilled yearning, always a what if...

The first night in the hotel I studied the Manhattan skyline like it was my first time, stretched naked across the bed and took a picture of myself in the window reflection for no one. I took it for me. I took it for him. I didn’t send it.

The next day I explored with vacation eyes. I was in a good mood, despite despite despite! I wanted to message him about all the snow on the sidewalks, about the bagel that was so light and airy, about the stockings with stirrups I’d brought, and the cashmere mini dress I’d bought specifically for this trip so he could finger me in a bar—warm enough I could wear those thin tights underneath, and nothing else. Spread my legs for him, and

finally feel you inside me. My pussy swallowing your XL hand.

I had an event that night and instead of the above outfit, I wore a sheer lace top and a PVC skirt, saving the dress and stockings for him, because I am weirdly loyal. One of the bartenders had to help me connect my laptop to the projector. I was stressed at the tech issues, and his calm presence soothed me. Also, he was cute. I smiled at him throughout the evening, grateful for his help. I could feel his eyes on me, attentive, but I was still a little surprised when he asked for my number.

I hesitated for only a second.

Flustered, I forgot how to input a new contact. We laughed at my second tech challenge for the night. There was something smooth about him, but not at all try-hard. Just steady. I could tell he was younger than me, and I wondered how much.

Back in my hotel room, I received a text from the bartender: I’d love to see you before you leave.

Love.

Love is a sticky word. When it’s something more like lust, like limerence, but it feels like falling, you say, I LOVE THESE PHOTOS. I love how petite you are. I love the podcast. Love getting this insight. Love this writing. Love. Just talking to you is enough to kill me. Living off this. Killing me! I’m grateful for you.

And then you disappear.

And then I’m responding to the message from the bartender, “I’d love to see you, too.”

He’s going to steal your vacation with me.

~~~

The bartender tried to get someone to cover his shift the next night, but failed, so proposed I come by for free wine. I brought my friend and we grilled him with questions, trying to decipher his age, while I sipped my pet nat out of a ridged coupe glass he poured me. The bar was busy, it got late, and eventually I called an uber. He walked me out with a goodbye hug, no kiss.

I thought of you, and our hugs after our drink together. Why are men afraid to kiss me?

Back in my room in bed, another text came from the bartender. Could he see me the next day? Yes, I said.

I still had one more day of vacation without you.

~~~

I met him in the hotel lobby with no intention of staying down there but truly no intention of fucking him either. I knew that I’d like to kiss him and thought that was likely. That would be innocent but fun. Like I was a teenager with parents out of town.

I saw him coming down the stairs and our eye contact made me smile immediately. Every time I saw him he looked more handsome. Shoulder length dark hair and an angular, pretty face. Broad shoulders and a lithe body. Style. The smoothest skin. And youth. I have been with younger men, but it has never struck me like this before.

We hug. “I’ve seen you three days in a row now,” I say. “I’ve seen you more than any of my friends!”

“Yeah,” he registers this and smiles.

My hotel room was a bed island, tiny streams around it. There was nowhere else to be, so there we were. I asked him to put music on, he asked if I liked Bob Dylan. I laughed. I felt both ancient and sixteen again. I asked him how old he was. And then made him guess my age. It took him many guesses. Higher, higher, I kept saying. We let the eleven year difference settle in the air.

We laid, propped up on elbows talking until he asked if he could kiss me. I had been waiting for him to do this. Yes, I answered.

But I kissed him. I crawled across the space between us, dutiful, lips ready, eyes downcast and we shared the sweetest, slowest kiss. God, his lips were so good. Our mouths moved together with rhythm, opening wider and wider. He rolled on top of me. I wrapped my thighs around his waist. I was moaning into our kisses. He tasted like a clean slate. Cold air and distant mint. Our mouths were fucking, slowly, so slowly, and we were pressing into each other like teenagers. I felt his cock through his pants and I wanted it.

I whispered, “I think I need to fuck you.” It felt urgent. The kissing was so good, I could only think of his cock.

You re-released my sex demons. I had been living, content but muted, until you. Now there is no going back. You reminded me what I was missing. What makes me feel alive.

Still he went slow. I tried to be calm. He took his shirt off, and I ran my hands down his chest. I ate his tight, smooth body with my eyes. He was beautiful, made of marble. I was famished. I undid his belt and unbuttoned his pants, slid them down until he had to do the rest, still kissing, unwilling to come apart.

I needed my skin to touch his, so I got up and took my shirt off, unbuckled my own belt and jeans. He laid back against the headboard waiting in his underwear. “Take those off,” I said. And he revealed a cock so gorgeous my jaw dropped. I went nonverbal. I was stunned.

Did you send me this angel with a beautiful cock to fuck me in your stead? Was this my gift? Thank you, thank you, thank you.

In bra and thong, I climbed up to him, and put my mouth on him. I had to taste his cock. It was so smooth, so hard. He held my hair back for me. I sucked and bobbed on him and listened to him moan until I couldn’t wait anymore. I straddled him and pulled my underwear to the side, and lined us up perfectly.

“Whoa, no condom?” he says.

“Oh my god, I’m sorry.” I got off of him. I never used condoms, and suddenly I felt like a bad dude. “Do you have any?” I prayed.

He had brought two. We laughed about him knowing something was going to happen today. Hoping, he corrected. How we both wanted it. He asks me to choose between “Warming” and “Intense.”

“What does ‘Intense’ mean?” I wondered. “Sounds… intense.” We decide to go with “Warming.”

Now I am on my back, aching for him. Every movement feels like muscle memory and yet brand new. He rolls on the condom expertly. Lowering to me, we start kissing again and I feel him push inside me, filling me, so deep, so full. I moan into his mouth.

We are back in the rhythm of kissing and humping but the full skin contact and him inside me is a new dimension. He fucks me so tender, eye contact and kisses. “God, you feel good,” he whispers. “You feel sooo good,” I whisper back. Bob Dylan croons from the speaker.

She takes just like a woman/ Yes, she does, she makes love just like a woman/Yes, she does, and she aches just like a woman/But she breaks just like a little girl

~~~

After, we go into the tiny bathroom together, talking. I sit down to pee.

“I hope this isn’t weird?” I say. I feel comfortable with him, and I don’t remember the rules of new hook ups.

“Not at all,” he answers.

We talk about age gaps. We talk about my work.

“You’re much more experienced than I am,” he says.

“Does that intimidate you?”

“No, nothing really intimidates me,” he says.

“Really?” I say with a smile. He is adorable and I could believe him. He seems so pure of heart.

I offer him the shower and he gladly accepts.

“Actually that’s not true, things do intimidate me,” he says, ten minutes later, emerging from the shower.

I laugh, that he considered it in the shower and decided to correct himself. I love a man who self-corrects.

I have to drop off boxes and I ask if he wants to come back over later. I’m enjoying my romantic vacation. He says he would love to.

On our way out, he carries the two big boxes for me down to my Uber.

“Are you sure?” I ask. “I can get one?”

“Totally. I used to be a firefighter.”

I imagine him rescuing people, or cats in trees, arms full, steady, calm, beautiful, and this makes so much sense to me.

~~~

I drop off my boxes and walk through the New York dusk to meet friends for drinks. My post sex energy is palpable. Vacation vibes intact!

Drinks go on and on while I am thinking about angel cock, and he texts me around 10pm that he can meet whenever I’m ready. Once I exit the crowded bar, I realize how tired I am. I leave a key for him at reception. They ask me his last name and I say “I don’t know it,” unapologetically. I go up to shower the cigarettes off. I don’t have any more clean clothes so I lay in bed wrapped in a towel to wait for him.

He texts me he’s on his way up and then minutes later he knocks on the door and I think it’s funny since he has a key and I know he’s coming. “I wanted to alert you,” he says. I wonder who made this lovely man. I wonder if New York will ruin him. I’m so lucky to get him while he’s fresh.

The view of the skyline is more visible from the foot of the bed, and I suggest we move the pillows to that end so we can enjoy it. We do, then nuzzle under the comforter. I find it surprising how natural it feels to have my face in his neck.

“We don’t have to have sex if you’re tired,” I say. “You seem tired,” he says, and he’s right that I am deflecting. “We can just kiss and cuddle,” he tells me. This sounds perfect. But as soon as he starts kissing me it’s game over. Maybe his youthful energy is transferred mouth to mouth. When I feel his lips I’m dying to get him inside me. I don’t totally understand what about his kisses make me so wet, but I don’t need to. I just need to feel. And it feels so good.

“We get to use the “Intense” condom this time,” I whisper.

But we don’t. We quickly discuss STI tests and pulling out and then go for it bare—that’s the way I like it.

This is how you wanted me to be, isn’t it? Beautiful, easy, amenable.

We fuck and he goes deep. We’re still eye gazing and fucking tongues and he’s reaching under me to grab my ass and push further into me. When my moans increase he says, “uh huh, uh huh” like a guide, like a coach, like a cheerleader. I love it.

I ask to get on top and I ride him up and down slow, he’s watching himself go in and out of me and he moans, “fucckkkk that’s hot.” I align my whole body over his and kiss him and grind on him and we’re both overcome with the intimacy of it.

We talk after, pillow talk, interviewing each other. About relationships, about work, about living in New York. He tells me he isn’t looking for anything serious, and I’m relieved, I was a little afraid my truths would hurt him. His sensitivity makes me protective of him.

I tell him about you.

He asks me what I’m into sexually, and I describe my enjoyment of rougher sex. That I like to have someone take over and fuck me, let me relax and not think. I ask him back, what he likes, and he describes connection, emotion, feeling. He says he likes “lovemaking” over “fucking” and that makes me smile because that’s exactly what it feels like with him. “You’re so tender,” I say, and stroke his cheek.

“Do all the women you have sex with fall in love with you?” I ask, imagining being his age and having him fuck me so well with his perfect cock, kissing me with his whole heart. “I have had that problem,” he admits. We talk about his kindnesses and how those could be misinterpreted in a city full of fuckboys. He talks about how he really doesn’t want to hurt anyone. I tell him not to worry, that I won’t fall in love with him and he can still be kind to me.

I wasn’t planning on fucking him, and I definitely wasn’t planning on letting him stay the night, but at this point my plans have really CHANGED and when he asks me what time I need to be up to get to the airport so he can set an alarm for us, I don’t want to kick him out at all, at all. How could I? We get ready to sleep and he asks if he can kiss me one more time.

And then yes, we have sex again. He gives it to me rougher this time, fucks me from behind, one of my legs bent, using my ass and hair for grip. I’m looking up at him, the loudest I’ve been. It’s still so connected, so respectful. I tell him he is a sex machine, he is eternally hard, a seemingly endless supply of cum. Angel.

This time after we fuck we’re really going to sleep. He’s on his back, and I’m on my side facing him, my arm draped across his chest. His hand grasps mine and he brings it to his lips, placing a kiss on the top of my hand.

“That,” I say, “don’t do that if you don’t want a girl to fall in love with you!” We laugh and he squeezes me tighter.

You kissed my hand in so many ways, every day, multiple times a day, for weeks. Months? Hundreds of hand kisses. I don’t regret it at all.

In the morning I nuzzle his back and try to memorize his scent.

I’m a little scared to look at myself in the mirror, but when I do, I’m pleasantly surprised. I look like sex. I recognize her.

I make us coffee and we watch bombs exploding in Iran on TV. We talk about his family and politics and he says, “my mom would love you.” Before he leaves he comes around the bed to kiss me goodbye. It’s not a goodbye peck, it’s a full on make out. If I didn’t have to catch a flight, we would fuck again.

“Now we’re four for four,” he says.

“A perfect vacation,” I tell him.