1992
We’re alone in Elisa’s shitty house. No one who lives here seems too keen on cleanliness. If I’m disgusted by the state of Elisa’s house, after spending my childhood in one cockroach-infested apartment complex after the next, then there is definitely a problem. The room smells strongly of five-day-old trash and dirty feet. Elisa’s dirty feet tickle my own, much cleaner feet, as I stare across the room at the overflowing trash can that hasn’t been emptied in five days. I feel sad for this house. It was probably a perfectly quaint home a few years earlier, before Elisa and her family moved in. My family never had a nice home to mess up; the apartments we lived in were already disgusting by the time we arrived, and the one house we occupied during my childhood was a fixer-upper, but we never got around to the fixing or the upping.
Elisa’s family has gone out for the evening, bowling, I think. They love to bowl. Each family member has their own bowling ball. It’s nice to have some time alone with Elisa, where we can hold hands and kiss and pretend we don’t smell whatever awful thing it is that we’re smelling. When her parents are around, it’s torture, because they think that I am just their daughter’s nice friend from work. They know her actual boyfriend—they don’t like him but they know him. We have to keep up the "friend" act in public, pretend to be just good buddies until Elisa breaks up with her jerky boyfriend, who just happens to be a drug dealer in Philadelphia. Small time, for sure. A punk.
"I don’t understand why you can’t just break up with him," I say, more whiny than intended.
"It’s not that easy," she says. "You wouldn’t understand. You’ve never been in love with two people at the same time."
"Sure I have. Right now, I’m torn. I’m in love with you, obviously, but I’m also in love with Molly Ringwald from The Breakfast Club. If Molly ever calls, we’re through. I left some messages with her assistant and I’m waiting for a call-back." I try not to smile, but I can’t help it. I find myself hilarious. My hilarity is rarely contagious.
"You’re a fucking idiot," she says, with appropriate affection. "I’m trying to be serious here, and you’re acting like a clown."
"Oh, there was also that time a few years back when I was equally in love with Kimberly from ‘Diff’rent Strokes’ and Joanie from ‘Happy Days.’ So, you see, I know exactly what you’re going through." I pause. "Should I even mention how I was once torn between Samantha Fox and Stacey Q?"
"You suck." She punches my shoulder.
"Ouch," I say. "That hurt." Elisa is strong for a girl. Also, I’m weak for a boy.
We’re sitting on the living room floor, our backs against the couch, our legs tangled. The television is on but we’re not really paying attention to it as music videos play. We’re watching the MTV, because kids sure do love the MTV. I catch a glimpse of Jane’s Addiction, a minute of The Beastie Boys, a second of Madonna’s torpedo tits. I’m wearing black sweatpants and a white T-shirt. Elisa is wearing tight cut-off jean shorts and a pink half-shirt barely long enough to cover her breasts. Her bare bellybutton is beginning to cause me some mild internal combustion. I’m getting an erection, and my sweatpants are powerless against it. Elisa smiles smugly when she sees the modest rise in my pants.
"You’re hard, Ervin," she says, mock-scolding me as she fights a smile. "Bad Ervin."
"I’m not hard. You’re seeing things."
"Well, if you’re not hard than you’ve got some sort of small reptile in your pants."
"Okay, I’m hard. It’s your bellybutton. I made the mistake of looking at it."
"Do you want to fuck my bellybutton? That’s new. Well, I guess we could give it try. Might fit."
I shake my head, as if offended. "So you’re saying my dick is so small that it would fit in your bellybutton? Nice, real nice. And don’t think I missed your small reptile comment."
"Ervin, how many times do I have to tell you? Your penis is not small. It’s basically just the right size. It’s fine."
When she says my penis is "fine," I want to gouge out my own eyeballs with a butter knife so I never have to look at my disappointing fucking member ever again.
Elisa playfully fingers her bellybutton, and I’m amazed by how much of her pinkie she fits into that small crevice. She licks her lips, moans in an exaggerated fashion, sticks out her tongue. She has the sexiest, naughtiest, most devious smile I’ve ever seen. I could stare at her mouth for weeks.
"Can we just get off my penis?" I say, my dimples in full force. I realize how silly I sound before I even finish the sentence.
"Ahem! As I was saying, before your cock so rudely interrupted me. I can’t break up with him yet. He needs me. I’m all he’s got."
I place both my hands on my lap, covering my distracting erection. "What about his drugs?"
"I’m all he’s got besides his drugs. He’s unstable. If I dump him, he might hurt himself. He’s very violent."
"I’m not going to keep having sex with you while you’re screwing some other guy. It’s gross. It makes you seem like a slut."
"You calling me a slut?"
"Of course not."
Slut. Princess. Slut. Angel. Slut. Goddess.
"Go fuck yourself, Ervin."
It’s about a hundred degrees in Elisa’s house. There’s a fan blowing hot air on us. Elisa’s face is beaded with sweat. A touch of pink fights to show itself through the olive skin of her face. Dampness suits her. She wipes sweat off her forehead with the bottom of her shirt, briefly exposing her small, dark, firm breasts. Breasts the size of tennis balls. Her nipples are brown and hard. She never takes her eyes off of me as she wipes away the moisture. She looks like a character in a Tennessee Williams stageplay, damp, seductive, a bit crazy, wild in the eyes. Elisa is a clever girl. She always distracts me with sex. Whenever I’m mad at her, whenever I question our relationship, whenever I seem on the verge of ending it, she "accidentally" shows me her tits. Clearly, Elisa is a genius. Some people at work think she’s dumb, but I know better. She’s a girl who always gets what she wants.
"Well," she begins, sighing, "if you’re not going to fuck me any more, I guess we’d better have one last night of wild passion to remember each other by."
"Sounds reasonable," I say. I cannot classify any suggested act involving myself having sex as anything but reasonable. I know this will not be the last time we have sex. In the end, Elisa will choose me. She must. She will. No other outcome is acceptable. I’ll do whatever it takes to win her heart.
"I want you right now," she whispers, her lips tickling my ear.
She stands up and removes her shorts, but leaves on the shirt, pulling it up above her breasts. I pull down my sweatpants. Elisa stands above me, touching herself. She slowly lowers herself onto me, then leans forward and wraps her arms around my neck. My hands grab tight hold of her hips, and I pull her back and forth, creating great friction. I squeeze her ass tightly, gripping it with both hands. Our lips connect. When her tongue enters my mouth, I bite down and hold on, as if I never intend to let go. I make her bleed, just a little. A love bite. Her blood trickles down my throat. When I release her tongue, she’s grateful, as if I’ve just given her a present. She tells me she’s about to come. I hold her still. All movement ceases. She tries to move her hips but I won’t let her. I refuse her what she wants most. She wants only to grind against my stomach for a few more seconds. Elisa wants only sweet relief.
"Please, let me come," she says. "I’m so fucking close. I’m right there. Why are you torturing me?" Her eyes are closed. She’s panting. Sweating all over me. Begging. Her sweat drips into my eyes. Sweet burning. Drips into my eyes and runs down into my mouth. Tastes like salted lemon water. Tastes good. I swallow.
I want to believe that I am some kind of sexual master, that Elisa has never been pleasured so intensely, but I know that’s not the truth. Elisa is just a sex maniac who comes easily and I just happen to be the cock of the moment. Still, I want to believe there’s more between us than just sex. I know we belong together. I know we will someday marry and start a family. I know we will never tire of each other, and we’ll fuck like bunnies until we’re old enough for my pecker to give out. The only matter left to settle is her maddening "boyfriend" problem. The problem being that she doesn’t see it as much of a problem at all. She gets to have sex with one guy on the weekends, and another during the week.
"Break up with him," I say. I’m holding her so tightly that she can’t move even an inch. She’s trying to squirm, to get just one good jolt of orgasm-releasing friction, but I won’t allow it. I’m cruel. Cruel to myself as well. She’s not the only one who’s close. I’m right there with her.
"Fine, whatever. I’ll do it. Just please let me finish. Fuck! Please!"
I smile and give her want she wants. I let go.
She grinds against me so hard it’s painful. I burn. I throb. An invisible fire. Her nails dig into my neck.
It’s done. Now we’re both sweating. Both panting. We’re still. I hold her tight. Never want to let go. Just have to hold on forever. Not let her go.
"So you’ll break up with him tomorrow?" I question, as we share a smoke in the afterglow.
I stare at the television and watch Lisa Lisa and Cult Jam sing "All Cried Out." It’s the saddest song I’ve ever heard. I start to cry. When Lisa Lisa sings Inside I’m slowly dying, but the rain will hide my crying, crying, cry-ahi-ahi-ing, I know exactly how she feels.
"Sure. Tomorrow."
"You promise?"
"Soon. I promise."
"I just can’t stand the thought of sharing you for another minute. I can’t do it. Not like this. Not anymore. Every day you’re still with him, it hurts me a little more. The situation has got to change. Now."
She caresses my burning cheeks. Looks into my eyes. Sweet smile. Maybe sympathetic. Wet eyes. Says, "I know."
We’re alone in Elisa’s shitty house. No one who lives here seems too keen on cleanliness. If I’m disgusted by the state of Elisa’s house, after spending my childhood in one cockroach-infested apartment complex after the next, then there is definitely a problem. The room smells strongly of five-day-old trash and dirty feet. Elisa’s dirty feet tickle my own, much cleaner feet, as I stare across the room at the overflowing trash can that hasn’t been emptied in five days. I feel sad for this house. It was probably a perfectly quaint home a few years earlier, before Elisa and her family moved in. My family never had a nice home to mess up; the apartments we lived in were already disgusting by the time we arrived, and the one house we occupied during my childhood was a fixer-upper, but we never got around to the fixing or the upping.
Elisa’s family has gone out for the evening, bowling, I think. They love to bowl. Each family member has their own bowling ball. It’s nice to have some time alone with Elisa, where we can hold hands and kiss and pretend we don’t smell whatever awful thing it is that we’re smelling. When her parents are around, it’s torture, because they think that I am just their daughter’s nice friend from work. They know her actual boyfriend—they don’t like him but they know him. We have to keep up the "friend" act in public, pretend to be just good buddies until Elisa breaks up with her jerky boyfriend, who just happens to be a drug dealer in Philadelphia. Small time, for sure. A punk.
"I don’t understand why you can’t just break up with him," I say, more whiny than intended.
"It’s not that easy," she says. "You wouldn’t understand. You’ve never been in love with two people at the same time."
"Sure I have. Right now, I’m torn. I’m in love with you, obviously, but I’m also in love with Molly Ringwald from The Breakfast Club. If Molly ever calls, we’re through. I left some messages with her assistant and I’m waiting for a call-back." I try not to smile, but I can’t help it. I find myself hilarious. My hilarity is rarely contagious.
"You’re a fucking idiot," she says, with appropriate affection. "I’m trying to be serious here, and you’re acting like a clown."
"Oh, there was also that time a few years back when I was equally in love with Kimberly from ‘Diff’rent Strokes’ and Joanie from ‘Happy Days.’ So, you see, I know exactly what you’re going through." I pause. "Should I even mention how I was once torn between Samantha Fox and Stacey Q?"
"You suck." She punches my shoulder.
"Ouch," I say. "That hurt." Elisa is strong for a girl. Also, I’m weak for a boy.
We’re sitting on the living room floor, our backs against the couch, our legs tangled. The television is on but we’re not really paying attention to it as music videos play. We’re watching the MTV, because kids sure do love the MTV. I catch a glimpse of Jane’s Addiction, a minute of The Beastie Boys, a second of Madonna’s torpedo tits. I’m wearing black sweatpants and a white T-shirt. Elisa is wearing tight cut-off jean shorts and a pink half-shirt barely long enough to cover her breasts. Her bare bellybutton is beginning to cause me some mild internal combustion. I’m getting an erection, and my sweatpants are powerless against it. Elisa smiles smugly when she sees the modest rise in my pants.
"You’re hard, Ervin," she says, mock-scolding me as she fights a smile. "Bad Ervin."
"I’m not hard. You’re seeing things."
"Well, if you’re not hard than you’ve got some sort of small reptile in your pants."
"Okay, I’m hard. It’s your bellybutton. I made the mistake of looking at it."
"Do you want to fuck my bellybutton? That’s new. Well, I guess we could give it try. Might fit."
I shake my head, as if offended. "So you’re saying my dick is so small that it would fit in your bellybutton? Nice, real nice. And don’t think I missed your small reptile comment."
"Ervin, how many times do I have to tell you? Your penis is not small. It’s basically just the right size. It’s fine."
When she says my penis is "fine," I want to gouge out my own eyeballs with a butter knife so I never have to look at my disappointing fucking member ever again.
Elisa playfully fingers her bellybutton, and I’m amazed by how much of her pinkie she fits into that small crevice. She licks her lips, moans in an exaggerated fashion, sticks out her tongue. She has the sexiest, naughtiest, most devious smile I’ve ever seen. I could stare at her mouth for weeks.
"Can we just get off my penis?" I say, my dimples in full force. I realize how silly I sound before I even finish the sentence.
"Ahem! As I was saying, before your cock so rudely interrupted me. I can’t break up with him yet. He needs me. I’m all he’s got."
I place both my hands on my lap, covering my distracting erection. "What about his drugs?"
"I’m all he’s got besides his drugs. He’s unstable. If I dump him, he might hurt himself. He’s very violent."
"I’m not going to keep having sex with you while you’re screwing some other guy. It’s gross. It makes you seem like a slut."
"You calling me a slut?"
"Of course not."
Slut. Princess. Slut. Angel. Slut. Goddess.
"Go fuck yourself, Ervin."
It’s about a hundred degrees in Elisa’s house. There’s a fan blowing hot air on us. Elisa’s face is beaded with sweat. A touch of pink fights to show itself through the olive skin of her face. Dampness suits her. She wipes sweat off her forehead with the bottom of her shirt, briefly exposing her small, dark, firm breasts. Breasts the size of tennis balls. Her nipples are brown and hard. She never takes her eyes off of me as she wipes away the moisture. She looks like a character in a Tennessee Williams stageplay, damp, seductive, a bit crazy, wild in the eyes. Elisa is a clever girl. She always distracts me with sex. Whenever I’m mad at her, whenever I question our relationship, whenever I seem on the verge of ending it, she "accidentally" shows me her tits. Clearly, Elisa is a genius. Some people at work think she’s dumb, but I know better. She’s a girl who always gets what she wants.
"Well," she begins, sighing, "if you’re not going to fuck me any more, I guess we’d better have one last night of wild passion to remember each other by."
"Sounds reasonable," I say. I cannot classify any suggested act involving myself having sex as anything but reasonable. I know this will not be the last time we have sex. In the end, Elisa will choose me. She must. She will. No other outcome is acceptable. I’ll do whatever it takes to win her heart.
"I want you right now," she whispers, her lips tickling my ear.
She stands up and removes her shorts, but leaves on the shirt, pulling it up above her breasts. I pull down my sweatpants. Elisa stands above me, touching herself. She slowly lowers herself onto me, then leans forward and wraps her arms around my neck. My hands grab tight hold of her hips, and I pull her back and forth, creating great friction. I squeeze her ass tightly, gripping it with both hands. Our lips connect. When her tongue enters my mouth, I bite down and hold on, as if I never intend to let go. I make her bleed, just a little. A love bite. Her blood trickles down my throat. When I release her tongue, she’s grateful, as if I’ve just given her a present. She tells me she’s about to come. I hold her still. All movement ceases. She tries to move her hips but I won’t let her. I refuse her what she wants most. She wants only to grind against my stomach for a few more seconds. Elisa wants only sweet relief.
"Please, let me come," she says. "I’m so fucking close. I’m right there. Why are you torturing me?" Her eyes are closed. She’s panting. Sweating all over me. Begging. Her sweat drips into my eyes. Sweet burning. Drips into my eyes and runs down into my mouth. Tastes like salted lemon water. Tastes good. I swallow.
I want to believe that I am some kind of sexual master, that Elisa has never been pleasured so intensely, but I know that’s not the truth. Elisa is just a sex maniac who comes easily and I just happen to be the cock of the moment. Still, I want to believe there’s more between us than just sex. I know we belong together. I know we will someday marry and start a family. I know we will never tire of each other, and we’ll fuck like bunnies until we’re old enough for my pecker to give out. The only matter left to settle is her maddening "boyfriend" problem. The problem being that she doesn’t see it as much of a problem at all. She gets to have sex with one guy on the weekends, and another during the week.
"Break up with him," I say. I’m holding her so tightly that she can’t move even an inch. She’s trying to squirm, to get just one good jolt of orgasm-releasing friction, but I won’t allow it. I’m cruel. Cruel to myself as well. She’s not the only one who’s close. I’m right there with her.
"Fine, whatever. I’ll do it. Just please let me finish. Fuck! Please!"
I smile and give her want she wants. I let go.
She grinds against me so hard it’s painful. I burn. I throb. An invisible fire. Her nails dig into my neck.
It’s done. Now we’re both sweating. Both panting. We’re still. I hold her tight. Never want to let go. Just have to hold on forever. Not let her go.
"So you’ll break up with him tomorrow?" I question, as we share a smoke in the afterglow.
I stare at the television and watch Lisa Lisa and Cult Jam sing "All Cried Out." It’s the saddest song I’ve ever heard. I start to cry. When Lisa Lisa sings Inside I’m slowly dying, but the rain will hide my crying, crying, cry-ahi-ahi-ing, I know exactly how she feels.
"Sure. Tomorrow."
"You promise?"
"Soon. I promise."
"I just can’t stand the thought of sharing you for another minute. I can’t do it. Not like this. Not anymore. Every day you’re still with him, it hurts me a little more. The situation has got to change. Now."
She caresses my burning cheeks. Looks into my eyes. Sweet smile. Maybe sympathetic. Wet eyes. Says, "I know."
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