They say the trick is not to fall in love. They're wrong. There is no trick. No love. I've had my fill of love.
Love wraps you up and holds you, comforts you. At least until the day it turns on you and disappears in a cloud of wistful smoke. After that, it's the cool everyday approach to things that, in the long run, wears you down until there's nothing left. Until everything that was good and romantic inside you is gone and you're nothing but a hollow shell, incapable of love.
That's me. Pacey Witter, hollow shell.
I come here every week. It's safe here. Airport bars are filled with people just coming from somewhere or just going somewhere. No one's sticking around long enough to remember your name, your face. They don't remember anything, which is nice, for a change.
I used to remember everything. Not just Joey. Everything. Detail after detail of love and romance and loss and pain and it all added up and built up inside me until I wanted to scream from the agony of it all. I looked at my wife, my love, and I knew that I couldn't survive another day of loving her if I didn't find some way out of it all.
I packed a bag and was standing in line to buy a ticket when I saw her. I don't know her name. I don't think I ever asked. I just saw her disappear into the bar and I followed her in and I asked if I could buy her a drink. She said yes.
It was a midori sour, which made me cringe. I ordered bourbon on the rocks and we chatted about her flight to Vegas and the great business opportunity she was going out there for. We talked about the cop she was dating who didn't want her to move. She touched my wedding ring and I mentioned my wife who was most likely taking our son to the soccer game that I miss every Wednesday because I've got a meeting that I can't get out of.
"You're out of it now," she said.
And I told her that I was about to book a flight to Florida. I was going to head for the Keys, find myself a boat to work on and just pretend like the last ten years of my life never happened. She laughed and told me I was going to do no such thing. She told me I was going to pay for our drinks and take a walk with her.
I did as she said and she led me to a small room that she unlocked with a key. "One of the advantages of being a flight attendant," she laughed as she locked the door behind us then proceeded to strip my clothes off and fuck me senseless.
That was over a year ago.
Ever since that Wednesday, I've come here to this bar and I've found someone else, someone different, someone going somewhere to meet someone or find something and I've taken them to the hotel just outside the airport and we've fucked.
Never have I made love to one of them. Love is a vampire that sucks the life out of you. Love is lying next to someone you've promised the rest of your life to and wondering if they have any desire to touch you, or if you're supposed to spend the rest of your life beating off because she shows absolutely no interest in sex.
Love is feeling tense and sad and nervous when you're in a room together, no longer relaxed in each other's company, no longer barely able to contain the desire to touch each other just enough so the contact is always there.
I prefer fucking.
Fucking is hard or soft, fast or slow, furious or sweet. Fucking is soft, creamy thighs and pink pussy, wet with sex. Fucking is sucking on nipples until they cry out and tear at my hair to stop, begging me not to all the while. Fucking is thrusting my fingers between wet lips, stroking hard clits and licking up orgasms as they lock their legs over my shoulders.
Fucking is slipping the condom on before I slide into that dripping pussy, wet with the sensation of being with a man they don't know, don't trust. Being with someone who they know up front doesn't give a shit about what gives them pleasure, but who's going to give it to them anyway. Fucking is taking them from behind, taking them standing up, taking them against the window while they cry out to God or whoever will listen as their bodies close around me and squeeze the come from my cock.
My meetings are still on Wednesdays, but I managed to get the times changed. The soccer games have changed to baseball or some other sport, but everyone understands that I have a responsibility. And I'm the father he needs every other day of the week. But Wednesdays are the days I need for me.
For her. Whoever she might be.
I sit down at the bar and before I can even speak, my drink is in front of me. I don't know the bartender's name either, but he knows what I do, what I am, what I drink. I don't care about the first two, but as long as the last one is always taken care of, he can think whatever he likes.
I take a sip and look around, surveying the landscape. It's your typical airport bar. A little too dark, a little too noisy. CNN plays in the background, since Turner and Time Warner seem to own everything now. There's a shot of some movie star and I wonder who she's fucking tonight. Pity she won't walk into this bar. I wonder if movie stars taste the same or if they've got some added zest, something that makes them different, more special than the rest of us.
"Buy me a drink?"
I look up at her and raise an eyebrow. Pretty enough. She's not too tall, shoulder length, honey-blonde hair, blue eyes. Sexy in that sort of casual way. "What are you drinking?"
"White Russian." I cringe. Jesus, why can't women drink real drinks that aren't flavored and sweet? "What? I should have ordered a whiskey straight?"
"Why not?"
She downs the drink and hands the glass back to the bartender. "Whiskey. Straight up." He pours it for her and she gives me a look - something like a dare - then tosses it back as well. I don't envy her the headache that's gonna cause. "Better?"
"Good enough." I nod and finish my drink. "What time's your flight?"
"An hour."
I get up off my stool and hold my hand out to her. "Time enough." She takes my hand, just like I knew she would and follows me out to my car. I always park in the metered slots, knowing that if I can't find someone in a half hour, I'm not going to find someone at all. She slides in like she owns it and looks at me, her eyes hungry.
We drive to the hotel and I check in. It's always the same name, always the same cash. The hotel knows me like the bartender knows me, but no one cares enough to ask any questions. What do they care if I'm fucking every outbound woman in the area? So long as none of them end up dead or hurt, the money's good.
She follows me, holding the keys. She's fondling them, making them clink together as we walk down the short walkway to the room. She slips the key in the lock and turns it, her gaze moving up and down my body. "Come here often?"
"Did you come here to ask me questions?" I advance on her, moving her into the hotel room and taking the keys from her hand. I lock the door behind us and capture her, turning and pinning her to the door. "Or did you come here for this?"
I bend my head and kiss her neck, tasting the subtle scent of her perfume. That's one thing that stays with me after each woman. The lingering scent of cologne on my lips and my tongue. I unbutton her shirt as she gasps, my teeth and tongue working along the pulse in her neck, nibbling and licking and sucking as she squirms beneath me.
Her shirt falls away and she's wearing something sexy underneath, colorful and lacy and most likely something her husband or boyfriend saw in some catalog and beat off to, so she bought it hoping that love would lead him to look in her direction if she were made up like the fantasy woman hawking secrets or pleasures or dreams or whatever the catch phrase is now.
I unfasten it. It's useless to me, has no meaning other than support and hindrance. On the floor it's much sexier anyway, tangled in her shirt and the skirt that I'm pushing down over her hips with my hands as I kiss my way down along her collarbone then down to the soft swell of her breasts.
Her nipples are hard and dark, a sultry red against her pale white skin. None of them look alike, no matter how similar they are. That's the trick to women, at least for me. Every one is different, desirable, sexy. Every one is the same, but different. I suck on one nipple as I move down, not quite on my knees. I'm sucking hard as she tangles her fingers in my hair, saying 'yes, yes' as I move to the other one.
Her voice is soft and sexy, she's more turned on than her casual demeanor in the car and at the door suggested. I ease her panties down her body, feeling the wet crotch and knowing that she's been wanting to fuck me since she saw me. She steps out of them as I move away from her breasts, swollen more now from my attentions.
She's wearing thigh highs and heels and I can feel my cock hardening even more. Her pussy is wet, the blonde hairs damp and dark with arousal. She stares at me as I stare at her, then moves into me, tugging at my shirt and pulling it off my body. She peels me out of my slacks and boxers, undressing me quickly and urgently.
As soon as we're naked, she's suddenly shy, unsure of what to do now. Maybe she's thinking of him, wondering if I'm thinking of her. We're both wearing rings that promise us to others, but neither of us care. At least I don't care. Not right now, maybe not at all anymore.
I pull her toward me and I'm kissing her, my tongue in her mouth, pushing her lips apart, tasting her. One hand curls around her neck, holding her by the nape, guiding the kiss. The other slides down her body slowly and works its way through her slightly parted thighs, tugging gently at the wet blonde hairs then pushing past them to find her clit, slick with wetness.
I tease it for just a second before pulling away and pushing her toward the bed. She moves quickly, knowing that we're past the point of return; she's reached the point where there is no "No." Only please and fuck me and yes and Oh, God and don't ever stop. She's lying down and I'm between her legs, parting them to accommodate me. My shoulders are against her inner thighs as I bend my head down and run my tongue along her cunt. She's hot and soaked, juices dripping onto my tongue like nectar from a flower. I push my tongue inside her and fuck her with it, slow and torturous, my thumbs holding the swollen, pink flesh apart, my nose occasionally touching her clit and sending shivers through her.
She's whimpering and mewling with pleasure and I've barely even started as I move up her body, sliding two fingers into her as I wrap my lips around her nipple once more. This time there's no gentleness. I suck and nibble and lick relentlessly until she's thrashing beneath me, then I do it again to the other side, all the while my fingers rocking in and out of her body. She's bucking off the bedspread, clutching at air and cloth and skin until she finds my hair and pulls me up and thrusts her tongue in my mouth.
She's fucking my mouth with her tongue, angry and fast and hard as my fingers mimic her motions. She's groaning and her hips are rolling and we're grinding against one another until she pushes me away. Suddenly, we're on opposite sides of the mattress, both breathing heavy like we've been fighting instead of fucking and my cock is rock hard and aching.
She comes at me and pushes me onto my back, straddling my body and lowering her mouth around my cock. Her hands are balled into fists beside my thighs as she sucks on me, taking my whole length into the heat of her mouth before releasing everything but the tip and sucking hard at that.
I pull at her body, stretching her out so that I can taste her pussy again. It's sweet and hot, and it's like everything they tell you not to drink on a hot day. It quenches your thirst for a moment, then leaves you wanting more.
I suck at her clit as she plays with my balls, stroking them and massaging them gently, her mouth moving over me with agonizing slowness. I thrust my hips up, wanting more, needing more. She removes her mouth as if to tease me, and I grab her by the waist, turning her so that she's facing me.
She didn't expect me to be so strong, I guess. The years of the desk job have left me looking average, but the muscles honed from summers on the boat are still there, hidden until I need them. I raise her off the bed, then stand up. My pants are on the floor and I find the condom and slip it on, watching her watch me, watch the skill with which I do it.
Lots of practice at being safe, darling.
I walk toward her, my cock leading the way as she backs away from me, against the wall. She smiles as she feels the cool surface against her back. I smile in return, more than happy to oblige. As I lift her up, she slips her arms around my shoulders, her legs around my waist. She glides onto my cock, her hot, wet pussy like a vice around me.
Her head is titled back as she leans into the wall, applying pressure to counteract mine as I start thrusting. Her hair makes a fiery sound as it moves against the wallpaper and I'm grunting from the light weight of her and the need and the desire and the weight of the world that's sitting on my shoulders.
I push deeper inside her and close my eyes, my fingers digging into her ass as I think about my job and my wife and my son and my miserable existence where love is closing in around me and I want to scream, but there's no escape and it's the same thing week after week and even fucking doesn't make it any better and tonight, she'll ask me how my day was and I'll tell her it was fine and that everything's fine and that pork chops are fine and I don't care what movie we watch and then we'll tuck our son into bed and laugh at his protests and then we'll go to bed in our pajamas and she'll kiss me goodnight and I'll want to grab her hips and fuck her but she'll roll over and I'll beat off until this persistent ache goes away and I just want to die.
I come inside her, not hearing her own cries of excitement. I keep thrusting, feeling her body around mine, contracting and constricting and the hot flood of come that's pushing mine back toward me, the thin layer of latex keeping this lie of my life intact.
I lower her to the floor when she's ready, when she can stand. She disappears into the bathroom to clean up and while she's gone, I get dressed, gathering her clothes up for her so that she doesn't have to be naked in front of me for too long now that it's over.
She comes out and takes the clothes thankfully, pulling them on and straightening herself up so she looks like she did when she picked a strange man up in a bar, only a little more sated, a little more satisfied. I open the door for her and lead her back to my car, drive her to the airport and drop her off just in time for her flight, before heading back to the hotel, stripping out of my clothes and taking a shower as hot as I can stand.
I wash her off of me, like I can't wash away my life. I scrub away the come and the sweat and the heat and the desire. I let the water swirl my anger and self-hatred and denial down the drain until I feel clean again. Then, I dry off and put on the other pair of clothes I always bring with me so that when I get home, I'll look like the man I was when I left.
And the man I am now, as I stare at myself in the hotel bathroom, will be gone for another week. Almost gone. Like the perfume, I'm afraid that more and more a piece of him lingers.