Katerina Page 11
Mmmmmm.
She lowers her hips deeper deeper deeper she smiles.
No words?
I smile, shake my head.
Lower, deeper.
I love how you feel inside me.
I smile.
Lower.
Deeper.
Be a good boy for me.
Smile wider.
Don’t cum too fast.
Lower and deeper until she can’t go any farther she starts slowly moving her hips we’re both softly moaning she’s holding down my arms I could move but I don’t want to move, I don’t ever want to move. And it’s not just deep and hard inside her, it’s not the smell of sex or the sweat or the heat, it’s not her deep heavy red hair hanging, it’s not her beautiful small nipples hard and covered with my spit, it’s not her soft moans like some song from paradise, it’s not her pussy the sweetest tightest wettest I have ever had the absolute pleasure to experience, it’s not that being inside her makes me feel safe and warm and happy and eternal it almost makes me believe in God it’s so wonderful, it’s none of those things no matter how magnificent, I don’t ever want to move because of her eyes. Light brown like cocoa they’re open slightly a deep sparkle inside them like a light into me, into my heart and mind and soul, a light that goes forever and ever and ever her eyes are smiling and laughing and singing and dancing and they’re the most beautiful things I have ever seen and they make me believe that life isn’t the steaming pile of shit I know it is they are so beautiful, they are so beautiful, they are so beautiful I don’t ever want to move.
She keeps moving gradually faster but never too fast I almost cum once twice three times four I stop myself I don’t ever want to move or stop looking into her eyes and I want to be in her forever. She leans down starts kissing me her tongue dancing along my lips dancing with my tongue she bites my lips moves her hips faster faster faster whispers
I want to cum, Jay.
Reaches down with one of her hands starts rubbing her clit.
I want to cum and I want you to cum.
Faster
Lips tongue
Inside her
I want to cum.
Her hand on her clit
Faster
Faster
Faster
I want you to cum.
Faster faster faster faster
Short breaths stifled moans with each movement of her hips another lips and tongues holding me down I start to cum she can feel she arches her back red hair falling over her chest I start to cum my cock throbbing inside her I can feel her stomach tightening she stops breathing still moving faster faster I’m cumming inside her white God safe secure ecstatic white God exploding God joyous God she leans down her eyes open light brown like cocoa beautiful sparkling dancing singing I don’t ever want to move short of breath smiling moaning ever.
Ever.
Ever.
She lies on top of me I’m still hard still inside of her, she kisses me puts her head on my chest lets go of my hands I put my arms around her. She’s sweating, breathing heavy so am I, sweating and breathing heavy, hands quivering heart beating body tingling so am I.
We lie there don’t speak. The sun is up and streaming through the white sheer drapes in front of the French windows. The world is awake outside voices and cars, footsteps. I smell her hair falling over my chest like faded flowers I smell the remnants of her perfume I smell sex and cum. I close my eyes, our breathing slows we lie together for five minutes, ten, thirty, I don’t know how long we lie there in each other’s arms, she lifts her head and looks up at me and smiles.
I have some rules, Jay.
Don’t cum inside you again?
No, I love that.
Really?
So much.
I don’t want to have a kid.
I haven’t had my period in two years. Occupational hazard. No need to worry.
Cool.
Back to the rules.
Okay.
My rules.
What kind of rules?
Rules for whatever we are.
What are we?
Friends.
Cool.
Friends who fuck.
Even better.
I don’t want a boyfriend.
I’m not really boyfriend material.
Don’t ask where I live, don’t try to find me, don’t be upset or mad or have temper tantrums if I’m not around or we don’t see each other.
Cool.
Don’t ever say I love you.
What if I do?
What?
Love you.
You don’t.
How do you know?
We barely know each other.
That doesn’t matter.
It does to me.
No, it doesn’t.
How do you know?
I just do.
You’re wrong.
I’m right.
No.
We love each other. I know it, you know it. We don’t have to say it. And I won’t. Ever. But it’s true, and we both know it.
She laughs.
Fuck off, Jay.
I laugh.
Okay. Cool.
I’m serious.
I got it. You have rules. You’re serious. Cool.
She laughs.
Making fun of me?
Yes.
I’ll kick your ass.
You think?
You looked in the mirror yet today?
I’ve been busy.
She laughs again.
You’re pretty fucked-up.
Yeah, I can feel it.
I’ll go easy on you for the next few days.
Next few days?
Didn’t you ask me to go away with you last night?
I did.
So the next few days.
You’re saying yes?
She smiles.
I can call Philippe and we go away together?
She nods.
Yes.
I smile.
Wonderful.
But I have to stop at home first.
Cool.
Alone.
I got it.
We can meet at the train station.
Great.
But we’re just friends, Jay, not boyfriend and girlfriend.
I’m not boyfriend material, Katerina.
In an odd, very fucked-up way, you kind of are.
If you actually think that, you’re even more fucked-up than I am.
I might be.
I hope not.
You never know.
Let me believe what I want to believe, which is that you’re some kind of smart, funny wiseass who likes the right kinds of art and reads the right kinds of books and has badass opinions about them, who is the best kisser in the world, who fucks like an angel, and who is the coolest, most beautiful girl I have ever met or seen, and definitely ever been in bed with.
She smiles, a wide smile, a true smile.
Thank you, Jay. That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.
I have a black heart, but sometimes it sings, and sometimes there are stars in it.
She laughs, punches me.
You might actually become a famous writer with lines like that.
I’m gonna burn the fucking world down.
You might.
I will.
She smiles, wide and true.
Yes, you will.
She kisses me a quick sweet peck on the lips, stands, gets dressed. I light a cigarette, watch her get dressed, which I know is kind of creepy, but I am kind of fucked-up, and I do have a black heart, which only sometimes sings and only sometimes has stars in it, and because as I told her, she is the most beautiful girl I have ever seen. When she’s finished she kisses me again, another sweet quick peck.
Which station?
Gare de Lyon.
Twelve thirty?
Yes.
See you there, Writer Boy.
See you there, Model Girl.
She smiles.
Leaves.
I sit in bed and smoke a cigarette.
My black, black heart.
Sings.
Shines.
Los Angeles, 2017
* * *
You believe in love at first sight?
Yeah.
Ever happened to you?
Yeah.
More than once?
What do you think?
Yes.
Yes.
Yes.
Yes.
How many times?
Couple million.
Hahaha.
I’m serious. And it might be more than a couple, might be like eight million.
You’re still funny.
Yeah, Mr. FunnyMan, the King of Comedy.
How many times?
Why?
I’m curious.
Why?
You know why.
You want to know.
Yes.
Yes.
Tell me.
Literally first sight?
Yes.
Can’t be second sight, or third or fourth?
Now you’re just fucking with me.
I am.
Mr. FunnyMan, the King of Comedy.
That’s me.
Literally first.
Four.
Who?
A girl in eighth grade. I had started a new school and she was sitting in front of me in English class. Fuck, I was crazy for her. The first time and all. Just fucking crazy.
And was she for you?
Eventually.
What happened?
She was a ballet dancer and went away to school when we were sixteen. Even then, I was drunk and crazy and addicted and it just collapsed.
Where is she now?
In the town where we grew up. Teaching dance, raising a kid. I think she’s happy, hope she is.
Next.
A girl in college.
San Francisco?
Yeah.
I know that story. You had to choose, Paris and the dream, or her.
Yeah.
You made the right decision.
One of the few good ones I have made in my life.
You’re too hard on yourself.
No, I’m not.
You are.
I’ve left a trail of wreckage behind me, don’t think I don’t know it.
Next.
You know.
Tell me.
You already know.
I want you to tell me.
You.
Me.
Yes.
Say it.
I fell in love with you the first time I saw you, immediately, the first second, the first ten seconds, the first thirty, it was over, I was done, in love, with you.
At The Gates.
With my dumb little notebook.
It was cute.
I was 21.
So young.
Young and lost and desperately in love sitting in front of The Gates of Hell.
I remember it so well.
Me too.
Your dirty white T-shirt and combat boots.
Your crazy beautiful skull dress.
I don’t want to cry.
I don’t either.
Do you need me to say it?
No.
I did.
I know.
Immediately.
I know.
Lost and found and head-over-heels and scared shitless.
I don’t want to cry.
I don’t either.
I fucked it all up.
You didn’t.
I’m sorry. So sorry.
We both fucked up. We were both monsters. Let’s move on.
I’ve wanted to say I’m sorry for 25 years.
Now you have, move along.
Next.
Yes, next.
My last one.
Four of four.
My wife.
When?
I was 28. In Los Angeles. Venice. I had just moved there. Gotten a little house. She lived next door. As I was moving shit in, walking through the little front gate, she came out of her house with her roommate. She was wearing running shorts and a T-shirt, hair in a ponytail. I looked over, and I was just stunned, and speechless, and my arms were full of boxes, and I set them down, and I said hi, and she smiled and waved and said hi, and I knew, however we know this kind of thing, that I was going to marry her, spend my life with her, I knew as much as I’ve ever known anything.
How long did it take?
We were close friends for a couple years. And I loved her the entire time, more and more the longer I knew her. I wasn’t ready to be married, was still struggling to write a book, had done a bunch of shit in Hollywood but it was all garbage, and I was scared, scared of being married, scared of that commitment, scared that I wasn’t worthy of her. She started dating someone and moved to San Francisco and I missed her. I just missed being around her every day. Talking to her, hearing her opinions on shit, hearing her laugh, watching her think, I just fucking missed her. So I called and told her to come home, that I knew she didn’t love the dude she was with more than she loved me, and that I wanted her to come home and we’d get married.
And?
She told me to fuck off.
I like her.
You would.
She still tell you to fuck off?
All the time.
I really, really like her.
Like I said…
And?
And what?
And what happened?
I told her to go look in the mirror, to look herself in the eye, to try to tell herself she didn’t love me more than the dude she lived with, and if she could, we didn’t ever need to see each other again, and if she couldn’t, she should come back to Los Angeles so we could get married. She came back a couple months later, we dated for six months, got engaged, got married.
And?
And I still love her. In a lifetime full of terrible decisions, it’s the best one I ever made. She’s smarter and funnier and cooler than me, a better person than me. And she makes me a better person than I actually am.
That makes me happy.
Thank you.
Please, no.
Not an emoji dude?
I like words.
Please!
I’ll stop.
It’s your turn now.
What?
I went through my life, or at least this part of it. Your turn now.
Not today.
That ain’t fair.
I would like to tell you to fuck off. Like the old days.
I think I can handle it.
Fuck off.
That felt good.
Fuck off.
Paris, 1992
* * *
As I walk to Gare de Lyon, I imagine some scene out of a corny romance movie, where I’m standing on the platform, and the train is about to leave, and Katerina hasn’t shown up yet, and I’m holding a bouquet of roses, and I’m scanning the station for her, and the whistle blows, and my heart starts to break because she hasn’t shown up, and as I scan through the crowd for the final time I see her and my heart is suddenly whole and full and brimming with excitement and joy my heart is literally skipping and I wave to her and she smiles and we lock eyes and I gesture toward the train and motion for her to hurry and she starts to run and as she comes onto the platform the train starts pulling out and we’re still smiling and our eyes are locked and I’m gesturing for her to hurry and as she approaches I start moving along the platform so when she’s next to me we can move together and when she is I smile and say hi and she smiles and says hi and I say I’m happy you made it and she says I wouldn’t miss it for the world and we rush along the platform hand-in-hand trying to catch up to the last open door on the train and we’re running and smiling and laughing and we catch it and she jumps in as the doors start to close and I follow jumping in just as the door shuts and we laugh and hug we made it w
e made it we made it and we give each other a kiss and I say we’re going to have a great weekend and she smiles and says yes, the best, absolutely the best weekend ever, the best.
But no such thing happens. I walk into the gare, which is a very nice gare as far as French gares go, and I look for the track number for the 12:45 train from Paris to Beaune, which is a small village in Burgundy. I find the track number and walk to the track, and standing there, together, chatting like they’ve been best friends forever, are Philippe, his girlfriend Laura, and Katerina. Philippe sees me, laughs.
What the fuck happened to your face?
I got in a fight.
Who’d you get in a fight with?
Four dudes. At Polly. Omer was worried they were gonna fight each other and wreck the place.
Place is already wrecked.
I guess he likes it wrecked as is. He offered me two free nights drinking if I took them outside. So I did.
You do any damage to them?
Kicked one of them in the shin.
That’s it?
Yeah.
They laugh, Philippe looks at Katerina.
You really want to be seen with him like that?
There is a cut over my left eye, which is also black. A bruise on the right side of my jaw. My arms chest back legs and ass are covered with bruises, though no one can see any of them. Katerina gives me a hug.
I like my baby a little beat-up. Makes him cuter.
They laugh, she gives me a sweet little hug and a peck on the cheek, we walk down the platform and get on the train, no rush, no running, no triumphant moment as we step across the void. We walk through the aisles, Philippe bought the tickets and we have four seats facing each other, a little table between us. I bought four bottles of cheap wine on my way, a baguette. Laura packed a little picnic, sandwiches poulets, some fancy stinky cheese, some pâté. We set it all on the table, Philippe looks at me.
No glasses?
I loaned my crystal to the Louvre for an exhibition, couldn’t bring it.
They make paper cups, you know, plastic too.
I reach for one of the bottles.
More fun drinking out of the bottle.
Laura hands me a corkscrew, I smile, hold up the bottle.
It’s a screw-off.
They groan, laugh. I unscrew one of the caps, hold up the bottle.
Who first?
Katerina points at me.
You first, so we see if it kills you.
I smile, take a long pull, it’s strong, cheap wine. A bit bitter, and it burns going down, but it has alcohol in it, so it’s good with me. I smile.
It’s poison, but you’ll need to drink a few gallons of it to die.