When she turns twenty, Jasmin calls me. I don’t know it’s her at first because she giggles when I ask who it is. She asks me if I don’t remember her. She could be asking someone to repeat the punchline to a bad but funny joke, the way she sounds. Finally, we agree to meet for a drink.
Easy.
I like the way her pussy tastes and her hand pushes my face deeper into her. My face is wet and my tongue sore.
Hours ago, her hand comes to my crotch at the bar when she tells me a story I know but don’t tell her I know because already my jeans feel much too tight. She doesn’t say she wants to fuck because she doesn’t have to. Which is good. In the bar, I’m already hoping she has a condom because I don’t and I don’t need to go back to before. She reads my mind and asks me if I want to walk her home. I say sure and she pays for our drinks.
An hour ago, she wraps a hand around my dick and I wonder if she ever called my dick penis and my mouth and her mouth are open and our tongues aren’t so much wrestling as they are becoming reacquainted. My pants are around my thighs and she’s already naked. She says something I don’t hear and her cellphone rings and she glances at it and maybe she’s about to smile when she sees the screen and I push her head down with a hand and she doesn’t resist taking me in her mouth.
A couple of hours later, we’re smoking on her fire escape and she’s typing away into her phone and I’m wearing my jeans and sneakers. Finally, she says she’s glad I came back to her apartment and I say nothing. She says she’s not seeing anyone right now, her last relationship was a disaster and I wonder what that means. She reads my mind and tells me everything bad about whatever his name is and says how in the end, obviously, she’s better off on her own. She says, “You know?” in that way people say it when they want you to say something in agreement but I say nothing.
And hour ago, she’s moaning. Since the last time I saw her, Jasmin got a tattoo across her back and I can’t read it because I’m fucking her from behind and she shudders. I tell her I’m about to come and she says something unintelligible. She pushes hard back against my thrusts and I’m enjoying myself. I turn her onto her back sharply and I bury my face between her sweaty breasts and grab her by her shoulders and her nails rake my back and I come into the condom that’s wrapped around my dick that’s inside her wet pussy.
When I walk into the bar earlier, I see her at the bar. Black skirt and gray blouse, she looks like she’s just done with a work day and is unwinding. The bar is a restaurant bar but it’s dark enough and empty enough that I don’t want to runaway. I see her long black hair, not cascading nor falling down her back, but already disheveled after we used to fuck. That expression about butterflies in your stomach? Yes, well, that’s bullshit: it’s more like rabid dogs fighting in there when she looks up at me standing there after I say, “Hey.”
I say I’m going to go and she says, “Okay,” and I get dressed and she’s naked and walks me to her door and asks can she call me later. I don’t know what that’s going to mean, but turns out she won’t ever call me again after tonight, and I say sure, she can call me. She smiles. I walk back to my house and realize I didn’t put on my boxers and left them behind. Damn it.
Years later, I think about telling him about Jasmin but I never do. None of it. I don’t tell him about the pregnancy scare with a then-teenager. And I don’t ever tell him I fucked her a day before he fucked me for the first time.
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