Who Am I Now? - Sex Stories

Who Am I Now?

... blocks out from Penelope, he began to feel her scent already in his nostrils. She’d be wearing sweatpants and an overshirt that would cover the exaggerated body she claimed to hate living in. Her hair would have that rosy scent of the same shampoo she’d been using since they met. At the foot of her steps, Bill stopped and wondered what she’d do if he didn’t show up. What if he waited until Saturday? Next Tuesday. What if he weren’t there for their traditional Thursday snuggle on her threadbare couch eating popcorn and watching some chick flick that always seemed worse than the one they’d watched the week before. Then, under the covers in her bedroom. Pale glow of the streetlights from the odd angle of her window. Table scraps of illumination as he saddled his tautly slender body into the space between her full, rolling thighs and…. What would either of them do? In the span of moments it took Bill to climb her stairs, he realized she’d feel as disoriented and lost as he would. His heart started pumping like a fist opening and closing. He suddenly felt as if he were absorbing everything, as if the smarmy little subway toughs had jumped inside him…the big, dark man he’d fallen into…the singer in the church…the man with his hand on the woman with the monolithic ass. By the time he reached the top of those rickety stairs, some kind of quiet, indefinable rage had started to blossom inside him. Nothing was the same as everything. Nobody was everybody. The blonde in the stockings ...

... on the subway was a classic piece of Aryan stinginess. Deprivation of the body. Deprivation of the spirit. His fist felt heavy and immense when he banged on her door. “Billy?” she called from inside. “Whatcha knockin’ for, honey? Just come in like always.” The door was open. He stepped inside feeling like half of him was in a trance, but he remembered to turn and lock the dead bolt. It was an attic efficiency with pitched ceilings, kitchen and living room all in one open space. Penelope was at the counter popping popcorn. Tonight it was the blue sweatpants that said kitten across the ass. The letters were stretched slightly out of shape across the rounded fullness of her body. Pale pink T shirt instead of the button down with tank top underneath the way she usually wore in the winter. “Must Love Dogs is on Netflix,” she announced. He took off his coat and hung it on a peg by the door. When he went to give her his usual, perfunctory kiss hello, he paused and studied her curious face. He pushed her glasses back up to the top of her nose and brushed her long, dark hair away from her neck on one side. Then he pressed his lips against her neck, lingering to inhale the low rent sweetness of her shampoo. He shoved her back against the edge of the counter and leaned hard into her pneumatic curves. He pushed his leg between her thighs. Hers were thicker than his. Even through her sweats they felt supple and firm. He felt as if he’d walked in out of the cold into a blast of heat and ...