What Do You Think Im Here For

Rachel had just begun the long-put-off defrosting process. She never wanted to do it, but today she had no excuse not to. Her frizzy hair was tied back in a red bandana. She had on a white t-shirt and cut-off jean shorts. She looked into the freezer and sighed. Then the doorbell rang.

On her step was Bobby, what was his last name? Whitefish, probably. Susan's friend Bobby. The one with the laughing eyes and that incredible butt. The last time he had been over, at Susan's eighteenth birthday party, which was also his eighteenth birthday, he had caught her staring at it, and she blushed uncontrollably.

"Susan's not here, Bobby," she said.

"I know," he answered. And she was uncomfortably aware of the relentless thrust of his gaze, straight into her eyes, like a home invasion.

"Well," she started, then didn't know how to continue. "Well, then," and she couldn't get any further. "Bobby, what . . . "

He didn't let her finish. "What do you think I'm here for?"

She found herself blushing that same way. Uncontrollably. Like a B-vitamin flush, down her whole body. She was afraid she might pee.

"Don't you think we should go inside?" he asked. "Who knows what neighbor might be looking at us." And he stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

And then held her in his arms. And the next thing she knew his tongue was in her mouth. And it was as though her whole pointless life, the shape of which she never could justify, had all been directed straight towards this moment. It is what she had been put on earth for, this moment. She kissed him as if he had arrived to save her life. Which perhaps he had.

She was not aware of taking off her shorts, or of him taking off her shorts, but somehow she was on the hall table, and he was inside her, and then somehow she was huffing, and moaning, and then screaming, screaming a high shrill sound that had never come out of her throat in all her days on this earth. And then everything was quiet.

Was that an orgasm? Was that what an orgasm was like? No wonder her friend Vonda couldn't stop talking about them. If that was what an orgasm was like, she wanted more of them.

As if reading her mind, Bobby said, "Was that the first time for you?" She nodded, shyly, unable to meet that gaze of his.

"Well we have to make sure it isn't your last," he said. "I would bet my motorcycle nobody has ever licked your clit," he said. "And I love that motorcycle. Am I right? Am I right? Look at me. Look at my eyes. Has anyone ever gone down on you?" She shook her head, and then had to break her gaze. He picked her up in his arms, and she was not a light woman, she had been meaning to go on a diet for longer than she had been meaning to defrost. She was on her bed.

"No," she said. "Not here."

"Shush," he said. Then he was gently, very gently, incredibly gently, with a gentleness she never would have guessed he had, never would have imagined existed in any man in the world, not pressing her thighs apart, but indicating with his touch that she should spread them, the way a dancer indicates the direction for his partner. Remember dancing? How long had it been since she danced? Since a dance partner touched her that way. She should never have never married a man who didn't dance.

He lowered his face to below her belly - her belly she meant to go to the gym and do something about - and it was so funny to see it there. Where she had never seen a face before.

And there was the most delicate sensation, like a butterfly's wings. At the swollen pink mass at the top of her privates. He was licking it.

A rush ripple up her spine, and she realized it was the most pleasant thing she had ever experienced. If you added up everything wonderful she'd ever known. Lemon cheesecake. Pink chiffon. A second glass of gin. Standing on a stage while others applauded. The pride of beating out Helen for Tom's attention. All of it. Put every wonderful thing in one box, and in the other box was having Bobby what's his last name lick her like that. Having Bobby lick her was more than all that. A hundred times more. And then she wasn't having thoughts like that. She was moaning, she was pressing herself up into the air towards him with thigh muscles she didn't know she had. She was clenching. And then she was screaming again. And then it all went quiet again, while inside her waves continued crashing.

He stopped. He held her. He lifted her t-shirt over her head. He unhooked her bra. He was gently circling her nipples with one finger, and she realized her nipples were stiff and achy. Yearning. Wanting. Hungry. Hungry nipples. Then they were in his mouth, and that tongue was licking them, and he was touching her, down there, this time with a finger rather than a tongue.

"Oh, Bobby," she said. And then it all started again. She felt it rising up out of her like an angel rising up out of the earth and flying up into the heaven. This time it lasted longer, but this time again it was all over too fast.

"Now," he said. "Now I'm going to teach you how to suck cock." He lifted her up, so she was sitting, facing him. Then he lay backwards and gently indicated - again, not pulling, not moving her, but showing her how to move - her head towards his penis.

What a magnificent instrument. Tom was the only man she had ever been with, the only man whose penis she had ever seen. And she did not see it often. They each went to the bathroom alone, and they changed into bedclothes there, and when he wanted her - which was not often - it was in the dark. She had certainly never seen one up close. Let alone considered the idea of touching one with her mouth. The very idea was disgusting.

"Touch it," he said. "With your fingers. Caress it." She did. It responded. Like a magic toy. "Stroke it. Gently, out, away from my body." She did. It stiffened, and though she would not have thought it could get any bigger, it did. Longer, and also wider around.

"Now lick it," he said. And she did. It tasted of sweat, but also of him. Some woody taste, as though he were not made of flesh but of some desert brush. He was moving it gently around her mouth.

"Close your lips on it," he instructed. She did. She felt him moving it back and forth across her lips.

"Now you do that," he said. And she did. It was not unpleasant. And now he was moaning. It gratified her, that she could make him moan.

What if . . . what if he finished when he was in her mouth?

But he removed himself from her, looked at her, looked into her, as if looking into her heart and soul, with that scouring, penetrating gaze, and he said, "I don't usually ass fuck on the first date, but you've been waiting for this your whole life, and I have no idea if we'll get a second date."

He rolled her, or moved her to roll herself, onto her face, so her upper body was on the bed but her legs were trailing off and her feet reached the floor. He came around behind her and then she could feel, right up against her rectum, a gentle touch. And then it was not gentle. It was in her, and it was an overwhelming, searing pain. Rachel didn't remember childbirth, she had been so drugged. She wanted those drugs again. He pushed up farther inside her than she thought was possible, and every millimeter was excruciating.

Until it wasn't. The pain didn't exactly go away, but it moved off to the side somehow. And she realized Bobby's fingers were on that spot again, that spot at the top of her vagina, and it was not that she didn't feel the giant thrusting intrusion into a part of her where nothing should ever go, but she also felt that butterfly on that part of her that no one had ever touched. And then more than butterflies. Her reason for existence. The drug she wanted never to not have again. The one thing on this whole earth worth wanting.

So she was conscious of how loud and heavy his breathing became, how it turned into vocalizations, but no language spoken on this earth, except possibly by the hugest apes, louder, faster, the vocalizations more closely spaced, in time with his amazing thrusts into her body . . . but she was more conscious of that spot in her where all her desire lived, and how she wanted nothing else, nothing else ever but to have that desire satisfied.

And then she could tell he was shooting in her. His giant thing, pulsing like a flashing light, inside her. He stopped his thrusting at its maximum penetration, just held himself in her incredibly deep, way far up in her innermost places, unmoving, and she realized that she had finished as well. Everything in the world had stopped, and there was nothing she wanted.

And then she realized she must have been asleep, for she had been dreaming of climbing trees when she was very young.

He was no longer in her. He was caressing her right shoulder with one thumb.

"Okay," he said. "I can go down on you one more time. But then I really have to go."

If she could have anyone in the world say any words that have ever been spoken, she would have them be "I can go down on you one more time."

She wondered what time it was? She wondered if they were in danger of being caught.

But mostly she wondered when he could come back. The one thing she knew was that she had to have all of that again. And, if she could get it, again and again and again and again again.