You

50

I run out to buy you ice cream and I hear Bobby Short singing in my head—I am your prince—and I am on air on the way to the deli and on the way back. I bound down the stairs, can’t get to you fast enough, with the ice cream you wanted, vanilla. You are simple again; three weeks ago you would have wanted some fucking gelato you read about in the Sunday Styles. I want to tell you about the funny dude in the line at the deli but when I reach the bottom of the stairs you are different. You are naked. I am still. “Beck.”

“Come over here,” you command, low. “Bring the ice cream.”

I do as I am told and your right hand moves over your collarbone and onto your breast and you have another demand. “Give me my dessert.”

I tear at the bag and the spoon falls on the floor but fuck it and I tear off the lid as well as the plastic lining. The ice cream is soft and my dick is hard and I know why Bobby Short felt like a racehorse; I am a racehorse.

“One second,” I say.

“Ticktock,” you say, you purr.

I play the song on the computer. You like it. You command, “Put it on repeat.”

I obey and I return to the drawer and you kneel before the cage, your nipples hard. You want to know if I can pull the drawer out and make an open window. I can. You tell me to take off my pants. I do. You reach both hands through the new open space where the drawer used to be and I pick up the ice cream and approach the cage. You touch yourself and your finger emerges wet, glistening and I know to bring the pint closer. The ice cream is hotter because of our heat, melting. You immerse your other hand in the magnet between your legs and you don’t let go of my eyes. Both of your hands are covered in your juices and you dip those wet fingers into the melting vanilla. You tease me. You tell me you want my mouth and I give you my mouth and your fingers fill my mouth and your other fingers are touching skillfully, mysteriously, her first rose. My dick. Your hands are The Da Vinci Code and my body is yours. I suck the life out of your fingers and you pry them from my mouth. I look down at you and you are in the vanilla. You dig, deep. Your vanilla hand joins your other hand on my hard cock, and I am cool and hot and hard to your soft. Your hands can dance and they lead me to your mouth and you swallow me and I moan and we are the world and there is barely room for the three of us, my cock and your hands. I belong in your mouth, and when I open my eyes you are staring at me, wide, whole. I need you, all of you. You want all of me. You know all my secrets and your mouth has teeth. You take me out of your mouth and hold me in your hands. You look up at me, pleading, “Fuck me.”

I don’t consciously decide to trust you. My body takes over and I can’t unlock the cage fast enough. You rub your hands over your body and you wait. I jam the key into the lock and I miss your touch and I enter your space, you. You do not run away; you run at me, lust. I lock my hand around your neck and inject my tongue into your mouth and you take it. You scratch me. I could kill you and you know it and your nipples are harder than ever and your pussy never felt this sweet, this tight—just vanilla—and we could go on like this forever. You orgasm truly, you’re exploding and it’s an exorcism and an exclamation point. You’re speaking in tongues and I own you and I’m in you and I loosen my grip and explode and you own me, you do. Your back arches, wow. I have taken you places better than the Upper West Side, superior to Turks and Caicos and Nicky’s beige room. I have taken you to France, to the chalice, to the moon, and you cease to move and a smile rolls over your entire body and you’re a lily pad, sun stroked and floating, rooted to the floor of the lake, me, dark, above you.

The cage door is wide open and I’m half naked and I’d never be able to catch you if you ran up the stairs. If you grabbed my empty dick and kicked and tried to make a run for it, you would make it. The basement doors are unlocked so you could, theoretically, escape upstairs. But the front door is locked; you didn’t work here long enough to learn where I stash the key. Still, if you wanted to, you could risk it all to run naked into the shop and scream for help. Someone would help you and someone would come for me but none of that is happening. Your body can’t tell lies and your goose bumps tell the truth. You lick your lips and look up at me. You purr. “Joe. Wow.”