I Said Yes Before He Finished the Number

All characters are 18 or older. Fiction.

He is still saying the number when I say yes. I do not even hear the end of it. Something about the price, something about the hour, and I am already nodding, already reaching for the envelope under the mattress, and he stops talking and looks at me.

"You did not hear it," he says.

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"I heard it."

"The end of it."

"I do not need the end of it."

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He sits back in the chair. He is a big man in a small room, my room, which is really half a room with a curtain across it, and he takes up the whole of it. Briefcase by his feet. Phone on the desk with the little light on, angled at the bed. Cardamom and rum and the night air off his jacket.

"You are twenty one," he says.

"Twenty two in March."

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"That is not what I asked." He says it without heat. He has a way of speaking English like he is laying each word down on a table and checking it is level. "Why do you say yes before the number."

Because I have been thinking about it for six days. Because I have been thinking about it in the shower, in class, on the bus, thinking about the photograph of the briefcase and the two words under it in lowercase, angel of bogota, and the way he wrote back. Because I am twenty one and I am tired of my own hand and my own imagination and I want something to have actually happened to me. I do not say any of that. I say, "Because I want it."

He looks at me for a long moment. Then he nods, once, and opens the briefcase. "Then count it," he says. "You count it, I count it, then we are agreed. Not before."

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I count it. He counts it after me. Then he puts it in the briefcase and closes it and sets it on the floor, and the whole time I am aware of my own heartbeat in my ears and the fact that my roommate is asleep on the other side of the wall, and the fact that this is the stupidest and best thing I have ever done.

The rules

"Three things," he says, holding up his fingers. "You do not touch the phone. You do not say my name to anybody. And if I say stop, everything stops, and the money is still yours. You understand."

"Yes."

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"Say it back."

"Phone, name, stop."

"Bien." He stands up and takes off his jacket and folds it over the back of my desk chair, and I see the gold ring and the gray at his temple and the way his shirt pulls across his chest, and I think, oh, this is a man, this is what they mean. "Now. Come here."

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I go to him. I am shorter than him by a head and I have to look up. He puts his hand on my jaw and turns my face to the light and looks at me as if he is reading something written very small. "You are sure," he says again, and it is the last time he asks.

"Yes."

He kisses me and it is not a first kiss, it is a decision. His mouth is warm and tastes of rum and he does not hurry and he does not let me hurry either, one hand in my hair, holding my head where he wants it. I get my hands under his shirt and he is warm and solid and the hair on his chest is coarse under my palm and I feel him breathe in when I touch him, which is the first proof I have that any of this is happening to him too.

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"On the bed," he says. "Take everything off. I want to watch."

I undress badly and too fast, and he does not laugh, he watches me the way he watched me count the money, with full attention, and when I am naked on the bed with my knees up because I do not know what else to do with them, he takes off his own clothes more slowly than any man I have ever seen. Thick through the middle. Heavy. His cock stands up from his body and curves, a thick uncut curve that I cannot stop looking at, and he lets me look, and when he is ready he says, "Turn over."

The bed

I turn over. The sheet is cold and then his hand is on my back, wide and flat, and he leans over me and kisses the back of my neck and then the space between my shoulder blades, and I hear the bottle open. His fingers are slick and he takes his time, one and then two, and I push back against his hand because I cannot help it, and he says, "Quiet," and I put my face in the pillow.

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It is not quiet. I am not quiet. The third finger makes me make a sound I have never made, and he stops and says, "Breathe," and I breathe, and then he lines himself up and pushes in and the world goes white at the edges.

He is thick. I knew he would be thick, I had looked at him and known, but knowing is not the same as being opened by it. He goes in slow, an inch at a time, and stops when I make a fist in the sheet, and then goes on. The curve finds the place almost immediately and I understand why people talk about it the way they do, because it is not a general pleasure, it is a specific one, a spot he can press and press until my legs shake.

"Okay?" he says.

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"Yes. Yes. Do not stop."

He does not stop. He fucks me slowly and deeply and then not slowly, one hand on my hip, the other braced on the bed beside my head, and the whole bed is knocking against the wall in a way the roommate is going to hear, and I do not care, I do not care about anything except the weight of him and the rhythm and the way he says something low in Spanish against my ear that I do not catch. My own cock is trapped under me and I get a hand under my body and jerk myself while he moves, and it takes almost nothing, it takes eight strokes, and I come with my mouth open and my eyes shut and my whole body clenching around him.

He follows me a moment later, deep, with a grunt that is the loudest sound he has made all night, and then he holds still and leans his forehead against the back of my neck, and we both breathe.

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He gets up first. He deals with the condom and washes his hands in the little bathroom down the hall, and I hear him say something to the roommate's cat, and I lie there and laugh into the pillow.

When he comes back he is dressed. He picks up the briefcase. He looks at me, still naked, still spread across my own bed like something dropped.

"Next time," he says, "hear the number."

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"Next time," I say, "give me a bigger number."

That gets a laugh out of him, a real one, short and surprised, and it changes his face completely. Then he is at the door with his hand on the light switch, and the room goes dark except for the streetlamp, and he says, "The angel of bogota does not bargain," and he is gone before I can tell him I was joking.

I was not joking.

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