No Self-Control

After he suggested we fool around, and after on a brief hesitation on my part, I climbed down from my bunk and straddled him, our faces inches apart. I could see by the orange light that seeped through our barred window that he was frightened, his eyes wide. It was probably the closest he’d ever been to a man, intimately, and I gave him no chance to back out. I leaned down further and pressed my lips to his. His response was immediate. Our tongues met halfway, each one goading the other’s back and forth. You come here. No, you come here. No, you . . . . I licked the top of his mouth while he sucked my bottom lip, and then we switched places, and I gently bit the corner of his mouth. He was a good kisser. Ireached up and cupped my hands around his neck and face and I think it was at that point he remembered I was a man, and he was straight. And with eyes stilled closed, he pulled his head away and whispered, “Suck my dick.”

When I finished, when he had spent his seed, the trance broken, he pulled his dick away. “Okay, I’m good. I’m good.” he said, and I sat up and smiled.

“We good. We cool,” he said again.

I stared down at him expectantly, arms open, hands upturned in a perpetual shrug, and after a short yet embarrassingly long wait, I finally asked, “What about me?”

“I’ll catch you next time.” And then–I shit you not–he bumped fists with me. “We cool,” he said.

The next day was, as they say, an “emotional roller coaster.” Guilt. Elation. Disgust. Fulfillment. Anger. Nervousness. How could I let this happen? Why can”t I learn self-control? What if he rats me out? What do I tell my boyfriend? But the question at the forefront of my mind that entire afternoon was: When can we do that again? If I ask for it, I’ll look desperate; if I wait for him to ask, I’ll look like his bitch; and if I spring it on him, he might freak out and break my face. So that night, I settled on the first option: I waited for the C.O. to finish his nightly round, and then I climbed down from my bed and stood over him.

“hey . . . you wanna?”

“um, no.”

And back up the ladder I went, re-faced and robbed of my dignity.

The next day was worst. The prospect and hunger for intimacy had completely crippled my ability to think straight. I went so for as as to primp and pamper myself before bed in the event that I should get lucky. I brushed my teeth, twice, baby-powdered my crotch, and rubbed smell-good lotion over the rest of my body. I had officially become his bitch.

After the lights went out, I sat up in bed for over an hour, gripping my sheets with both hands, waiting for the moment I’d be called upon to perform my duty, my invitation to play. Instead, he started playing without me. I heard him “ooh-ing” and “aww-ing” and “ohhfuck-ing” and finally, angrily, I peered over the side of my bed and asked, “What are you doing?”

He looked up at me, lazily, his dick in both hands, and said, “Just playin’ with myself.”

“Well, do you need any help?”

“uh, no. I’m good.”

Exasperated, almost pleading, I asked, “Are you sure?”

“Uh, it’s whatever, man. It don’t matter to me.”

It wasn’t the confident, all-in invitation I had hoped for, but it was all I needed. This time, there was no kissing. He made that clear from the beginning. “Just suck it,” he whispered. “That’s all you gotta do. Just suck it.” I should have taken him more seriously. I got a little too loosey-goosey and forgot he was straight and slightly more conservative in his views of sex–I also think that our first night’s unexpected kiss freaked him out–and no sooner had I pulled the band of my underwear down around one ass cheek was he sitting bolt upright, flailing his arms, yelling, “I ain’t on that shit, bro! I ain’t on that shit! You need to leave. Get up. Go. Leave. Right now.”

“Easy,” I said and placed one hand on his chest. “Just try it. You’ll like it.” but he wasn’t having any of it. And so I climbed back into my own bed, pulled the covers over my head, and bit my tongue to stop from screaming.

I was a wreck the next day. I told myself Never again. This needs to stop before something really bad happens. I confronted him later that afternoon:

“Can we just forget about what happened last night?”

“Yeah, yeah. We cool. I ain’t trippin’, bro. We cool.”

And then, that very same night:

“hey . . . you like the taste of nut?” he asks.

“Uh, yeah.”

No self-control. None whatsoever.

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