Jolie Femme
One.
We step through the doorway, wordlessly, cold air rushing in under from the dark, dim lit hallway outside. It’s quiet, and I know this one is nervous. I can hear him picking at the fabric of his jeans, pick pick pick. He closes the door behind us and stands there cautiously, as if he were entering an inescapable labyrinth in which the wallpaper had turned yellow and the bed sheets were stale with a scent of cigarettes clinging to their threads.
Halfway through the room, turn and look at him; he’s just standing there as if he wants to move but he can’t. I cut him the eyes I know he needs and he sways in place, and after a moment breaks his stance and approaches me with caution. I smile, ever so slightly.
“I haven’t done this before,” he says, glancing around the room. I move towards him and he takes a half step back, stumbling onto the firm bed with both his hands grasping the edge of the mattress, his fingers skeletal and white on the dark cover.
I move closer to him, running one finger down the side of his neck and he twitches while his eyes circle the room again. He won’t look at me. His mouth falls open slightly, as if to say something but nothing comes out except an inaudible little choke. He reaches his hand into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet, leaning over the bed he throws it on the night stand and pulls back around to look at me like he is trying to find his way somewhere. I place both my hands on the sides of his neck, the tips of my fingers like spiders darting for the same prey.
“I—“ he starts, but I silence him. There are no conversations in this room. I close in on him, loosening the black lace straps around my legs with the soft edges of my thumbs and he looks down at my crotch. I see his throat move up and down in a tiny, swift movement.
“Relax,” I say, I can hear my voice, smooth but stagnant, with a thick, well-practiced accent. So far from this actual room.
I set my knees on the bed on either side of him; my legs kicked out behind me, and reach around to pull off my heels. Putting one hand to his chest, I push him backwards onto the bed and he lands with a breathy thud.
He looks up at me, his eyes like two gaping black holes pulling into its core the reflection of the bed side lamplight.
“He said you were French,” he struggles to say while I move on top of him. “Your picture is nice.”
I try not to sigh heavily while I work at his belt buckle. He looks down at me and my eyes meet his; I snatch him away for that one moment when the realization builds up and hits him, and he throws his head back to fix his gaze on the ceiling fan.
While I’m on him, while he’s trying to find his way around my body, I hear his muffled voice above my head ease through my hair a little too gently.
“What’s your name?”
I stop cautiously and glance up at him with my hands around his waist.
“I’m not your girl,” I say gently. I can hear this accent again. It’s like ivory and vines around my tongue, and he sees it. He can hear it. He tilts his head back slightly, and blinks rapidly. His eyes are like black birds, all tired from picking their food up off the ground.
When we’re done, he looks at me contemplatively, gives me that look I hate when his eyes drop because he can’t keep his eyes on mine for too long. He jumps off the edge of the bed and zips his pants back up, grabbing his wallet and slipping a twenty dollar bill and a five next to the lamp—the other half he owed. He runs his hand through his hair to flatten it out and turns to the door, hurriedly, as if I would follow him.
Instead, I reach into the side pocket of my little change purse and I light the cigarette I had been waiting for.
Halfway through the room, turn and look at him; he’s just standing there as if he wants to move but he can’t. I cut him the eyes I know he needs and he sways in place, and after a moment breaks his stance and approaches me with caution. I smile, ever so slightly.
“I haven’t done this before,” he says, glancing around the room. I move towards him and he takes a half step back, stumbling onto the firm bed with both his hands grasping the edge of the mattress, his fingers skeletal and white on the dark cover.
I move closer to him, running one finger down the side of his neck and he twitches while his eyes circle the room again. He won’t look at me. His mouth falls open slightly, as if to say something but nothing comes out except an inaudible little choke. He reaches his hand into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet, leaning over the bed he throws it on the night stand and pulls back around to look at me like he is trying to find his way somewhere. I place both my hands on the sides of his neck, the tips of my fingers like spiders darting for the same prey.
“I—“ he starts, but I silence him. There are no conversations in this room. I close in on him, loosening the black lace straps around my legs with the soft edges of my thumbs and he looks down at my crotch. I see his throat move up and down in a tiny, swift movement.
“Relax,” I say, I can hear my voice, smooth but stagnant, with a thick, well-practiced accent. So far from this actual room.
I set my knees on the bed on either side of him; my legs kicked out behind me, and reach around to pull off my heels. Putting one hand to his chest, I push him backwards onto the bed and he lands with a breathy thud.
He looks up at me, his eyes like two gaping black holes pulling into its core the reflection of the bed side lamplight.
“He said you were French,” he struggles to say while I move on top of him. “Your picture is nice.”
I try not to sigh heavily while I work at his belt buckle. He looks down at me and my eyes meet his; I snatch him away for that one moment when the realization builds up and hits him, and he throws his head back to fix his gaze on the ceiling fan.
While I’m on him, while he’s trying to find his way around my body, I hear his muffled voice above my head ease through my hair a little too gently.
“What’s your name?”
I stop cautiously and glance up at him with my hands around his waist.
“I’m not your girl,” I say gently. I can hear this accent again. It’s like ivory and vines around my tongue, and he sees it. He can hear it. He tilts his head back slightly, and blinks rapidly. His eyes are like black birds, all tired from picking their food up off the ground.
When we’re done, he looks at me contemplatively, gives me that look I hate when his eyes drop because he can’t keep his eyes on mine for too long. He jumps off the edge of the bed and zips his pants back up, grabbing his wallet and slipping a twenty dollar bill and a five next to the lamp—the other half he owed. He runs his hand through his hair to flatten it out and turns to the door, hurriedly, as if I would follow him.
Instead, I reach into the side pocket of my little change purse and I light the cigarette I had been waiting for.