Dos: Chapter 6

 

He was awake; it was the day slated for his departure for training. He read the newest chapters of what she wrote after waking up and making tea and figuring out the logistics of how he would travel to their camp.

He read all five chapters, and she got wetter every minute with his interspersed, “Fuck,” “This is better than the last novel, baby,” and an elongated “Damn,” after a rather puzzling commentary on how US soldiers are mercenaries, Russian soldiers are gods, and every Chinese soldier is a robot philosopher. She cannot help but take off her pajamas and underwear at such sure manifestos without him asking, although he did say, “Yes, please,” when she asked for permission. And then, as an afterthought to what seemed like an automatic response and sometimes demand coming from him, “Why?”

“Because I want to fuck you before you leave,” she said.

“Baby, no. I have to get ready… Or alright, we can have five minutes of fucking then I will go.”

They ended up fucking for twenty minutes. “Baby… Fuck you, you bitch,” after she said his last name out of desperate lovemaking, being impaled virtually by his large cock. “I really love you, you fucking bitch,” she heard him say loudly, as he spilled his load onto his sheets.

“Oh, my god,” she moaned. She reveled in his muscles on the screen, contracting as he spilled his come into her image on his screen, like he had promised to everyday.

The polemics of his perhaps delirious proclamation excited her as no other thing in the world could: having no middle ground between “you bitch” and “really love.” Their fucking has no respect; it cannot have room for it in the same way that their consideration for each other as a writer is filled with nothing but respect for the way the other mastered the craft and proved it time and again.  No love there, regardless of word count: their words for each other go beyond love. It was like a pole vaulter, inexplicably missing his mark by ending up jumping sideways with ten feet of clearance had he stayed within the middle of the pole.

She didn’t come; she takes longer than he does, always. And when he did come, he said, perhaps ruefully, or perhaps not, “Shit, I have to go, baby.” Maybe her willing herself to not come was because she wanted the sex to last, since he was going to leave her for two weeks; maybe it was her way of tipping the scales (but not so much, only to an acceptable level) so as to gain the upper hand. She herself does not know, if she was being honest. Plus, the exhaustion was already taking over her satisfied and sleepy hormones.

After he left, she came instead to a porn audio of a man coming with the words “Oh, baby,” rasping his throat while videoing herself reaching an explosively wet orgasm. She had always a soft spot for voices. The video of her orgasm was a final present for Brandon, or perhaps an asking of a promise for him to return home to her.

She sent the video without watching it.

Lord always found their sex excessive: so much so that she was losing sleep over the sheer constancy of it. Brandon, after all, wanted to fuck her the moment he woke up and before he slept, more often than not also in between, time differential between them be damned. He always said “I love you, Chris,” while coming (and demanded a promise of the same in return), but it was only this time when he declared, in the admittedly thick and thin of their fucking, that he really loved her.

That made her dive in deep thought, while taking a drag of a cigarette. He had asked her to stop smoking. She made a compromise by saying she would stop before she goes to Prague.

They did not talk of that fateful question of her visiting him again, however. Perhaps it was the alternative urgency of goodbye, perhaps it was the wisdom of trauma, perhaps he already forgot, perhaps he relegated the question as momentary folly.

But… perhaps she was nothing but his fuck slut that he has come to love in the world of virtual reality, never to touch him in physically, always saying, “Stay there, on my screen, I love you there and only there.” Perhaps he thought of her in the antithetical way Sam from her past dealings with online dating. Sam drove himself to anxiety talking to her, knowing full well that she was real at the end of the internet.

She explicitly broached this very possibility, and he merely said, “No, baby. You are not that to me. I have decided that you are a love like a mystic: far, untouchable.”

This reference to distance hit home; the reference to her being his love did not. Perhaps he was in love with her in his head, on the screen, but never allowing her to cross border between her country and his.

Well, she thought, seeing the trauma of admitting this possibility and dodging it by her consciousness not even recognizing it, that was a waste of emails. The professors she contacted, however, haven’t replied, save for one on auto-response saying he’d be back in person within two weeks.

She had nothing to do but wait. She had time. She didn’t consider the probability that he did, too, and that he needs it.