Before he can say another word, my mouth is searching for him. I’ve forgotten that we’re in a pandemic, and at that moment I don’t give a fuck about the coronavirus. My hands grip his unruly brown hair, his hands cup my face. Before long he’s ravenously exploring my body, pulling my housedress down, and taking me into his mouth. I remove his faded T-shirt to reveal tanned skin and a meticulously sculpted six-pack. It’s not long before we’re in bed consuming each other. His one hand grips my hair, the other my hips as he continuously pushes into my depth from behind. He’s dominant, deeply passionate, and well-endowed. My sexual trifecta.
I fight off thoughts of Robert and try to enjoy the pleasure. Despite being broken up for weeks, somehow, it feels like I’m being unfaithful. Pat completely unaware, throws his head back and groans. I feel him pulsate inside of me before he laughs and withdraws. “I’m so sorry, it’s been a while—just give me a minute and we can go again.” I laugh with him. “It’s been a while for me too.” I press my back to his chest, and we lie in bed, covered in his sweat. I think of the first time Robert said “I love you” and how he used to hold me this way. I begin to silently cry.
What the hell is wrong with me? I’m naked, with a hot man. Why am I crying? Pat is smiling and completely unaware as tightens his grip around me. I feel like a sponge being pressed of its liquid as my few tears quickly turn to steady streams. Embarrassed, I use the pillow to quickly wipe them away. And before they can return, I roll over and ask, “Are you ready to go again?” His eyes light up, he pulls me on top of him. “Careful what you ask for, girl.” His next release isn’t so quick.
Pat and I never have another date. Crying after is was a new experience for me. It is startling enough to make me realize that no matter his résumé, I simply am not ready.
It’s October before I decide to try again. I still think about Robert every day, but I’m horny and hope maybe enough time has passed. Plus, predictions of a second wave loom, and the thought of repeating another quarantine alone is terrifying. I meet Victor* on Tinder, and after a few weeks of half-hearted back and forth, we finally make a plan to meet. He assures me that he’s recently been COVID tested and proposes watching the newly released Savage x Fenty show together at my place. Only two people have entered my apartment this year, and one of them is the monthly exterminator. But I can’t think of a sexier first date, so I clean for the first time in weeks, light my candles, and cook a vegan dinner.
We sit together on the couch and within the first two minutes, we’re screaming and cheering at the screen. When the show ends, we spend hours talking and laughing. It’s simultaneously so normal and so foreign. After all these months in solitude, I hadn’t been sure if I still knew how to be with someone new. But with Victor, it isn’t hard. We discuss divorce, military life, and living abroad. He is handsome, charming, and effortless. I find his ease intoxicating.
Our conversation pauses but doesn’t feel awkward. We let the tension build as we stare at one another. Smiling, he leans in and kisses me, and I kiss back. Then, gripping my hips, he pulls me onto him. His tongue fills my mouth, and my hands are lost in his dark curly brown hair. We furiously undress each other on our way to my bedroom. I pull away only to use my tongue to trace invisible paths along his body. I want to drink his deeply tanned skin. His fingers fill my mouth as he crawls on top and enters me in one fluid motion. I shut my eyes, willingly receiving him in every space he fills. His hands quickly grip my face, forcing me to look deeply into his eyes as he takes me. He moves inside of me with deep, rhythmic intensity. When he senses I’m close to climax, he lowers his lips to my ear and speaks to me in Spanish. I erupt under his control, but we don’t stop. I lose track of how many times we have sex that night. We fall asleep sometime around 5 a.m.