Kent bends down and cups my face. His lips brush the top of my head, and he says, “Vincent, my friend, you are a master cock sucker.”
I force a “ha” because I don’t have a genuine laugh in me. “Thanks.”
“Are you okay?” he asks, and the pounding in my chest grows louder.
Even now, he’s concerned about me. My ears ring and I’m unable to answer.
“Do you want me to go?”
I don’t want to be rude, but every atom in my body screams for him to leave.
“Why don’t you finish,” I suggest, his cock staring at the ceiling.
“Vincent, I’m fine. I should get going anyway. I have a big day at work tomorrow.”
“No shop talk, remember?” I say, glancing at my watch and wondering how soon I can shower and be alone in my freshly bleached sheets. I have my own important day looming.
“Right.” Kent pulls his pants up. “I had fun.”
“Yeah, me too,” I say. The mortification of what I just did shadows me like a cloud, and the need to scrub every inch of myself overtakes me. Did I make the wrong call, having Kent over?
“I’ll just … ” I stand and grab a washcloth from the vanity to clean up, and before I can do it, Kent takes it from my hand.
“Let me.”
He turns the water on, and once it’s warm he wets the washcloth and rings the excess out. With a slow, caring touch, he wipes me first. My dick, my hand, my feet. “There you go, spick-and-span.” Only once I’m clean does he use the rag on himself and, finally, the floor. He’s a complete gentleman, and I’ve gone and fucked it up.
“Well, I’ll be going then,” he says, buttoning his pants. “Do you want to exchange numbers?”
The messaging in SWISH is archaic at best and truly limited to initial communication to facilitate setting up a date. This is the point in the movie where we swap numbers and think about seeing each other again. Communicating. More kissing. More sucking.
“Kent, you’re a great guy, but … ”
He winces at “but.”
“Oh,” he says, and I’ve done it. In the span of a few hours, I’ve ruined everything. Ruined him. I take four deep breaths, counting each exhale in my head.
“It’s just,” I begin, unsure how to communicate my humiliation at coming on to him that way.
“No, it’s okay. Thanks again.” He dips down and kisses my cheek. His beard, his lips, the tender way he makes contact, pours more disgrace on my shame sundae.
“Bye.” He grabs his stained shirt, dangling from the hamper, and he’s gone.
Even with Fleetwood Mac blasting through the speakers, the energy evaporates from the room the moment Kent leaves. I close my eyes and count breaths. How did we go from talking about his cat andRumoursto me blowing him? The disgrace consumes me. I need to focus on the music. I need to find my center.
I’m frozen—the aggressive drums and crashing guitars of “The Chain” echo against tile, glass, and mirrors. My eyes fall on my pants around my ankles. My knees wobble with weakness, and I’m deeply grateful and horribly disappointed I’ll never see Kent Lester again.
CHAPTER 4
Kent
“Wait, you went back to his apartment?” Ruth asks from her usual position, a half step in front of me.
Her braids swing back and forth, framing her sepia skin. The tiny beads click-clack, creating a symphony of sound in the silent, frosty morning. With the spring of the newly installed track beneath her, Ruth glides even faster than she would on pavement. In only a tracksuit zipped to the top, the December chill has set in, but Ruth runs hot—no heavy coats for her.
“I mean, he offered dessert.”
The cold air stings my throat as my body warms up. After the first lap, I’m ready to unzip my jacket and attempt not to be a sweaty mess for the day ahead. Ruth has to be the fittest person I know. Yes, she’s almost my age, but thirty years ago she was on the women’s Olympic speed-walking team. I’m trying to keep pace with a roadrunner.
