David_1

He looked like how I imagined the character Vaughan in J.G. Ballard's "Crash". He was very tall, muscular, not from the gym but from construction work. I hate to use the phrase "raw sexuality" but he had it. He was the definition of it. We met at my favorite bar, a secluded place in Chinatown that had once been a gay speak-easy in the 20's. It was usually quiet before 11:00 and the the little nooks provided instant intimacy.

We both came straight from work (although I suspect he stopped at his apartment for a quick shower), I from the office, he from the Williamsburg bridge. The palm of his left hand was wrapped in a white bandage that was already getting dingy. He explained he had an accident at work. A nail had driven straight through his palm. I was immediately turned on.

We sat near the back. He had scotch (he was already a little dazed from the pain killers). I had a martini. He sat back and leaned against the wall, his eye lids heavy. Conversation was slow in starting. Maybe it was the awkwardness of the first date or the combination of alcohol and drugs. We had chatted for a while by e-mail. I was intrigued by his odd combination of misogynistic and feminist tendencies. He was extremely intelligent, rather cocky and just a little terrifying.

Slowly, conversation grew. We talked about our past, our families, and third-wave feminist theory. We had another round, then another. At some point I had moved closer to him. We sat side by side, his arm around my shoulder. I hadn't noticed it, but the bar had filled up. I looked out at the hazy crowd with mild curiosity, wondering what all these people were doing in our space. The music had gotten louder. If we were still talking we would have had to shout. But we weren't talking anymore. I felt his hand caressing my cheek. It would disappear for a moment and then return. I felt a wetness as he ran his fingers over the side of my face. I turned and watched him put his three fingers of his un-bandaged hand deep in his mouth and withdraw them, covered in saliva. He lazily spread his spit over the side of my face, over my closed eye, my cheek, my chin. I suggested it was time we left.

We stumbled out of the bar into the street. It was starting to rain. We walked side by side, our cigarettes quickly turning damp. The rain came harder. Neither of us had umbrellas, but we made no effort to get out of the down pour. We walked lazily side by side, as people around us ran for cover. "Where are we going?" I asked casually not really caring about the answer. We made our way under the scaffolding in front of Planned Parenthood. He stopped suddenly and turned to me. I looked up into his face, dripping wet. He looked serious, a slight frown on his lips, but I recognized the look in his eyes. That slightly dazed, wide-eyed glare I've come to love on men.

He suddenly grabbed me by the belt and shoved me against the wall. He kissed me violently, his stubble scraping my chin. He kept his grip on the front of my jeans, pulled me from the wall and slammed me back, going in for another kiss. I thrust my hips forward, hoping he would take it as a sign to slip his hand inside my pants, but he kept his grip steady.

I looked to my side as he devoured my neck. There was a delicate, effeminate young man a few feet away. His soaking wet dark hair was plastered to his face and his already baggy pants were slipping down from the weight of the water. He wasn't paying any attention to us. He was crying softly. I watched him sob while David ran his tongue over the side of my face. He finally looked up and I gave him a small, sympathetic smile. He gave a small smile back. I rolled my eyes in David's direction in a mock exasperated "Men!" kind of way. The boy laughed a little and walked away.

David pulled me from the wall and we started to walk again. "Are we going to your place?" I asked. I knew he lived nearby. "No. Yours." I hailed the next cab.