1. The bar

I met her at a place called Ernie’s, which is not a good bar. It’s the kind of bar with a broken neon E, a pool table with a torn felt, and a jukebox that only ever gets played by the same four guys. I was there because my Tuesday had been long and stupid and because sitting in my own apartment felt like a punishment I hadn’t earned.

She came in alone at about nine-forty. She was tall — taller than me in the heels, and I’m five-ten — with long black hair down past her shoulder blades and a red dress that was doing absolutely nothing to hide anything. Wide hips. Thick thighs. And when she walked past the bar to get to the back, every man in the place turned his head and then turned it back fast, like they’d been caught looking at something they shouldn’t.

She sat two stools down from me and ordered a rum and Coke in a voice that was lower than I expected. Not deep. Just low. Warm. It sat in my chest like a hand.

“You’ve been staring at my legs for four minutes,” she said, without turning.

“Five,” I said.

She turned then. Her face was good — strong jaw, full mouth, dark eyes with a bit of gold liner at the corners. She looked at me the way you look at a piece of furniture you’re considering buying.

“Jenny,” she said.

“Dan.”

She shook my hand and held it a beat too long and let her thumb drag across my knuckles on the way out. Then she went back to her drink and said nothing else for ten minutes, and I sat there sweating like a schoolboy, and then she said, “You know what I am, Dan?”

I said, “You’re a woman.”

“I’m a shemale,” she said. “You know what that means?”

I did. I’d seen enough. But saying it out loud in Ernie’s, with the pool balls clicking, felt different.

“It means you’ve got a cock,” I said.

She smiled properly for the first time. “Good boy. Saves time.”

2. The offer

We talked for an hour. She was thirty-four, worked in shipping logistics of all things, and had a laugh that came out of nowhere and was loud enough to make the bartender look up. She asked me about my job and listened to the answer, actually listened, and then said, “You hate it.”

“Everybody hates it.”

“No. You hate it in a specific way. You hate it because you’re not good at being a man, and it reminds you.”

That stung because it was true. I’ve never been good at it. Too soft-spoken, too quick to apologize, too happy to be told what to do. My last girlfriend used to say I was “nice” in the tone you’d use for a dog that won’t learn a trick.

“So what do I do about it,” I said.

Jenny finished her drink and set it down and turned on the stool so her knee was between mine. Up close her perfume was cheap and sweet and there was a small damp shine on her collarbone from the heat.

“You come to my motel,” she said. “And I fuck you like a cheap slut. And then you go home and you’re different.”

“How much?”

“I’m not a working girl,” she said. “But you can buy the room. Forty bucks. The Bluebird, on Route 9. Room 14. Give me twenty minutes.”

She slid off the stool, put her hand flat on my sternum, and pushed — just slightly, just enough that I had to catch myself on the bar behind me. Then she walked out and the whole bar watched her go.

3. Route 9

The Bluebird Motor Lodge had a sign with half the bulbs dead and a lit vacancy sign that was lying. Room 14 was at the end, past the ice machine, past a puddle the color of old coffee.

I sat in my car for six minutes with the engine off and my hands on the wheel. Then I got out.

She answered on the second knock. She’d taken the dress off and put on a black satin robe, untied, and she had a glass of something in her hand. Behind her the AC unit was grinding and the neon from the sign was coming through the curtain in red stripes.

“Get in. Shut the door. Take your shoes off.”

I did all three. The carpet was brown and slightly tacky under my socks. There was a mirror mounted over the dresser, smudged, and a lamp with a shade the color of a nicotine stain.

“Forty,” she said, holding out her hand.

I gave her two twenties. She folded them once and tucked them into the pocket of the robe and then dropped the robe off her shoulders and let it pool at her ankles, and I made a sound I’m not proud of.

She had big soft tits with dark nipples already hard. A flat stomach with a faint line of hair going down. Thick thighs. And hanging between them, heavy and half-hard and bigger than mine, a thick uncut cock with the head just showing.

“Sit on the bed,” she said. “Edge. Hands on your knees.”

The bedspread was a floral pattern in three shades of brown and smelled of industrial detergent. I sat. My hands went to my knees.

Jenny came and stood between my feet and looked down at me and took a slow drink, then set the glass on the nightstand.

“You’re shaking,” she said.

“I know.”

“Good. That’s the correct response.”

4. First she used my mouth

She put her hand in my hair and pulled my head back until my throat was a straight line, and then she bent and kissed me with her tongue going deep and her teeth on my lower lip hard enough to hurt. Her cock was pressed against my chest, leaving a wet smear on my shirt. I got a hand up and cupped her balls, and they were warm and heavy and tight, and she made a low noise into my mouth and pushed her hips forward.

“Take the shirt off,” she said. “Then lie back.”

I got it over my head and lay back on the bedspread and she climbed over me, one knee either side of my ribs, and walked forward on her knees until her cock was over my face.

“Open.”

I opened. She fed it in slow — just the head, resting on my tongue — and let me get used to the weight of it. She tasted like skin and salt and a little like soap. Then she pushed deeper.

I’m not good at it. I gagged almost immediately. She didn’t pull out; she held, and counted under her breath, and pulled back just before I started to heave.

“Again. Breathe through your nose. Look at me.”

The second time was better. The third time she got most of the way in and I felt the hair at her base against my nose and my eyes watered and she said, “There he is. That’s it. Take it, you little cocksucker.”

The words went straight down my spine. She started moving — short strokes, her hand fisted in my hair, the other braced on the headboard so it knocked against the wall with a hollow sound. Spit ran out of the corner of my mouth and down my jaw to my ear.

“Use your tongue. Don’t be lazy.”

I used my tongue. She groaned and pushed harder and my throat started making noises it’s never made before. Somewhere a car door slammed outside.

When she pulled out I gasped like I’d come up from underwater. A string of spit stretched and broke on my chin.

“Look at you,” she said. “Two minutes and you’re already a mess.”

5. Then she found out what my ass was for

“Roll over. Face down. Legs apart.”

I rolled. She put both hands on my hips and dragged me up onto my knees, and the AC was blowing cold straight across my bare back and my whole body was prickled with gooseflesh.

“Reach back and spread yourself.”

I reached back and pulled my own ass open with both hands and it was the most exposed I have ever been in my life. My face was in the bedspread. I could smell my own breath coming back off it.

She spat. Twice. Cold and wet and dead center.

Then her thumb pushed in.

I hadn’t done this much. Once, badly, years ago. Her thumb went in easy to the knuckle and my hips jerked and she laughed and said, “Oh, he’s loose already. He’s been waiting.”

“Jenny—”

“Shut up.”

The thumb came out and then two fingers went in, and she worked them, curling, and found the spot almost immediately because of course she did, and I heard myself whine into the mattress. Then a third finger. Then her mouth.

She ate my ass like it was the whole meal. Wet and loud and unembarrassed, her tongue flat and then pointed, her fingers still working, her free hand pulling one cheek wider whenever she wanted more room. My cock was dripping onto the bedspread in a spreading patch and every time she pressed up I saw white.

She came up for air. “Cheap sluts don’t touch their cocks, do they.”

“No.”

“Correct. Hands stay back.”

6. The condom

She got up and went to the bathroom and came back with a foil square and a thin towel, which she folded under my hips. Her cock was fully hard now, sticking up against her stomach and shining at the tip.

“Look at me,” she said, and I turned my head on the bedspread and watched her roll the condom down over the head, over the shaft, to the base. She spat on her fingers and stroked herself twice and her thighs flexed.

Then she knelt up behind me and laid the head of it against my hole and just held it there. Not pushing. Just resting. My whole body went rigid waiting.

“Tell me what you are.”

“I’m a cheap slut.”

“Tell me what you want.”

“Fuck me. Please. Fuck me.”

She pushed.

It was slow and it was enormous and it did not stop. I made a long ugly noise into the mattress and my hands scrabbled and got fistfuls of bedspread and the pressure kept coming, and then the wide part was past and she slid the rest of the way in and her hips were flat against my ass.

She held there. She let me feel all of it — the fullness, the stretch, the pulse of her inside the rubber.

“Breathe,” she said.

I breathed.

She pulled back almost all the way out, so slow it was a torture, and then slammed back in.

7. Fucked

After that there was no pace but hers and hers was fast and hard and mean.

She had both hands on my hips and she was yanking me back onto every thrust, and the headboard was hammering the wall, and the whole cheap frame of the bed was squeaking in a rhythm, and the AC rattled over the top of all of it. Sweat ran down my spine. Her tits bounced against my back when she leaned over me.

“Cheap little motel,” she said, breathless. “Cheap little room. Cheap little slut. You’re getting exactly what you paid for, aren’t you.”

“Yes — yes—”

“Say it properly.”

“I’m a cheap slut, I’m a cheap little slut—”

She reached around and got a fistful of my hair and pulled my head up off the bed so I was arched, and in the mirror over the dresser I could see myself. Red-faced. Hair wrecked. Mouth open. Being fucked by a woman in a brown motel room and loving it.

“Watch yourself,” she said. “Watch yourself get fucked.”

I watched. She turned my head slightly so I could see her hips working behind me, her cock sliding out and driving back in, my own ass opening around it.

Then she let go of my hair and pushed my shoulders down and changed the angle, and the next thrust hit the spot dead on and I shouted into the mattress.

“There it is,” she said. “There. Right there. Don’t fight it.”

She did it again. And again. Same place, every time, hard and deliberate, and my legs started to go and my balls pulled up tight and I could feel it coming up on me like a wave with nowhere to break.

“Jenny — I’m going to—”

“Not yet.”

“Jenny—”

“Not yet.“

She held me there for what felt like a full minute, right at the edge, just grinding short little strokes against the spot with her thumb pressed hard into my hip, and I was making noises that weren’t words.

“Now,” she said. “Come.”

And I did. Just from that. Just from being fucked, with nobody touching my cock at all. It came out of me in thick hot pulses across the towel and the bedspread and my own stomach, and my ass clamped down on her so hard she grunted, and I heard myself sobbing out the last of it.

8. After

She didn’t stop immediately. She rode me through it, slower, until my legs were trembling and every push made me twitch, and then she pulled out and the emptiness was its own shock.

I rolled onto my side. She peeled the condom off and dropped it in the wastebasket and flopped down beside me, and we both lay there breathing with the AC grinding.

The neon came through the curtain in red stripes and slid slowly across the ceiling.

“You okay?” she said, after a while.

“Yeah.”

“Roll over, look at me.”

I rolled over. She put her thumb under my eye and wiped at the wet at the corner of it and looked at me, and this time it wasn’t the buying-furniture look.

“Better than when you walked in?” she said.

“Different.”

She laughed that loud sudden laugh and sat up and pulled her robe on and lit a cigarette.

“Get dressed,” she said. “Before the ice machine guy does his rounds and sees you.”