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on
a show for me, you’ve got me hook, line, and—’
    Maria puts her hand on my head and blanks my
mind to a bright white buzz.
    When you fuck a girl, you have to be willing
to work right in front of her. To be watched while you try to give
her pleasure. But you might find yourself making love to her. Then
you’ll be showing her a hell of a lot more than just your earnest
effort to make her feel good. You’ll find yourself naked in front
of her, all your clothes on and your heart stripped bare. She’ll
watch you. Split open and incomplete. Whimpering out months of
loneliness in helpless little sounds while you eat her out.
    You can work. Make something from nothing,
but those same thin hands and ready mouth will betray you. You will
show her every dream you had about her. You will breathe heavy,
with a closed throat, when she invites you closer. You will give
yourself up for her judgement. And you will both know it doesn’t
matter if she comes.
    It’s a hook up. I hook myself to her like I’m
drowning and she can carry me back up.
    It’s enough. Just like this. The pleasure
alone is enough. More than enough. More than I could ever ask for,
or expect from another person. Giving her pleasure is a consuming
calling. An honor that takes precedence over everything else. I
breathe in through my nose and hum, just sliding my tongue up and
down her clit. No worry, no shame, no sense of time, nor goal in
mind. Just the girl in front of me.
    She’s so wet now. Her pussy is full and red.
The bottom is pushed out and the lips are separated in an engorged
U. I can just see inside, a dark, warm cave that I taste before
filling with my fingers. I lose an hour inside her. I taste her
skin while she strokes her fingers through my hair and moans.
    Maria pushes me off when her thighs are
shaking on my shoulders. I crawl over her to kiss her and we fall
in a heap. I spread her legs with my knee and press her pussy to my
hip.
    I kiss her lips over and over, feeling them
quiver with arousal and overstimulation. She pulls my shirt off and
wrestles with my utilitarian sports bra for a minute, until she’s
laughing too hard to make progress and I take it off for her. She
draws her fingernails from the outer edges of my breast to the
nipple. She kisses the pad of her thumb and presses it to my nose.
I feel like that means something but I’m too undone to ask.
    I wrap her up in a blanket and throw on a
sweatshirt to search the bathroom for a hairbrush. I find three of
my roommates’: one with stiff plastic bristles, a scratchy nylon
one with bristles like a fake Christmas tree, and a fine-toothed
comb. I grab a banana from the kitchen on my way back to her.
    I never asked if she was hungry, but feeding
her is the first way I learned to take care of her and I’m not
giving that one up. Maria takes the banana with an amused smile and
peels it without a word.
    I hold out the brushes and comb, “Which of
these do you like?”
    She points to the one with stiff plastic
bristles, “Use this to brush. But hold onto the comb. Do you know
how to braid?”
    I drop the brush and comb in her lap and
crawl behind her on the bed, “Of course I know how to braid. I was
a seven-year-old once.”
    She laughs, “Braid my hair,” and hands me a
hair tie.
    I sit behind her, my legs spread on either
side of her, and brush out the knots we made with our rocking and
twisting. I smell her hair. I say, “It can’t just be honey and egg
yolks.”
    She laughs and I can feel it through her
back. It seems like she’s laughing every three breaths when she’s
with me. That’s right, my ego nods, that’s right; I’m good at this.
I can see her bare breasts and half of her face in the narrow
mirror hanging on the back of my door. I can see a sliver of my own
face behind her. I’m surprised by how sleepy I look, with tousled
hair and gentle eyes. I part her hair down the middle and braid one
side. It’s horribly messy. The three ribbons of hair are