We left Bungalow 3 and walked the property a bit.
We held hands.
We got to know each other.
We kissed some more.
We snooped around, hoping for a celebrity encounter of some sort. (I was the one really hoping for a good celeb sighting).
We took pictures. (I took pictures).
We went back to our room.
I can’t being to tell you how soft and comfortable the beds are at the Chateau Marmont. Or the linens. Or her skin. We made out and talked and then made out some more. We laughed and discovered things about each other. We watched TV. We ordered room service. We made out and I touched her skin and it was soft and I started to take her clothes off. We made out like middle school kids after the dance.
“I wish I wasn’t broken,” she said.
She was still hurting, and I knew that. Her tonsils were swollen to the point she couldn’t really eat anything from room service.
“I wish I wasn’t broken,” she said, again.
“You’re not all that broken,” I said.
She stopped me when I tried to take off her panties and she said it again: “I wish I wasn’t broken.”
What’s that mean, exactly?
Well, for starters, it wasn’t just her throat that was broken, and after a minute or so of some oral pleasure, she was all done – because her throat hurt so badly. And it didn’t take very long for her to tell me that, in addition to her tonsils, her V-Jay Jay was broken, too.
V-Jay Jay is her word for vagina.
Ba-gina is my word for it.
Either word works just fine for me.
“Turn off the lights,” she said. “I have something special for you. Just lay back and close your eyes.”
“Now that’s what I’m taking about!”
In an instant the room was dark, and I was naked and my dick was hard enough to open a beer bottle. And I laid back on that wonderful bed after the lights went off and I closed my eyes. She got on top. She rubbed around a bit and then she slipped it in…to her open hand.
After she licked it.
And it took a few strokes before I realized that, while this tight wet thing kinda felt good on my weiner, it wasn’t her V-Jay Jay. Or her Ba-gina. Because it was broken.
She rode me a bit, and she moaned a bit, and she grinded a bit, and finally I asked, “um, what are you doing?”
I looked up at her. I said it again. She confirmed. She continued to ride. Then I asked, “are you using Almost Sex as a proper noun? Like, did you name this thing you’re doing “Almost Sex”, or are we just almost having sex?”
She said, “I call it that. Almost Sex. It’s got a name. I do it to all the Mormon boys back home. They love it.”
I laid my head back in my pillow. It was the softest pillow I’ve ever rented for a night. She kept giving me Almost Sex while I looked up at the ceiling. It was dark, but not too dark to see her, or her swollen throat, or my dick going in and out of her hand as she rode me. It wasn’t too dark to see the ceiling either, and it was a very expensive ceiling. To my right was the $28 dish of spaghetti she didn’t eat, on the nightstand, next to the tiny piece of $12 flourless chocolate cake she didn’t eat, either. The powdered sugar on that cake looked like very expensive powdered sugar. Probably the most expensive powdered sugar in the whole wide world.
Then, I closed my eyes.
I did my best to enjoy Almost Sex.
I closed my eyes to Almost Sex and prayed for her to slip it into her V-Jay Jay.