Violeta Noir

I came in Pint Sized Mechanic’s bed before he even touched me.

Which, frankly, feels rude.

Not rude of me.

Rude of him.

My mouth was otherwise occupied and somehow this man still managed to have me losing my fucking mind before he’d put a hand on me.

Then he told me to take a ride.

So I did.

His eyes stayed on my face.

Not my body.

My face.

He watched every ridiculous expression pleasure dragged across it until one particularly contorted little face made him giggle.

And I don’t mean some deep masculine chuckle.

No.

This grown ass man covered his mouth like a little anime schoolgirl, his eyes squeezed into tiny upside down smiles, absolutely fucking delighted by me.

I caught him.

He giggled harder.

I started laughing.

So there we were, tangled up in each other, laughing and talking shit while I tightened my grip and watched his composure disappear.

He was coming apart.

I refused to get off.

I wasn’t finished.

Not until I was wet.

He was wet.

The fucking bed was wet.

Sloshing wet.

Eventually I released him.

Not because I was satisfied for the night.

Apparently I was satisfied for approximately ten fucking minutes.

Because Pint Sized Mechanic immediately started talking.

And talking.

And talking.

Work. Cars. People. Stories. Things he had fixed. Things he had predicted. People who didn’t listen.

I lay there listening to this tiny mechanic conduct his own goddamn podcast until my body interrupted the conversation before my manners could stop me.

“I’m horny.”

Silence.

Then his hand went over his mouth.

Those little upside down smile eyes appeared again.

And the motherfucker giggled.

I couldn’t help it.

I laughed too.

Ten minutes.

I had given this man approximately ten minutes of peace.

Apparently that was enough.

I asked him to do that thing he’d done the last time I was there.

He already knew what I meant.

I’d already told Pint Sized Mechanic I’d spent the week getting myself off thinking about him.

True.

What I left out was who had been there when I closed my eyes and saw him.

The Wounded Boy.

My eyes were closed.

Pint Sized Mechanic was behind them.

Wounded Boy was simply the man in the room.

Neither man knew the complete story.

I did.

And because apparently the universe enjoys a visual gag, they’re almost exactly the same height.

Both pint sized.

Of fucking course they are.

The reason I hadn’t seen Pint Sized Mechanic sooner was also my fault.

He’d tried.

I told him I’d had a bad day at work.

I had not had a bad day at work.

I’d spent the previous night with Wounded Boy and my body had filed a formal complaint.

Pint Sized Mechanic did not need that information.

He needed to know I wasn’t coming over.

So I stayed home.

Recovered.

Thought about him.

Took care of myself accordingly.

And when I finally got back into his bed, I had absolutely no intention of being reasonable.

The second time was different.

He stood over me with those dark eyes and watched.

Just watched.

I came apart beneath his stare again and again until something changed in his face and I could see his composure beginning to crack.

I liked that.

Maybe too much.

Then we rearranged ourselves across his ridiculously small bed like somebody had drawn a T.

At some point I almost fell off the fucking thing.

His bed is smaller than mine.

Of course it is.

Pint Sized Mechanic.

Pint sized bed.

Apparently the entire apartment is committed to branding.

There is something deeply unserious about trying to be seductive while also fighting for your life against the side of a mattress.

But he went to work.

And I am still paying for it.

It has been two days.

Wounded Boy has since made his own considerable contribution to the situation and somehow the soreness remains.

Which brings me to an inconvenient observation.

Pint Sized Mechanic is considerably bigger.

And I would venture to say…

more skilled.

There.

I said it.

Neither man knows there is a competition.

The Archivist has data.

The data is becoming difficult to ignore.

There is another difference between them.

They both leave evidence.

Pint Sized Mechanic leaves his.

Wounded Boy leaves his too.

But Wounded Boy has a habit of cleaning up after himself with his mouth.

What he doesn’t know is that sometimes, when he’s pissed me off, the mess he’s so enthusiastically cleaning isn’t entirely his.

I never tell him.

He never asks.

I simply lie there and let him be useful.

Petty?

Absolutely.

Do I intend to examine the ethics of this behavior today?

No.

This is Margins.

The Archives can prosecute me later.

Later Saturday, I went to dinner.

I got pretty.

Took pictures.

Sent them to both men.

The same pictures.

I am nothing if not efficient.

Pint Sized Mechanic was heading into a stretch of nights and days at work, so there wasn’t much conversation.

Before work Saturday, he gave me exactly what I needed.

I enjoyed myself beautiful.

He’d let me know about the week.

Ok papi.

Done.

Easy.

He didn’t resurface until this afternoon.

Wounded Boy, however, got extras.

A few more pictures.

Then, strangely early for me, a goodnight from bed.

Apparently it offended him.

He would later call my goodnight dry.

I thought I was going to sleep.

He apparently thought he was coming over.

His intention, he told me later, was to let himself in and wake me with a considerably less respectable good morning.

Except my body noticed him before my brain did.

Something in me roused.

I sat up.

And there he was.

Naked.

Getting into my bed before sunrise like this was an entirely normal thing for a man to be doing.

Maybe for us it is.

We kissed.

Hugged.

Talked.

Laughed.

There is no ceremony with Wounded Boy anymore.

There is history.

Familiarity.

A key.

That fucking key.

Because Wounded Boy has a key to my house.

I told him he could come whenever he wants.

What I did not promise was that whenever he came, the bed would be empty.

There is something scandalously delicious about that possibility.

One morning he could turn that key expecting me and discover that somebody got there first.

Not because I arranged it.

Not because I summoned him there to witness anything.

Simply because he has a key to the home of a single woman who never agreed to belong to him.

He knows I date.

I’ve told him I date.

He has repeatedly told me what he intends to do when I start dating, as though I haven’t already.

And yet the key remains on his ring.

Meanwhile, somewhere else in Jacksonville, there is a wife and a month old baby.

That key is carrying an astonishing amount of audacity for such a small piece of metal.

And apparently the weekend still isn’t finished with me.

Tonight, Wounded Boy and I both start classes.

We talked before work this morning.

He sat at his job with people talking around him while I gave him something considerably more interesting to listen to.

Twice.

Afterward, he informed me that getting up from his desk had become temporarily inadvisable.

Poor thing.

He’ll recover.

He said he’d wait until after class to come home and take me.

Home.

I laughed.

The fucking audacity of this man.

There is a wife.

There is a month old baby.

There is another house.

There is a key to mine.

There is a Pint Sized Mechanic who had me fighting for my life on a tiny mattress Saturday.

There are photographs being distributed with remarkable efficiency.

There is a Navy veteran with a last name for a first name already talking about my thighs.

There are apparently stags multiplying in Jacksonville.

And Wounded Boy has decided that after class tonight, he’s coming home.

Sir.

You don’t live here.

You don’t own the woman who does.

You just have a key.

Perhaps that distinction has escaped him.

Perhaps one day he’ll turn it at precisely the wrong moment and receive a practical demonstration.

Until then, I have class.

So does he.

Education is important.