Storyglossia Issue 33, April 2009.

We Do This For A Reason

by David Frederick Thomas


When she clicks her tongue it means the sex is bad. I'm not doing anything for her and she could be spending her time better. She could be reading a book, or going to sleep, but I'm on top of her, and so she clicks her tongue.

We do this for a reason.

She says I am insecure and that she has needs.

I am like Pavlov's dog, panting and wild until I hear that sound. I stop. I change my behavior, I salivate, I rethink my approach.

At dinner last night she was much younger than me. She was smoking her cigarettes off one another like she was Charles Bukowski, and by the time we left the restaurant she was drunk.

We took the subway back to Brooklyn and made our way past the closed-up shops. She was leaning on my shoulder and kept slipping and losing her balance. The straps on her dress kept falling down. I was horny but I didn't do anything about it.

At the apartment she was naked.

Her nakedness is something different, different somehow from other women's nakedness. Hers is movie star nakedness. I see but don't touch.

She fucks me, but only when she's ready, and I have to keep my shirt on.

We do this for a reason.

She thinks my nipples look weird.

I like her nipples; they're big and firm, then puffy and soft, resting at the center of dark, pimpled areolas.

After I cum she always likes to hold my dick, not for awhile, just until it's soft again, she says she likes to feel me shrink.

When I cum she never looks me in the eyes, she turns her head to the side and exhales. I used to kiss her neck when she did this. I would swirl my tongue just as I came, but now I just get it over with. She says it's probably better for both of us that way.



Yesterday she told me she doesn't like when I write about her. We were eating breakfast down the street. I had some French toast and she was drinking orange juice. She needed the juice, she had been clicking her tongue a lot that morning; I had ended up masturbating in the doorway. She doesn't like me to do it in the bathroom because she bathes there.

I can understand that.

So she had orange juice and I had French toast. I brought up my hand to wipe some syrup from my chin. I could still smell her on my fingers. She saw me sniffing and smiled. When she smiles I usually smile. It's a pretty good time for both of us.

"You're using me as a character in one of your stories," she said, the smile quickly fading.

I didn't respond, and she pounced.

"You are."

"I didn't say I wasn't."

"But you were going to."

She upended her orange juice and drained it down to the pulp, which slid and coated the side of the glass. She set it down too hard on the table and stared at me.

I attempted a smile but she just stared.

"Am I a whore?"

"It's not just—"

"Am I a whore."

I stared through her. I kept quiet.

"Do you think I'm a whore," she said, slowly building a pyramid of creamer packets in front of her.

"It's not just you, it's an amalgamation," I stammered, looking at the table. "It's me and you and—and everyone else."

"You and everyone else? Who the fuck is everyone else? You barely leave the apartment without me there to hold your hand." I could tell she was staring at me but I didn't look up. "And you—you're too scared to put yourself into your writing. You jerk off like a caged chimp but you can't even fuck, you fuck like you think men fuck."

I glanced up. She was looking for the waiter. The pyramid was finished.

A friend of ours has a son her age, in the military. We met him once, about a year ago. He was drunk and he kept making passes at her, but she doesn't like boys. She says all they think about is sex. She says when I'm inside of her she can see my disinterest.



This morning she went to work. I don't know where she works, she doesn't tell me so I don't ask. She says she needs her privacy.

I stayed at the apartment to write. At noon, with the sun peeking through the slatted blinds and the radio from the market across the street playing big band jazz music, I sniffed her panties and masturbated in the kitchen. I came into the trash can and leaned against the wall for a little while with my pants around my ankles.

On the street I could hear a truck backing up. The beeping synced up with my heartbeat.



Sometimes she comes straight home from work and gets back around six, but sometimes she goes out with her friends.

We have friends and she has friends but I don't have friends.

It's seven-thirty and she's not back. Sometimes she calls by this point, but not tonight. I've been writing for a few hours and my fingers are tired. I mix a gin & tonic and go out on the fire escape. Sometimes the guy who lives below us is out there with his dog. I don't know the guy's name, but I know the dog's name is Bug, because he's always warning Bug not to get too close to the edge.

They're not down there today though, so I drink my drink in city silence and wait for her to come home. The sun goes down and the apartment is basically dark because I haven't gone inside yet to turn on any lights. I've still got about a half glass full when I hear the key turn in the lock.

She stumbles in without the jacket she was wearing when she left this morning and turns on the kitchen light. I wait by the window and she comes back into view. She's drinking from a plastic cup as she crosses the living room to my desk and stops, steadying herself with a hand on my chair. In near-darkness she reads what I've written, backlit from across the room. I climb back in from the fire escape and walk up behind her. She doesn't smell like herself. I know what she smells like. Tonight there's alcohol and something else.

She turns around and kisses me, just a peck on the lips, an old married couple affirmation, no lust behind it. I reach for one of her breasts but she knocks my hand away and steps past me as if we're at a bar and she's seen someone else. I follow her into the bedroom.

She's half undressed. The freckles on her back are always darker in the summertime than they are in the winter.

She kicks off her shoes and pulls down her skirt and panties all at once.

I'm horny but I don't do anything about it.

She sits down on the edge of the bed and spreads her legs like a sailor. She's already wet though I haven't done anything.

"Get the condom," she says to me.

She scratches herself and slips her pinky between her lips, just dipping, testing the water. I go into the bathroom and come back with one. I hand it to her and I pull down my pants, standing in front of her.

"How was your day?" she asks as she tears open the wrapper and harshly rolls the condom down over my dick.

"Good. How was yours?" I ask as she makes sure it's on right. She reaches around and pats my ass twice, a jockey urging her horse forward.

"Good," she says. "Hey, can you go turn off the light in the kitchen? I'm worried about the electric bill." She flutters her hand impatiently.

I step out of my pants and walk out of the bedroom. My enshrouded dick is one step ahead of me at every turn and I follow its lead.

I come back into the room and she hasn't moved. Her nipples have little beads of sweat around them. I turn on the ceiling fan. I move towards her but forget to close the door, so I turn and click it shut.

I do this for a reason.

She says I don't go deep enough when the door's open. She says I'm a timid lover.

When I cum she turns her head to the side and exhales. I kiss her on the neck. She doesn't stop me.

Copyright©2009 David Frederick Thomas

David Frederick Thomas currently lives and writes in Brisbane, QLD (Australia), where he is taking time off from undergraduate studies at Temple University in his hometown of Philadelphia. This is his first published work.