Submission

He takes her by the hand as they walk down the two flights of stairs. "I want to hold your hand," he says, lacing his fingers with hers, and she is oddly touched. His hands are strong, but he told her this already. They reach the bottom of the stairs and step out into the night. It is unclear who is leading.

She had come to this town running, both from something and to something. Her life had felt impossibly small, but on this night with him, walking hand in hand down a dark side street, she feels as if she is growing out of her old self and into a new, true self. She needs an act of defiance, and though they ostensibly came outside for air, she is not that na�ve. When he takes her hand -- the hand he is holding in his own -- and slides the back of it against him to make her feel his erection, she is not surprised. "What are we doing out here?" he asks her. "Just getting air," she reminds him, swinging her arm slightly, still holding his hand. "But let�s get it in that alley over there."

Earlier that night, she sat in a semi-circular booth on the top floor of a fire station that had been converted into a bar. There was still a pole, though no one was allowed to use it. She sat facing the door, the way she always sat, so she could watch who came and went. Each man that walked by the table was assessed by each of her friends, who were more generous than she was. She found fault in each of them. Too short. Too greasy. Too athletic. Too clean. "What is it you�re looking for?" her friends asked. A miracle, she wanted to tell them. A wake-up call. "I�ll know him when I see him," she told them. And she had.

The two of them step into the alley, illuminated only by a one-bulb light mounted to the side of a building. He walks behind her, running his hands up her hips, her sides, her shoulders. He steps closer, still walking, and hugs her from behind, breathing her in. "Now," he whispers. She winces. It is the moment in a dressing room when you've removed your own clothes and stand naked in the lights, stepping into the new ones.

"That�s the one," she announced when he walked into the bar, trailing behind his friend. He was a composite of all the men she had ever looked at twice. Brown leather Airwalks, khaki cargo pants, white t-shirt, strong face, four-inch mohawk. "The one with the mohawk?" one of her friends squealed. She nodded. He walked by, and her friend stopped him, tugging gently on his arm. "I�m Holly," she said. "My friend here wants to touch your hair." He smiled shyly. Maybe even blushed. She leaned over with her fingers outstretched, and he leaned into her, tilting his head down. His hair was surprisingly soft. "Thank you," she whispered, sitting back. He smiled and walked on, catching up with his friend.

He turns her around so they are face to face and steps forward, backing her against a brick wall. He cups her right breast with his left hand, begins rubbing her through her pants with his left. She turns her head down and to the side, kissing his neck. His skin tastes exactly as she expected it would. His mouth is on her bare shoulder. "I�m a good girl," she whispers, letting go of that old girl and submitting to the new one. "Not anymore," he says. His voice is muffled; it almost sounds like Now you�re my whore.

"I want him to come back," she told her friends when he was gone. "I just want to pet him again." They laughed at her for the next hour, listening as she occasionally commented, apropos of nothing, on her interest in him. They encouraged her to talk to him, not understanding that it wasn't her style. Looking at him across the room, she saw a tattoo on the inside of his right forearm. She wondered aloud if he had a tongue ring as well. Tired of hearing her talk about him, her friends decided to take action on their behalf. He walked by their table to go to the bathroom. "I�m stopping him on his way back," Holly told her. "So be ready."

"There are so many things I want to do to you," he tells her, looking around briefly to assess the alley, which is still too public. He takes her hand again, tugging her along behind him. They duck between two buildings. It is as black as death. Fumbling, they unzip each other�s pants.

He sat down in their booth, separated from her by one of her friends. She was annoyed that the friend did not find an excuse to move, but she used the separation to her advantage. She watched where his eyes went each time they leaned toward each other to talk, which was often. He accused her of being coy; she grew more brazen with each drink.

His fingers are inside her and his breath is hard and ragged against her neck as she slides her hand up and down him. Violent delights. "Oh God," he growls into her ear before dropping down to his knees in front of her, pulling her pants down. His face is pressed firmly against her; she wonders how he can breathe. His fingers are everywhere, pushing into every part of her. She comes quickly, digging her fingers into his shoulder with a final whimper.

Rising to go to the bathroom, she paused briefly in front of him. He was leaning back in his seat, looking her up and down. She raised an eyebrow and he smiled in reply. When she returned, he had slid down, leaving a spot for her next to him at the end of the seat. They continued to lean in to talk. Getting her attention, he placed his hand briefly on her thigh. "Put it back," she demanded when he moved it away. He did. Higher.

He pulls one pant leg off of her, standing and wrapping her bare leg around his waist. She is against the wall of a building, still catching her breath, with a stranger pushing his way inside of her. She has never been so excited. He pauses, turning her around so she faces the wall. His fingers move in rhythmic circles on her, pressing hardest when he is deepest inside her. He is so close she can feel his breath on the back of her neck. "You�re beautiful," he says, then bites her as he comes.

He was a strange mix of people. He had enough things that she wanted to make him perfect, but not so many that she lost her focus. He let her touch him, closing his eyes as she rubbed his stomach, his back, his hair. "Would you like me even if I didn�t have the mohawk?" he asked her. "Yes," she answered, half in love. He nodded, reassured.

Afterwards, he slumps against her, his forehead resting between her shoulder blades. He pulls away as she reaches to put her pants back on, squinting at her in the darkness. She realizes she does not know his last name. He takes her hand again as they walk back to the bar. He is laughing at something. When they reach the top floor, she drops his hand and they walk back to the table. The others smirk at them, asking if they got lost. "Something like that," he answers, sliding in next to her. She leaves only minutes later, when her friend demands to be taken home. Driving, she is lost somewhere in her own bubble.

"It�s hot in here," she said, looking him straight in the eye. "I think we need air," he agreed. They stood to go outside, telling their friends they were going to use the bathroom. At the top of the stairs, he took her hand.

She sleeps fitfully that night, or maybe not at all. In the morning, she wonders if she dreamt him, but has a bruise on the back of her neck as proof. She reaches between her legs in the shower; she is still sticky. Everything is exactly as she wanted it to be. She reviews the details in her head, thinking of what she will say about them. They will need no revisions.