Poor Beast

Lily Holloway

Most of the sex I have I am not particularly enthusiastic about. Not a big deal or anything, but it’s like I have been cursed to never say no; I can feel the words sitting at the bottom of my esophagus, for days sometimes, but they never make it past my lips. By then, the men have committed all sorts of kindnesses and it’s too late. I think the curse started when I was sixteen, when my guy mates locked me in the party garage for three hours until I blew their friend Fat Henry. They didn’t say that was what they were waiting for, but I read the subtext. He was in love with me and everyone knew it. “Ugh, man,” he had said on one of our walks home, shoving his sweaty hands into his hoodie pocket, “I fucking hate being ugly.” When they unlocked the garage and Henry reentered the party, flushed and beaming, his friends grabbed his shoulders and shook him like he’d just scored the winning goal, “Fuck man, you’re a beast!” And I was glad that I’d given him a win. It was the first blowjob I ever gave.
          I guess I have to fuck the poor sap sitting beside me at the bar, too. At least one of us is keen; he thinks he’s being slick when he says, “It’s so liberating to live alone, you can make as much noise as you want.” I made the mistake of bored flirting: touched his shoulder and made direct eye contact. Now I might hate him, I might even be imagining what it would feel like to press my thumbs through his eyes, but what will be, will be; I don’t have the capacity to let someone down without bruising them. I am too tired. Sometimes the path of least resistance is to put up the least resistance. He keeps placing his hand on my knee and gently rubbing it like you would the head of an upset child, even after I lie and tell him that I collect Funko Pops, even after I lie and say, “My true passion is Disneybounding.” I think I could sneeze into his Smirnoff Ice and it wouldn’t stop him asking me what I think about things and humming affirmingly.
          “I’m sorry to say this,” he says while staring intently into my eyes, “but you’re just so beautiful.” I think his name is Dale. Or maybe Gale.
          The elevator to his apartment smells weird, like wet cardboard and ass crack. When Dale goes to press the buttons, I can see his hands are shaking and that he’s bitten his nails down to the raw. It’s not like he’s gross looking, he just looks like A Guy, though the stark elevator lighting isn’t doing him any favors, makes him look anemic. He’s got all that classic man stuff going on: hair slicked back with too much product, flaking skin around his temples from lack of moisturizer, poor posture, nose covered in sebaceous filaments, the kind of stubble that gives you pash rash. He’s probably thirty-five. He probably thinks wearing a Stüssy tee to bars hides the fact that he obviously works an office job. I’m aware that I’m a wicked, nasty bitch for thinking so unkindly about a sad, sad man who just wants to be wanted, which makes the likelihood of me pulling out now much smaller. Penance. Punishment. The elevator gets closer and closer to Dale’s floor.
          His apartment is surprisingly luxurious. You don’t expect that from a man with slightly subpar grooming habits or from a building with a dodgy-smelling elevator, but even in the dark I can tell that his rent is at least five times mine; one of those thick smart fridges glows from the open-plan kitchen and a wall-embedded fireplace flickers from behind glass, its flames reflected in the shining black leather of his designer sofa. In the moment before he flips the light switch, the lights on the Auckland Harbour shine through the windows so brightly. “Alexa, play the Weeknd,” Dale enunciates into the sleek, high-ceilinged void. Jesus. I had almost forgotten he was there.
          My bare back is squeaking against the leather sofa in an uncomfortable but ultimately bearable way. He’s putting in a lot of effort; I don’t know whether someone told him the goal with sex is thrusting as fast as possible, or what his deal is. I am trying to focus on remembering other, better sex, but then Dale makes a noise like air whining out of a tiny balloon and I’m pulled right back. I try to focus on things I can see that aren’t his looming, slightly pained-looking face. All of his light bulbs are dim and warm, which is the first thing I truly appreciate about him. Non-confrontational light bulbs. I bet he had to change out the ones that came with the place. Damn, now I’ve noticed that Dale hasn’t fully pulled his trousers off. They’re sitting down by his still-on boat shoes like sad ankle-cuffs. His feet are slightly raised in the air, too, to stop his shoes touching his fancy sofa. Man, this is why it’s important to slow down in life; pull the jeans slightly down or take them off completely. Fucking embarrassing. “Here… we… go…,” grunts Dale, and the thrusting finally stops.
          He lays on top of me for a few seconds, body limp like a dead fish, dick still inside me, sweaty forehead on the couch next to my ear, panting. When Dale sits up, I can see that the panting is actually small, suppressed sobs. “It seemed like you didn’t like it.”
          “No, my face is just like that, I had a great time, I swear,” I say, sitting up and placing my hand gently on his chest. This isn’t my first crier. Tears roll down his face faster.
          “You’re not just saying that?”
          “No.”
          “If I can be radically honest with you, Belle, I’m just having a really hard time at the moment,” says Dale, kneeling on the sofa, junk cupped in his hands, feet sticking up behind him. “I’m pretty sure I’m a monster. Like, a really bad guy, Belle.”
          “Hey now,” I say, making deliberate eye contact, “Hey, I’m sure it’s not that bad.”
          “The last girl I slept with, my ex, broke up with me because I hit her,” says Dale, uncupping his junk to reach for my hands. “I’m not a bad guy, I just do bad things sometimes.” There’s a moment of silence. “I’m in therapy. I know I have to fix myself.” I feel frozen in front of him. He tries to get up off the sofa but nearly trips on the whole pants situation, catches himself on the thick glass coffee table.
          “I’m sorry, I don’t know what to say.”
          Dale finally pulls his pants up, lowers himself to sit cross-legged on the cowhide rug by my feet. “Don’t leave. Sleep in my bed tonight. Please. I’m afraid what I’ll do if I’m alone.” He speaks softly, suddenly small.
          In the early morning, as I lie there in Dale’s king bed, unable to sleep or move from under his thick arms, his large body curved around mine, he murmurs out from a dream: “Please.” His body jerks violently. “Please.” When his lips move, they graze softly against the back of my neck. All of my hair stands on end; it’s like I’m covered in a halo of thin translucent fur. Dale whimpers, nuzzling his face into my bare back. “Please can you tell me I’m beautiful?” 
          And who am I to harm when I could soothe, when I could be good. It takes so little to be kind. Dale exhales loudly and warm air travels up my neck to the base of my scalp. I imagine reading about his suicide in the news. An open balcony door. His plush white bathrobe billowing out behind him, bright against the night. One day, someone will ask me to stay forever.
          “You’re beautiful, Dale.”

Lily Holloway is a powerlifting enthusiast and third-year MFA candidate in the creative writing program at Syracuse University. They are a 2024 winner of the Griffith Review Emerging Voices competition, a hopeless romantic, and a pain in the neck. You can find their work published or forthcoming in various places including Black Warrior Review, Ōrongohau | Best New Zealand Poems, Peach Mag, and Hobart After Dark. Their chapbook was published in 2021 as a part of Auckland University Press’ AUP New Poets 8. Find them on Twitter and Instagram @milfs4minecraft.

Next Up: Lover Boy by Sara Kaplan-Cunningham