I sat on the edge of a steel and leather chair that was definitely not designed for comfort. My phone buzzed—a text from Amelia.
Hope your dinner went well. I’m heading to bed. Love you.
Guilt twisted in my stomach, but I pushed it away. This was the arrangement. This was what we’d agreed to. Amelia had said yes.
Simone emerged wearing a black silk robe that left very little to the imagination. As she crossed to the window, I realized that the robe was made of a silky, almost transparent fabric through which the soft peaks of her breasts were clearly visible against the light. She pulled out a cigarette from a gold case, and played with it between her fingers with a playful smile on her face.
“Do you mind?” she asked, not waiting for an answer before lighting it.
The smoke hit me immediately. My throat constricted, my eyes started watering.
“Actually,—” I started coughing, harsh and uncontrollable.
Simone turned, looking at me with confusion. “You are allergic to smoke?”
“I’m not allergic, just uncomfortable. ,” I said between coughs. “Could you—”
She took another long drag before stubbing it out on the ashtray on the table, half filled with cigarette stubs. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know. It’s just that I need my cigarette before we begin. And after. Without this,” she looked longingly at the ashtray. “I don’t enjoy it.”
She crossed over to me and leaned down to kiss me. I could taste the acrid bitterness on her lips, and my coughing intensified.
“Your coughs are so cute,” she smiled, as she sat down beside me. “And sexy. I’ve never slept with someone who doesn’t like to smoke. This is going to be interesting.”
She took my hand and led me to the bedroom. The space was as austere as the rest of the apartment—a low platform bed with stark white sheets, more glass and metal surfaces.
Simone let her robe drop.
I should have been aroused. She was objectively beautiful—tall, slender, with the kind of body that graced magazine covers. But as she lay back on the bed, all I could think was how angular she looked. All sharp edges and protruding bones.
Am I getting old?I wondered as I fumbled with my shirt buttons.Why isn’t this working?
I missed Amelia’s soft curves. The way her body yielded when I touched her, the way she fit perfectly against me.
No. Stop thinking about Amelia.
I joined Simone on the bed, and immediately the smell of smoke overwhelmed me again. It was in her hair, on her skin, everywhere.
I kissed her neck, trying to find enthusiasm, and started coughing again.
“Mon Dieu,” she muttered.
I tried to focus, tried to get into it. But everything felt wrong. Our bodies didn’t fit together the way I’d expected. Where Amelia was soft and warm, Simone was all hard planes and sharp hipbones that dug into me uncomfortably.
Finally, I managed to get aroused enough to begin. But as soon as I started, Simone made a high-pitched squeaking sound that made me freeze.
“Are you okay?” I asked, pulling back.
“Oui, oui, continue.”
I moved again. She squeaked louder, a sound somewhere between a groan and a whimper that sounded painful.
I stopped. “Am I hurting you?”
“Non! This is normal for me. Keep going!”
But every thrust was accompanied by that squeaky, groaning sound that made me think I was causing her pain. I kept stopping, kept asking if she was alright, kept losing whatever momentum I’d managed to build.
In desperation, I closed my eyes and thought about Amelia.
