The Receptionist

The Receptionist

He was a lot less attractive than his profile picture suggested: younger, shorter, uglier—he looked like an oompa-loompa. In real life he also had braces, acne and was quite chubby. I guess I just assumed he was staying at this hotel, but based on how he was dressed—I asked if he was the receptionist.


I am no longer nervous when entering the hotel room of a stranger.

He was very shy, yet pliant. I asked him if he was a virgin—as I immediately started to undress him—he just smiled. He smelled ripe, like someone who had been sitting in the same clothes for far too long. His underwear especially so: rancid. The thought of stuffing them into his mouth momentarily passed through my mind, and I held it there for a moment as I smiled down at him; then dramatically spun it around, over and above my head, and threw it across the room. He giggled. I asked him if he was gonna be a good boy, as I wiped off some old, crusted-up toilet paper from around his anus.

A few days later while watching a video of myself and Jay having sex. He had asked if he could take a photo of my dick inside of him; to which I replied: “Why not just make a video instead—it’ll last longer.” I looked at myself and thought, that thing fucking Jay, it is not wholly me. Its eyes are blacken and its gaze: demonic. The way it breathes, and how it grunts—it is wild! It seems so much older than me, and what it wants… is so utterly irreconcilable with who I am.

I could tell I was hurting him, but I also knew he wouldn’t ask me to stop. He was too young to do that, and I too beautiful. I kissed him a few times, not because I particularly wanted to—mostly out of guilt. Because every one of his muffled grimaces and twitches of pain, just made me harder. I thought, perhaps if I used more lube I would hurt him less; but I didn’t want to stop and also, I didn’t want to hurt him less. I wanted to tame him, as if he was a wild, spooked horse. And to take as much from him as I could, without going too far; straddling just on the periphery of his trust.

I remember in primary school, I was walking with three of my friends. I don’t remember what we talked about, but I do remember my actions were completely unprovoked. I picked up a wooden stick, and hit O’Brian, the one I had liked the least, as hard as I could. Startled and furious he charged at me, but the others intervened. I guess, I always felt very powerless as a child: bullied and scared most of the time, often having to buy my friendships. And with my fledgling confidence and in my twisted mind, I thought hitting him that day would serve as a test of my power over them. Would the others simply defend me without question—and they did. Would O’Brian forgive me, despite my cruelty—and he did.

He came while I was fucking him, and some of his cum hit him in the face—and I laughed. You can tell when someone is about to come while you are inside of them. The landscape of their insides changes, a slow pulsation starts to occur: like water perturbed in a vase. A rolling wave of internal mechanisms, consequent of a myriad of choices all so irrevocably made. Shifting between more space, and less space; peaking at climax for but a fraction of a second, when everything clenches really tight. A great grasping, and surrender.

I paused for a moment, and he tried to wiggle out from underneath me. “Heeyah, heeyah!”: I lassoed him by the shoulders. “Woaw…woaw boy, woow!”: I wooed him back down, and his languid struggle relented. “Not so fast”: I sneered into his ear as I steadily started fucking him again.

The Receptionist was the 44th person I had had sex with, in my 30th year, but never before had I orgasmed with another person. I couldn’t tell him that, of course, as he was the virgin after all. I always thought the day I come, light would be restored back to the world: like to Moses atop Sinai or upon the realisation of a great truth in one’s youth.

I had driven him to the very edge of the bed and I was fucking him again at full speed. Moments later, to my amazement, I realised that I too was about to come. A vase had been tipped over ever so slightly, and its contents began to swirl. And what followed, were three thoughts, and the three thoughts I thought were:

I said: “I am close!” I always knew there was a key missing—all those times I desperately tried to come in the past. Like a switch I couldn’t flick, a link missing in a chain. And I always knew this link was an allowance withheld only by myself, it only required my own permission. And therein the most frustrating part.

My first thought was: there is an eerie duality to these words: ‘I am close!’. One half feels like I am falling—completely beyond my control—and in the other I am climbing, and I have almost reached my goal. A long lost, rusted-up key had been inserted into an old lock; it clunked, and creaked and…

My second thought—occurred somewhere in another world—in the twilight of my consciousness: I suddenly realised that I loved him! As I swam like a foetus in the womb. Drowned and drunken in love, reaching out towards the radiant—grasping—centre of his warmth. I wanted to be closer to him than what my body allowed—so I left it behind. Melting further into his warm glow. The growing intoxication made me frantic; I wanted to be completely enveloped by it, to be annihilated by it! For the tiniest fraction of an instant, my consciousness momentarily blinked back to life—I find myself cradled in his chest like a babe. And I am gone again! I am violently being flung back up, now arched backwards, with my head tilted towards the sky, my throat opens wide as my last breath howls through […]

My third thought was not my own.

“As Estha stirred the thick jam he thought Two Thoughts, and the Two Thoughts he thought were these:
       (a) Anything can happen to anyone.
       and
       (b) It’s best to be prepared.
Having thought these thoughts, Estha alone was happy with his bit of wisdom.”
God of Small Things, Arundhati Roy

The final click and the last mechanism falls into place, the door is flung open with a violent roar. He tried to silence me, but I was no longer there. Three bellowing roars echoed through the room, ending with hissing and the flaring of fangs. To the other people on the floor, it must have sounded like the rapture of an exorcism. The end of a gruelling battle over the soul of a child, who long possessed was now set free. I felt an expansive relief: like literally everything was going to be okay… I got dressed, embraced him, thanked him and said something like: “you know, your first time should be with someone you love.” He smiled. And I left.

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