The Missing Sex Scene: The Invisible Man-Part Two

Damen was no stranger to women, and yet he couldn't be anything but. He could know each of them at any moment, be with them wherever they were and watch, cowardly, from a few feet away. He'd followed them home with their boyfriends, watched them fuck or fight, made rules and found exceptions, and for years, found his soul engorged with their bodies. He'd had every fetish in the world, could indulge each in turn, and did, from the dungeons to the high class whore who sucked toes like nipples, seen them in action and melted along with their suitors, before passing onto the next. There was, of course, just the small matter of never having touched a woman himself, and this became his last, deepest need, the one so impossible, the unachievable that everyone else seemed to have.

And Elise, naked, her skin pink from the hot water, breasts floating, put her arms out on the side of the tub and closed her eyes. Damen's hand hovered over the water and he mimed dipping in, pushing through the liquid and finding her firm flesh beyond. He held, and held, and, disgusted with himself, pulled away, walked out of Elise's bathroom, tiptoed down the stairs and slowly, quietly, opened and closed a door to the outside.

He hitched a ride to the city, in the back seat of a cheaper car with soft, quiet seats (nylon and fire-resistant cotton), driven by a twenty-two-year-old college student on spring break. She talked on her phone the whole way down and Damen cringed, finally blotted her out with a song he'd made up years before, hummed it in his head until the car stopped at a light in a promising neighborhood and he scampered out. He waited a few moments outside of an expensive club and saw a woman exit. Her pupils were wide and a little bewildered. Heat pounded over him and he followed her, right behind her, smelled her and tasted her when he opened his mouth. Up her back stairs, she climbed slowly and very deliberately, Damen following, then into her apartment, the smell of old, dirty dishes and an ill-tended cat. In her kitchen, he reached under her arm and cupped her breast. She started a little, asked who he was in a slurred and accented English, clutched at his arm, but couldn't see it.

"Relax," Damen said. "You're dreaming."

She swung around violently and looked for him. He ran his hands over her skin and she watched it bend for him.

"What the?" she said. "What's going on?"

"You're dreaming," he said again.

Her stoned eyes, crushed with the pressure of whatever it was she'd taken, ran as fast as they could around the room, and she gave up. He didn't think he would stop anyway. He reached between a woman's thighs for the first time and found heat and softness. She took her pants off, now taking in longer, shallower breaths and he fell to his knees in front of her, reached out and touched, dove into folds only to find more, slid around her wet flesh with his fingers, fascinated, impatient, then fascinated again. He leaned forward and pushed his face in close, his nose slipping into the wet and smelled her, a woman, up close for the first time. He was overpowered then, and helpless, his entire body drugged like hers. He took her arms and bent her, pressed her palms into the floor, kicked her knees down to the tiles (treated vinyl), lay across her back and pressed his cock deep, pulsing, tight in its skin within her.

"Who are you?" the woman said.

He didn't answer. He was thrusting deep, grunting, worried, peaked and then, before he could help it, he came, burst, wailing on her floor. He waited, his eyes boggled in his head, and stood up, walked out of the woman's door and watched, half expecting his hand to show on the doorknob (brass), as it was twisted in his palm. It didn't. He walked back to the main road and listened to people talking, trying to decide whose car would take him back to Elise, to his quiet corner, satelliting her alone.