She knows just how it will go.
She has researched this, as well as anyone can research such a thing. She should feel ill that there are websites for such things, but she has always said that you can learn anything on the internet.
She is not his chosen type of woman. She has no piercings, no tattoos, no hair in places that society says that it shouldn't be. She bought a shirt celebrating an obscure comic just for this purpose, but at the last moment she decides against wearing it. It feels too much like false advertising.
Jeans then. Clingy blue shirt. She inspects a mirror and smiles wryly. Absolutely average in every way. It will be astonishing if anyone singles her out, much less him.
Despite that fact, she goes to the bar after the show. Part of her, a large part, wants simply to watch. She wants to see the culture of rats and wrestlers, see how it operates. That part of her does not want to participate.
A drunken southern boy, so much prettier without the mask, attaches himself to the redhead at a table near the bar. The Legend seeks out a taller woman, her blond hair nearly as fair as his is.
He circles the room, looking at everything in much the same way that she does. She's considering writing a book- Groupie Subculture. Perhaps it will be easier to write than the mystery novel she seems incapable of finishing. Her eyes keep finding him, and she does not allow herself to feel embarrassed. After all, he is why she is here.
He catches her eye and smiles faintly. She does not look away, even when he begins walking in her direction. He has noticed her after all.
He joins her at her table in the shadows, sitting opposite her. They do not speak for long minutes. She knows his real name but does not use it. She has heard that he considers it disrespectful. He does not ask hers.
She wants to tell him, "I'm not a ring rat." She has told herself that often enough. If she does this thing tonight, those words will no longer be true. He would probably not believe them anyway.
She smiles at the sound of his voice when he begins speaking. She'd wondered if it would be as lovely in close quarters. In truth, it is even more so.
She imagines him whispering and shivers.
His room is neat, just as she expected. She doubts that they are ever in one place long enough to create a mess.
His touch is firm, decisive. He knows what he wants from her and how best to get it. She does not play coy. She does not see the point. They both know why they are there.
The rumors were true, she learns as her jaw begins to get tired. His size is impressive, making her wince a little when he later slides into her. All very safe. A condom and her pills protect her body. She looks up into his curiously blank eyes as he moves inside her and wonders what kind of protection her heart has.
He makes certain that she finishes first, a chivalrous gesture that she appreciates. His own climax is almost exactly as she has imagined it, a shudder and a deep groan.
He works his way down her body, returning the favor she granted him earlier. He tastes her and latex. Perhaps a faint trace of himself. His mouth is talented, practiced, and she easily climaxes again.
He does not tell her to leave after that, nor does he ask her to stay. They lie in silence for long minutes before he begins to talk again, spinning philosophy and bastardized movie quotations into a rhapsody of tortured theory.
She imagined it just so.
She speaks when he pauses for breath, answering him back in kind. What God held back in beauty, He blessed her with in intellect. She is grateful for it in this moment when she can at least be his match in conversation.
She had not anticipated another round, and so she jumps when his mouth comes down on her breast, cutting off her latest sentence. She wonders if she has offended him by speaking, but his eyes seem warmer this time.
"Join me for breakfast," he'd offered, and she hadn't had a reason to refuse. They had been together for nearly eight hours at this point, four times longer than she had expected.
The Waffle House is deserted, but she smiles broadly when they walk in. Once again, the rumors were true. The food is as bad as she was warned, but he delights in it. Perhaps he is a masochist. Or perhaps she is simply too fond of home-cooked food.
Her business card is lying at a carefully casual angle on the floor of his hotel room. Positioned while he was in the shower to look as though it simply fell out of her purse.
He will not call. Even if he sees the card, he will not call. She knows this.
He has still not asked her name, but she has to choke herself on her overcooked hash browns to prevent herself from calling him Scott.
He drops her off next to her car, still parked in the arena lot. Thankfully she has not been towed or ticketed. She couldn't face that this morning.
She smiles as he kisses her forehead and waits until her car starts to pull away. He was a gentleman about it, just as she'd hoped.
She half-wishes that she had not showered that morning. As she drives home, she longs for the company of his scent- a natural musk, no colognes for him. She has made a hobby of studying him, but no amount of words could ever describe that scent. She misses it already.
She expected watching Heat to be painful, a reminder of what was and would never be again. Instead it makes her smile. She'd gotten what she went looking for. Even one night was better than none at all. However, she is glad that she knew what to expect. The inevitable parting was made easier by constant awareness of its coming.
As she switches off the television, the phone begins to ring.