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Barely any words are exchanged when you and Simon are in the same room. At least until he's got you naked under him. There's no point in conversing when you have nothing to say. He didn't talk much before her, and since, no one has been worthy of a chat with him.
You're not here for that anyways. That you understood quickly. Some girls had to learn the hard way.
You wouldn't be surprised to learn you're part of a rotation, because a man like him can't be left alone with his thoughts for too long. He needs constant entertainment–though you are more akin to TV statics than to an actual show.
Actually, you know you're not the only one. That would be too much of a commitment.
She was his one.
He tries to lure you with praise. Calls you pet names because they're the last lovely words he knows. You're his sweetheart. Just like she was. If he calls you by her name then for sure he'll forget you're not her. There's too many of you to keep up with names anyway.
He slipped up, once. A faint whisper, escaping his lips before he could even realize what he was saying. If only he could have swallowed back that word and sawn his mouth shut. He'd make himself choke on her name just to never have to hear it again. And yet here he was, seeing her in every woman. No. Seeing anything but her in every woman. It was her absence that stood out. She was what they were lacking. Others surrounded him with deceit, pulled a blanket over his apprehensions in hopes that he'd warm up to them. A bloody itchy blanket. He wanted to throw it off as soon as one touched his skin. But a cold man wouldn't last long amidst the blizzard. So he took in what they had to offer, knowing damn well ice can't be reheated. He was putting out their fire with that same water their flames were melting away.
You were just one of many. Young, pretty, other things too probably. It didn't really matter. He'd fuck you with your head in the pillows to make it easier on himself. That way he didn't have to look at you, and you couldn't see the disgust he felt towards himself. He made it good; drowned out his thoughts with your moans and groans. You weren't the loudest but you did an okay job.
Screamers weren't his type anyways.
When he had her in his arms, he couldn't afford to be distracted. His whole was filled with her and her only. She was shy with her noises, so he'd melt into her as not to miss even the quietest one. He'd always hold her so close that their noses touched. His eyes would bore into hers because hearing it wasn't enough; the pleasure she tried to hide away also had to be his. It was selfish, but in those moments, there wasn't even a self. They'd share one breath, sticky skin feeling like one. Their hearts thumped so hard when he laid flushed atop of her that he feared the organs might tangle or switch places.
But you, you’d never feel his heartbeat because he had bled out four girls ago.
He'd tried emulating his past love one time. Down to the girl, everything was identical. She looked like his sweetheart, folded into that soft embrace he could never get enough of, but their bodies didn't fit the same, he saw a grimace of lust in place of the timid dance of features he was used to. Saw nothing but his own reflection in the glossy eyes. Even more lifeless than the stranger's pupils he was staring into.
He choked her until her eyelids fluttered, fooling her into thinking it was part of the game. He wasn't her lover. He didn't have to be nice. He could fuck her like he hated her gut and she'd beg for more. It was a one time thing; she wouldn't hold him accountable for his lack of tenderness if they never met again.
From then on, he stopped trying to learn their faces. They were better off buried in the sheets. He'd stared at so many spines that he found himself comparing the way they curve. It got his mind off of things; mindlessly thrusting into a girl whilst analyzing her anatomy. Pain had taught him to operate his mind and his body separately.
He wasn't asking you to fake it, he knew how to make you like it. You and all the others. All he had to do was follow a simple recipe, tweak it enough to make you think he paid attention. He didn't care, but it was the bare minimum. As long as you proved to be enough of a distraction, he'd keep going until you tapped out. His hands felt dirty when they replaced his disinterested cock, working overtime to keep you overwhelmed and brainless. He'd talk down to you because he couldn't phantom someone stupid enough to accept such treatment, and you would all eat it up like the finest poetry. How could he be bad when his touches were so nice on your body? If you were a slut then at least you were his slut.
You wish.
Truth is, he would never claim you. Neither you or another. As soon as he was done, the condom would go into the trash, more often than not empty. And then he'd wait for you to take yourself out. He didn't want to be there when you turned around. You all had that expecting look on your face, a delusional sense of hope that he would come back and end this on a positive note. Depending on how long you stuck around, you could hear the shower start in the other room. Those who'd stayed until then were clueless first-timers. Otherwise they'd have known to run before regret caught up to them.
Now, the click of the bathroom door was your cue to leave.
You'd walk out of the impersonal hotel room like you'd just got done with a business transaction. Your good deed of the month or something. Pity pussy against passionately hollow sex. Nothing more.