|
My own secret life 
|
|||||
|
Problems with intimacy
There's a tall white refrigerator against the back wall of the cube where Angel's left me after taking the house money off to her new brothel's mama-san. I open the freezer door, slam it: the stale sting of defrost knocked my head back, but the cube is ventilated enough for the smell not to linger; the walls don't go all the way to the ceiling. Sometimes the light from the shower room next door will fan out yellow on our ceiling, seeming to carry sound: splashing, laughing, talking; groaning. The nightstand has lube, baby oil, kleenex: None of the things that would make the cube hers: No CD player, no flowers, no little notebook, no business cards; the drawer slides quietly shut on its runners, still empty. Even with two pillows under her, Angel's masturbation technique leaves no room for my tongue—she closes her legs, covers her lips with her fingertips, then rubs in a circular motion— So I let her keep working herself, get on all fours over her, wrap an arm through her loosened hair, under her shoulders tight round her ribcage: She loves to be bear-hugged. Pressing up with the strength of my arm, lifting her, I lower my mouth to her tit, but pause short of suction: her brown nipples are already heavy and swollen. I select the nearest, twirl with my tongue: brush with parted lips slippery: blow coolth: flutter: pause: incise: then move to the other. Just as I would, she pushes down with a shoulder blade, up with her breast: toward me, toward my mouth as, down there, her flurry peaks: "John!" She stiffens, her hands at her side now, still. I pull my arm out from under her and rock back on my heels. Putting my palms under her thighs, I urge her upwards and back: With what ease she rotates her hips to raise her legs, spread them wide in the air. It's as if they counterweighted, swinging smoothly on oiled gimbals. Now she stabilizes herself by pulling her thighs back with her hands, pulling herself still more open, rocking her center of gravity up, just as I would for her when she'd rim me and baby my balls. Her lips are exposed: swollen, plumcolored, gleety. They shine. I lay my wet tongue against her engorged floret, not licking her, simply resting my tongue there, not a slurp nor a suck nor a flicker: "I'm juicy." Sliding down her bristle, I flatten her clit with my upper lip's membrane, chin to the mattress, mouth wide to her fluids, slithering into her hole: probing her pulp. Pinnned and spread, Angel would show her round heels to someone behind us, anyone who might to watch or join in the action; I, my head down, sucking and slurping, my ass in the air, my balls dangling low. Again I lower my head, lave her, put my lis to hers, and s-u-u-u-u-c-k-k-k-k up a freshet of salt. "Your hair is too long." "I know." "I will cut it for you." "Have you ever cut a man's hair before?" "No..." "I think I will stick with my barber." "Here is a man! I will practice with his hair, and if you like it, I will cut yours." Does she come? Who'd be so crass as to ask? Does she not come? Actresses shed real tears, why not whores fluids? Could it be that she comes and hates me for coming? "I love Victoriaville, but it's so dirty. It smells." "When I talk to the Mayor, I will tell him two things: Clean the streets. And legalize the massage parlors!" "There was a girl going home in a taxi. But the taxi driver stopped half way. He didn't take her all the way home. If massage parlors were legal, that would not happen." "Because he would not have to." "Yes." "The word is rape." All the while we talked, she was stroking me, making me ready for the second service: Fingertipfeathering my breasts, my belly, my thighs: tweaking my nipples, lightly scratching my balls: plucking the loose skin of my shaft: 'til I tightened, and she tentered the ridge of my taut skin between thumb and fingers. I turn to her, bobbing and rigid; she makes to lie down on her back but I stay her and say, by putting my hand on her haunch: Doggy: Behind her, kneeling between her legs, I brace myself with my hands on her cheeks, mount her, and start building the heavy beat I love best: the whumpf whumpf whumpf of my belly and thighs against not-too-plump cheeks; but before I can steady into the rhythm, Angel squirms, still on all fours, out from under me— "Wait!"— puts her knees together, then backs again toward me, her legs now between my knees: I reach down to clasp her cheeks again, she twists a hand up from between her clasped thighs, grips me, and we ease me back in her. And I build to a tubular come that misfires Awwww when I stop pumping just barely too soon. I imagine she clasps her legs—when she masturbates, when being taken doggy style—to tighten herself. Like Annie, she's loose from the mileage. I'm touched that she might want to come, touched that she might want to feel me inside her; gratified for the new feeling: My own come thickening, slowly climbing, squeezing itself up my shaft; because she tightened herself around me, I tightened myself round my own fluids. Angel gives me a round-bellied plastic jar splashed with red Chinese ideographs. "Dried mango. I will have some so you know I do not poison you." She eats. The twisted brown peels are dusted with a sharpsour powder: At first tasteless and dry, they bloom sweet on the tongue. "Not too much. They will give you—poop poop poop poop— "Diarrhea." "Yes." I give Angel a single stalk of green lucky bamboo in a white China pot with indigo characters. "You always give me something that grows. I think you had a garden once." "No... Yes. Once, long ago." How did she know? {400} See also The letter R. 4 Comments:
This is very nice, John. Tagged "intimacy" indeed. By Thanks freya. I wish it was as flowing to write as it is to read. "One must labor to be beautiful." By
John, I like "hard writing, easy reading"----even though this is not always literally true when writing sex. By Hard writing is not writing hard. Or not, not. All characters and situations fictional. Copyright (c) 2003-2007 by "John Psmyth."
|
