It’s cold in my living room. The dog is passed out on his end of the couch. The rain is tapping and steady. Two mugs of cold coffee sit near my slippered feet. Bones left about 30 minutes ago, his gym bag over his shoulder, a little smirk under his beard.
We kissed chastely (morning breath avoidance) and I smacked his ass as he walked out the door. “Have a good day,” I said.
I shut the door and smiled, felt normal for a change. This is so fucking easy I feel like it’s a trick.
Men don’t languish on my couch and tell me hilarious stories on cool, grey mornings. I don’t sit with my legs on their laps or tell them childhood stories of triumph and trauma. What I do is fuck then leave — run, really – as far away as I can get. But I feel rooted to the spot with this man, like I’m watching a trail of ants traverse an obstacle in slow, but steady motion.
A week and a half ago he fucked the ever loving shit out of me and tore me apart. I knew it was happening, grit my teeth against the pain, and let him fuck me to completion not caring at all at what was happening to me. And I regret the decision with all my being since.
I’ve winced as I walked and sat down, have basically lived in hot baths with Epsom salts and yesterday I spent the afternoon sitting on ice packs. I’m getting better, but all that to say: I haven’t been able to fuck since.
The first day he came over after my injury I warned him of my situation. He didn’t care. We watched Netflix, our thighs touched, and I swat his straying hand away from my nipples from time to time.
“Do you need some attention?” I asked.
“Yes,” he answered.
In my bed, in the candlelight, I gave him some. I sucked and tugged on him until the back of my throat filled with his cum. I lamented the fact that I couldn’t ride his pretty cock and he chuckled and stroked my temple. I plugged in the Hitachi and draped the cold cord across his thighs and came when his mouth latched onto my nipple.
Friday night, we played Uno with his friends and he drove us home in my car. In the soft morning light, I sucked and tugged on him again until he cried out and I guzzled him down. I came with the Hitachi, his meaty hands pinched my nipples in rhythm to my cries.
Last night he came for dinner and I learned I’m not the only one for whom this is all new. He sat on the couch as I worked in the kitchen and I saw a small paperback clutched in his hand.
“No way!” I said incredulously. “You are not going to read while I cook! Get in here and talk to me!”
Sheepishly he put the book down. “But you said you didn’t need any help!”
“I don’t, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want you to sit here and talk to me!” I laughed at the ridiculousness of it. “I have never in my life invited someone over for dinner and they not talk to me while I cook us dinner.”
Apparently, the womenfolk in his world — such as his mother — kick all the men out of the kitchen.
Conversation with him doesn’t flow, except when it does. He’s guarded, yet open, funny, but quietly so. We talked about our days and I avoided grilling him with all the questions I have and instead choose the comfortable, yet long pauses that tend to fill the gaps between topics.
When dinner was ready he sat down and I gathered up bowls of shiny steamed mussels and scallops in white wine and butter broth. I set them down in front of him and grabbed the baguette from the oven.
“I’m sorry if I offended you earlier,” he said. “I don’t know how to be sometimes. First dates, fine, second dates, ok, but third and more? I don’t remember what to do.”
I sat down and wrestled with the piping hot bread, handed him some and laughed. “So you’re saying you don’t remember your indoor manners?”
“Yeah, pretty much.”
That admission seemed to unlock something and we giggled and joked and shared terrible stories about the terrible things we’d done in our past. It seems I was not the most dissolute one at our table.
After dinner I quickly cleaned up and we sat touching on the couch. I learned that he rarely, if ever, has interest in anyone after the second date. I thought, I feel ya, dude, but said nothing. I think last night was the dozenth time we’ve spent together.
Back in my room he stripped and lay looking at me, his head propped in his hand. It reminded me of that Burt Reynolds nude and I laughed as I peeled of my clothes, all save for my panties. I was still out of commission. He said he figured as much.
I climbed up on his warm torso and dipped my mouth to his. His lips nibbled and slid across mine, our tongues touched and flicked and his hands kneaded my breasts. I raised up and filled his mouth with one and cupped his face to hold him there.
“Bite me,” I said.
I moaned as the pain hit me, offered him the other breast. Rinse, repeat.
I slid down him, his cock hard and bobbing, and sucked and tugged again. My finger pressed against the starfish of his ass, just a little pressure and he tensed and moaned. I sucked and stroked and intermittently pressed his button until he shot his load down my throat. I flopped down beside him and opened my eyes. His outstretched hand held my Hitachi.
I came and fell asleep spooning his back upon his request.
A crack of thunder woke us both a short while later, I shook a little from fright. The heavens opened up and the gods fought with mightly clashes. I wished more than anything our bodies could be doing the same.
Instead we cuddled and moved about, the dog pinned me against Bones’ warm, furry legs. We took turns draping an arm on each other until the storm stopped roaring in the sky and turned to a distant purr.
My eyes closed and I dreamed about The Neighbor. He told me he loved me and regretted everything he’d done to hurt me. I was ambivalent, yet pleased about the revelation. When I awoke, it wasn’t TN quietly sleeping next to me and I felt relief. I knew he wasn’t going to get up and run out at first light.
Dawn rose grey and dreary and my room was still when he rolled onto his side and I felt his hardon on my hip. We laughed that it had somehow magically found its way out of this boxers. He moved to his back and began to stroke it, its thick crookedness silhouetted by the grey square of my window. I watched, mesmerized.
“You can cum on my tits,” I said and smiled.
He straddled my chest and slid between my breasts as I pushed them together. I opened my mouth and hit the head of his cock as he thrust. He rose up and rubbed my nipple with his shaft and it spurted on my jaw and neck.
“You came?” I asked looking up at him.
“No! I think that was precum!” Neither of us had ever experienced that before.
My breasts glistened and jiggled and I pushed him off of me and climbed between his thighs. I sucked and tugged and pressed again until he came. He handed me my wand as I flopped beside him and helped me cum, too. A familiar routine.
I lay on my back in my black panties and watched the ceiling fan in its circular blur. He went to the bathroom to clean up and laid back beside me. Our legs touched from ankle to hip, my hand rested on his muscular thigh, his on my temple.
“Want some coffee?” I got up and wrapped myself in my short white robe.
“Sure,” he replied.
I measured the coffee, threw in a cinnamon stick, and thought how strange this felt while simultaneously very normal. He’d mentioned last night that sleeping over and hanging out was what you did when you slept with a girl if you liked her. I’m only just now remembering he said that. I guess he likes me??
We drank 2 and a half cups of coffee and I didn’t really want him to go, but, you know: jobs and such. We made plans to see each other Saturday night. Hopefully by then a blowjob will only be a side dish and not the main event.
Here’s to being normal again.