I slammed the cab door shut, its tubing sucked into our safe house of orange and dark lime. “I think you should bang him. We could have brunch together!” Blair told me as she waved goodbye to her boyfriend’s roommate.
“No. He’s not Blonde enough.” My rationale was arbitrary and trivial to casually cast her ill-justified proposal aside.
He spoke in monosyllabic utterances, eyes shifting and growing larger by the minute. He had taken the flimsy plastic cup from my hands without asking for permission. Just took it. Stole sips of my red wine like a life line resuscitating the next breath. He constantly stopped mid-sentence for lack of better words and every step we walked alongside each other betrayed his discomfort. He was a nervous wreck of an outstretched child. His unmanageable hair stood on end, he had wide eyes and a pout: unsuspectingly adorable.
He couldn’t be more awkward, and I couldn’t be more curious.
“He’s like Lurch from the Addams family,” Blair analogized. “He asked me about you the other day. I bet he has a monster peen.”
“What did he say?” I’ll bet he has a monster peen, too. I at least hoped to find out. Screwing up her face, she mimicked; “So uh… uh your friend Sass… yea… uh…”
Good enough for me.
“Bring him out on Friday. We can all have brunch together in the morning.”
By orchestration, we sat sequestered, sharing an already overcrowded space on a patio bench at Sweaty Betty’s. He’s not good with people, he says. He was fidgeting and crossing and uncrossing his legs, he didn’t seem to want them to brush against the person beside him. I couldn’t carry the conversation on my own, couldn’t lean too close, didn’t dare to. This was not a man I could touch. Let alone grab at, squeeze, push and pull skin.
We left to Lakeview Lunch, again surreptitiously arranged to sit side-by-side. The ale he had consumed gave him courage and he placed his hand n unabashedly on my inner thigh. We were left alone, unleashed.
His kisses were greedy, biting just a little too hard. I was being devoured and I desired myself on the silver platter. We walked, fingers intertwined, stopping to suck face. Now I was the one left breathless and giddy with his sudden aggression. It’s always the quiet ones.
“Don’t make fun of my pillowcases,” he reprimanded. Decade-old washed out cotton printed with NHL emblems. Of course.
Words made waste, he hastily tore my bra off straight upward, forcing my limbs into a constant scrum with his flesh. Heaving and tumbling, his mouth was everywhere. I was flipped on my back, head at the foot of the bed. He spread my knees open and I let him watch me touch myself. Stoic, he stared. “You’re hot.” He still hadn’t amassed more than ten words to me throughout the course of the evening.
“You’re hot too.”
“Not in the way that you are.” Always eager for an ego boost, I was about to push for more praise only his hands were making me lose my capacity for speech with the way he played with my pussy. With a thumb circling my clit and fingers from the other hand winding into me, I was losing it. All the while, his eyes bore into mine, silent and driven. I stopped him. Against my wet want for instant gratification, I decided not to relinquish any more control. If I could keep him caged for longer, who knows what wild the taunt may set free? I chose to wait if it might up the already impressive ante.
Before the order of Eggs Norwegian (wasn’t brunch the point of this all?) Blair asked me, “Did you bang him?”
“No. But it’ll happen.”
I’ll keep you posted.