“I keep my promises” he said, our backs leaned up against
the front window of the studio. The glass was cool and it chilled our skin. I
was probing him about his intentions, about the whimsical ambivalence of our
budding romance.
This was months ago, bordering on years. His eyes were
crystal and open; all the pigment in his face rallied behind his claim. “I keep my promises” he said again, in a half smirk, gaze lowered to meet mine.
I only half believed him.
I think about that now, as he exfoliates my back, my breasts
press up against the sweaty bathroom tile, moist with the steam of the shower.
He does keep his promises. It’s only
the discrepancy between expectation and reality that throws me for a loop; it’s
only the meandering hiccups of life that interfere with our plans.
At the first cold snap in September I asked him to bludgeon
all the dead cells from my soul. He said “Of course”. I went out and bought my most
favorite exfoliant to strip my skin clean. The days accumulated until they
became months. Until it was really, really cold and my dry, sensitive skin
nearly wept for relief.
“He always gives when
I really need” I think, as his hands
undulate down my spine into my ass, buffing my backside until it sparkles red.
He spins me around into the lava-hot jets, sweeping the lingering bits of sand
from my shoulders. He massages more exfoliant into the sinews of my triceps,
the division between my quad and hamstring, into the grooves of my clavicles
and the underscore of my breasts. Into soft, yielding flesh between my thighs.
His face is stitched in concentration; the exact face he makes when he loses
himself in his carpentry while distressing wood. He catches me looking at him
and gives me a quick but real smile. He goes back into deep focus, swirling his
hands on my naked body.
My lover loves losing himself in actions of care. And when
I’m the object of his care it feels like I’ve never been loved before. He keeps
meticulously cleansing me, methodically, adoringly. Buffing my skin until I’m
pink porcelain, smooth as glass.
He kisses me sweetly when he’s done. The bathtub sloshes
with excess water, with the weight of my oldest layer clogging the drain. My skin
slightly throbs, all the nerves on the surface recharged and wide awake. We
towel off, both flushed with the luxury of a deep clean, our eyebrows perked in
satisfaction.
It’s always casual in my house. We’re casually naked, in our
talk and in our bodies, our limbs and language strewn about the couch. I command
him to inhale two lotions, letting the best scent win the privilege of being
slathered. His fingertips dip into shea and wander into my calves. Those glossed
fingertips knead into my thighs, into my hips, into my ass. He spends so much
time on my ass you would assume it’s the thirsty part of me.
“Mr. M.” I coo through half-closed eyes and an open smile,
“What are you doing?” I’m belly down on the couch, arms cradling my ultra-relaxed
head, wet tendrils clinging to my face.
“Senorita S.” he responses, his syllables guttural, charged,
“I’m about to worship your ass.”
He slips to the side of me, his haunches in my periphery.
The edges of his teeth graze my right cheek, his tongue trailing in the midst.
He bites mouthfuls of flesh, playfully, greedily. Then he kisses the transitory imprints, as if
excusing his impulses. I can see his lower body; can see how the tension and
excitement spread through his muscles, all the way down to his earnest, flared
toes. But that is not the best part, or the most vivid marker of his desire. I
can hear his pleasure in his inhalations as he pulls apart my ass, pressing his
face closer; I can hear the surprised delight of his exhalations as his tongue
wanders down my crack.
And I am soaked through; pussy completely saturated from all
that sensual sound.
“God I love opening you up like this” he says, a rush of
cool air circling my asshole, mingling with the wet edges of my pussy. I love
it too, when he holds me like that, exposes me like that. I love it when he
spreads me apart; when he looks at all the places I cannot see and tells me
that they are beautiful.
His tongue is on my perineum, slinking upwards, slowly,
menacingly. His fingernails dig into my spread skin and I hold my breath as the
warm, wet contact of his tongue meet the tight, unexplored territory of my
asshole. “Fuck” I say, under my breath, melting in pleasure. “Fuck.” He probes
my asshole with his tongue, savoring the rawest part of me, as if it’s
sustenance, as if it’s sacred food. His licks are loving and long, deep and
devoted. I think this could make me cum. I don’t think I’ve ever felt as
coveted as this.
And it makes me remember: I made a promise. Months ago,
bordering on years.
It’s an unofficial one, an implied one. Because he never
corrals me into promises, never tries to put parameters up with questions. It’s
been years now of me teasing him with my history of anal sex, with the
knowledge of my past sexual exploits. And he always gives me the same clear,
blue gaze of intrigue, the same open face of yearning when I tell him one day
soon it will be his go around.
He always keeps his
promises, I think as I slip away from his curious tongue. I hop onto the
carpet, skip into the hallway, throw open the closet door with the magic of anticipation fueling my
limbs. There is the lube, waiting. There is my hand, oiling up my pucker,
before bouncing back into the living room to eagerly tell him the day has
finally come.
I lay down on my belly, ass pricked up, spine curved and
ready. The lube oozes onto his cock, his cock glides between my cheeks. There’s
that initially gravity of tip-on-asshole and the fervor of taboo start to swell
my pussy even more. He pushes the head in with the gusto of a teenager, with
the bravado of a man who is justly claiming his reward.
And it hurts.
Not enough to stop the theatrics. Not enough to wane my
enthusiasm. Just enough to shift the opening ceremonies. I saddle onto his lap,
guiding his cock up into my ass, letting him view every inch of emotion
registering on my face. His eyes are so blue, so alive, so excited with the
novelty of the experience. I rock slow, building a fire in my hips. “Yeah baby,
like that” he says, gripping my curves, feeling them dance between his palms. He thrusts his hips up to meet mine, pushing and pulling with my cues.
And my pussy is melting. It’s spilling onto his pubic hair,
labia full and fuchsia with desire. His mouth opens, reaches for mine. My hips
slip back and forth faster, like a belly dancer on speed, making his cock hit
all those delicious places in my ass that make me feel insane. There is so much
adrenaline churning through my pelvic bone, spiraling through my pulse. When I look
at his face, I can see it’s happening inside of him too—this overwhelming flood
of sensation, an unbearable urgency of pleasure from fucking my ass.
His eyes are growing fire, the same color blue inside of a
low flame. I love that color, his color, the rarest color on earth; I fall in
love whenever it’s cast in my direction. It makes me remember that I am the first. The first woman to give him
her ass without hesitancy, without shame, without unsubstantiated teasing. The first
woman to unapologetically joust his intellect into a sweaty truce, the first
woman to tell him he is always free to wander after wonder. The first woman
hardy enough to tolerate the emotional force of her promises to him. There is
so much in life, in our independent, evolving lives, that asks me to be brave,
that demands that I be patient and kind. There are so many things to contend
with, mundane, imagined and substantial. But I am the first of so many of those
things and I can see that register in his eyes as he plunges his cock deep
inside me, asking me in pressured speech if he can cum inside my ass.
“Yes, baby, fuck. Cum inside my ass!”
Fuck. This is his first time, I’m his first time. The
acknowledgement shoots through my veins like heroin, tussles all my nerves with
love. I cum, like a blathering lunatic, grinding shamelessly on his trickling cock,
hips feverishly entranced in his hands.
We hop back into the shower when it’s over and laugh under
the stream of heat.
We are dried off again, snaked together on the couch, naked
and softly breathing. The side of my face is engulfed in his chest hair, like
wild grass on a suburban sunbather’s face. It obscures my vision, caresses my
lips when I speak.
“How do I smell?” he interprets. He knows I love his scent,
his visceral, virile scent. The question makes me burrow deeper into his body, eyes hidden by the curve of his armpit. The scent only gets
stronger.
“How do I smell?” he asks again, a laugh waiting behind his
smile. I laugh for him and squeeze him, playfully protesting, “I don’t want to
talk about it!”
We lay there and I breathe him in. I don’t want to talk
about how he smells. I don’t want to tell him that it’s delicious, that his natural
scent is the strongest comfort on earth. Don’t want to tell him that his scent
makes me want to move mountains, makes me want to be his champion until my
dying breath. Don’t want to tell him that something as ethereal as his scent
gives me more security than money, education, or experience.
I don’t want to tell him that I wish there could be a
promise that his scent will always be there. Because I could battle pink slips, foreclosed
mortgages, terminal illness and whatever other meanness life throws at me and I
could do it with grace if his scent was there at the end of the day.
I don’t want to back him up into a promise he might not be
able to keep. I love that he is a man of his word.
So I don’t tell him how he smells.
It is in withholding that I realize: he is also, despite all
the odds, the first.
No man has ever penetrated me, like this.
