Green

Mitzi arrived at my place wearing a white tank top, a denim jacket, and a knee-length green skirt.

We kissed.

“I love that green skirt,” I said, touching the fabric. The skirt is cotton, very full, with dozens of pleats.

“Thanks. It’s the most Fifties thing I own.”

It was very June Cleaver.

We sat, talking and kissing, studiously avoiding the subject that has most consumed recent conversations—our relationship.

We wanted this to be light.

I fingered her green skirt as we sat.

“Do me a favor, please,” I asked.

“What’s that, Jefferson?” she replied, in her soft, deliberate lilt.

“Take off your panties and let me spend time under that green skirt of yours.”

“Oh, Jefferson,” she smiled. “That does sound like a nice idea.” She stood and reached under her skirt, wriggling free of her underwear.

“And I was wearing such nice panties. See?” she held them aloft.

“Those are nice panties,” I said, reclining on a pillow. I pointed to my lips. “But here, now, please.”

Mitzi lifted her skirt and walked across the couch to stand over my head. Holding out her skirt like a parachute, she lowered herself to my waiting mouth.

My tongue licked into her. She moaned. I latched onto her clit and sucked.

Her thighs shook on my cheeks, moving as she shifted her weight from side to side.

My eyes were open, drinking in her visible flesh and the green light that came through her skirt.

My nostrils sought out her vanilla scent, her pussy and that fresh clean cotton.

Her hand reached back to feel my cock through my pants.

More tongue lapping. She knew I was settling in for a long haul.

She had other plans. She lifted her skirt to peer at me.

“I’m sure you are enjoying yourself,” she said. “But you promised me some rough sex.”

“Otay,” I agreed, allowing my tongue another taste. “. . . but with the skirt.”

We went to my bed.

She removed her tank top and bra. I dropped my clothes. She lay on the bed.

Her eyes locked on mine as she took my cock to her mouth. I stood beside the bed.

I was good and hard.

My fingers found her pussy very wet.

As I put on a condom, I asked her to move lower on the bed, near the corner.

She complied, eyes on me.

I pulled her hips to the bed’s edge, and spread her skirt back over her torso.

I stood over her and pushed her thighs back, resting her legs on my torso.

She knew what to expect.

I was in her, deep.

Her mouth opened, silent, her eyes always watching me, looking.

I closed my eyes. She could have them back later.

I took her thighs firmly in hand and fucked.

This was what she wanted. And I delivered it.

And then I opened my eyes.

I could do no more.

As we fucked, my mind raced toward its familiar places, but tripped, in each direction, over our conversations.

“I need to take a break.”

I lay next to her in bed, my arms around her head.

Our conversations have us in a muddle. They are long-winded and circuitous.

We chat in instant messages, we make phone calls, we talk in person. Nothing is satisfactorily resolved.

It’s all Mitzi’s fault.

She has feelings. And wouldn’t you know it—she insists on expressing them.

Basically, the problem is simple.

Mitzi is twenty-six, finished with school, and ready for the next thing in life. Her whole future is ready to happen.

She’s got her career to figure out, she’s got her intellectual life to sort out. And then there’s the whole relationship thing.

Mitzi has had her share of relationships with men, but none has really stuck. She is ready for someone to be the one to whom she can give her undivided attention.

And then I come along.

We get along great.

We have great conversations.

We have great sex.

She sees me dote on others, and she thinks: see, that’s what I want!

She watches me have sex with others, and she thinks: see, I want to have fun sex too!

She enjoys sharing me with other sex partners. No problem there.

But when I cuddle with another at the gatherings, or pine for a distant lover in my blog, which she reads, she can’t help it if . . . she can’t help it if . . . well, she can’t help it if she feels the stirrings of the green-eyed monster.

I listen, and I understand. I understand jealousy.

I understand it the way an ornithologist understands the mating rituals of birds. It doesn’t move me, but I understand that it is natural.

I decided, at an early age, to avoid jealousy as an ugly and useless diversion within relationships.

It never does anyone any good. Even as a kid, it seemed to be one of those bad things that adults should learn to control, like throwing food at the dinner table or belching in elevators.

I decided this after reading, when I was eleven or so, that “jealousy is not a sign of love—it’s a sickness.”

The name of the wise philosopher who so charted the course of my life is unknown to me.

She was a Playboy centerfold who listed jealousy as her number one “turn off.”

At the time, I was hungry for whatever information I could glean about sex. If a Playboy centerfold said jealousy was a "sickness," then I wanted no part of it.

I avoided jealousy during adolescence, stamping it down whenever my girlfriends and boyfriends fucked one another.

Lo and behold, we all survived adolescence as friends.

Then I married someone who didn’t flirt or fool around. Fifteen years of that, and the cast was set. I’m just not prone to jealousy.

I understand: it’s natural.

I just don’t know what to do with it.

So Mitzi and I are a little stuck.

One solution is that I pour all my affections onto Mitzi. But I am not eager to do that, as I am no friend to monogamy at the moment.

Another option is for her to dump me and look for someone who feels differently. But she’s not keen on that, as she likes me, and she isn’t necessarily looking for monogamy either.

We keep trying to fix this. We work at it, but we are both stubborn.

“You want to have your cake and eat it too,” she accused.

“Damn straight,” I rejoined. “I do love me some cake.”

“If having your cake, and eating it too, were a a caloric reality,” she said, “You'd be the fattest motherfucker on this island.”

“If not, I would want to meet the fat-ass slut who beat me out.”

To some measure, we each want our cake.

She lay in my arms. Her eyes rose to meet mine.

We kissed.

Moments later, I was spanking her with a short leather strap.

She yelped.

She pressed her clit against my thigh, harder with each slap, until she had rubbed one off.

I examined the red marks on her ass, thighs and arms.

As she dressed to leave, the marks were already vanished.

“Don’t forget,” she reminded me at the door. “About our dream date.”

Mitzi would like for us to dress up nice and meet Farahnaz for drinks. Then, we could go back to her place or mine for a nightcap and a night of hot sex.

“I won’t forget.”

Mitzi may not be sure what to do with me. But she is clear on one thing:

She likes the sex.

And she is damn hot for Farahnaz.

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