Thursday, February 22, 2007

Contrarian

Emma was in bed, nude, with Kurt Vonnegut.

“Now, there’s a sight for sore eyes,” I smiled, unfastening my belt.

She looked up. “Hey.” Her eyes drifted back to her book.

I watched her read as I undressed. I tossed my socks on top of my other clothes, lifted the blanket, and got into bed. I shifted closer, pressing my flesh to hers, wrapping an arm across her waist.

She was propped against pillows so that, as I settled in, I found her breast level with my lip. I kissed her nipple.

“Hmm, man, have I missed you,” I sighed, squeezing her almost involuntarily. My muscles were eager to be reacquainted with her body, to be reset as calibers of her precise shapes and forms.

“I’ve missed you too,” she mumbled to her book.

“Keep reading,” I said, burrowing my hair on her arm. “I’m content to be close to you, smelling you.” I licked her shoulder. “Grrrr, fuck, I miss this skin.”

“It’s okay, I can read later,” she said, folding down a page. She put the book to a side. “I can’t be with you later, so Kurt can wait.”

I lifted my lips to her cheek.

I hadn’t touched Emma in nearly two months.

Last year, we were all over each other. If we found a few spare hours, we spent them in bed. In our queer way, we were each attracted to the idea that neither of us made many demands on the other. Apart from our time together, we each had very full lives.

Neither of us seemed to need the other to be fulfilled—and that made us want each other all the more.

Being with Emma was easy.

Then, it got hard.

I was away for much of the summer. When I returned, she was gearing up for a return to school in the fall. We stole away for a weekend upstate.

We swam, read, cooked on a grill, made love, and unraveled our relationship.

One morning shortly after sunrise, we sat nude, looking out over a lake.

“I give it until Labor Day,” she said, tucking her knees under her chin.

“What?” I asked, petting her blonde hair.

“Us.”

“No,” I said, firmly. “You don’t push me away. We can ride out your semesters in school . . .”

“You don’t know how I am in school,” she said, turning to me. Her eyes welled. “I’m going to be very focused on that. I won’t want to socialize, ever. I’m saying goodbye to all my friends. I can say goodbye to you, too.”

I kissed her shoulder. “I’m not saying goodbye to you,” I whispered. “You’re going to need someone now and then, to hold you, to cook for you, to be there for you. You already have me. Don’t squander that. I’ll fit myself around your schedule—no pressure, no demands—just whenever you can see me.”

She relented, but she remained dubious.

Back in the city, we pulled out our calendars. She gave me her work and class schedule, and I pondered my nights of parenting, work and orgies. We coordinated our dates for the next four months. They weren’t many, and some would begin late. I agreed that we would always meet at her place in Brooklyn, so that she could come home from class at night and wake up the next morning to prepare for work.

I offered myself as Emma’s comfort man; to be there for her when she was exhausted, to care for her and to restore her for her next grueling day.

I barely made the grade.

Some nights were fine. I would arrive carrying a bottle of wine and we would unwind to television and dinner before making love and passing out.

Some nights, I was late. She would watch television, dinner waiting, as she wondered when I would be there, knowing I was coming from another date or another orgy.

One rainy night around ten, I traveled an hour by subway only to find that her buzzer wasn’t working. I hadn’t known it was broken; neither did she. My cell phone was back at my place, and I couldn’t recall her number. I looked up at the light in her window, rain falling in my eyes, not knowing how to let her know that I was on the sidewalk waiting for her.

I finally took the train back home and sent an email, not wanting to wake her. She replied; she wasn’t sleeping.

Having me as her comfort man proved small comfort to Emma. With everything else in her life, she didn’t need the added stress of someone who couldn’t seem to manage his commitment to our schedule.

She declined to renew my offer for the next semester.

One day in January, she let me know that she had a few hours for me. I readily accepted.

She even put aside Kurt Vonnegut for me.

I kissed Emma hungrily. She parted her lips slightly for me, knowing how I long for her kisses.

I held the nape of her neck in my palm as I entered her.

“Oh God, Emma,” I breathed.

“Jefferson,” she said, resting her hand on my chest. “Did you eat onions today?”

I moved myself in and out of her body. “Uh, I guess, maybe. I had a burrito for lunch.”

“And you didn’t brush your teeth before sex?”

“I guess I neglected to do so.” I panted into my palm and sniffed. “Is it that bad?”

She wriggled her nose. “Yes, you need to take care of that.”

“Seriously? We’re fucking here.”

“Not so long as you smell like onions, we’re not.”

“Fine.” I pulled out and kissed her cheek, keeping my lips tightly pursed. “I’ll be right back.”

I stood over the bathroom sink, scrubbing intently. I looked down as my cock shriveled, puckering latex and flesh. I spit, rinsed a mouthful of Listerine, and spit again.

I examined my teeth in the mirror. Spotless.

I returned to bed. “All better,” I smiled. I breathed into her neck. “I’m minty, minty fresh.”

“That’s better, thank you.” She rested her hands on my back. I took a breast in my mouth, felling myself grow hard again.

I held the nape of her neck in my palm as I entered her, again.

I kissed her cheek, her forehead, her heavy-lidded eyes. “Oh Emma, my God,” I sighed.

“Is that as hard as you can get?” she asked.

I looked down at her. “I’m plenty hard. I’m fucking you very well.”

She shrugged. “If you say so.”

“You have a funny way of getting a man hard,” I said. “Can you just shut up and fuck, please?”

I moved in her. She lay back, letting me go at it.

I kissed her hair.

“Seriously, you need to get harder. I can’t feel anything.”

I stopped in her body. “Here’s a thought. How about you make yourself useful and blow me?”

“No, no,” she shook her head. “I’m not going to be one of your idiotic ‘birthday blowjobs.’”

I laughed. “Come on, that’s a fun idea, no?”

“It’s ridiculous,” she said. “Stupid college humor.”

I rested my head on my palm, keeping myself in her. “Now, how is that college humor?”

“It’s what frat boys do,” she said, brushing her hair from her face. “Keeping score? That’s sophomoric. I expect better of you.”

“Come on,” I kissed her cheek. “Suck my cock.”

“No.”

“I didn’t realize you took my blog so seriously,” I teased.

“Jefferson, I stopped reading blogs in September. I don’t care about your blog. Someone told me about your birthday blowjobs, and I want nothing to do with it.”

“Gossips. Fine, then.” I settled myself over her. “We’ll just have to fuck.”

“Are you up to it?” she asked.

“Ball breaker,” I whispered, kissing her neck.

I pushed back and forth in her. She held my shoulders.

“Don’t you have a cock ring?” she interrupted.

“Yeah, I think I’ve got a couple,” I said, petting her face. “Your eyes are so pretty.”

“Where are they?” she asked, looking around.

“I think they are in a box in the cabinet, across the room.”

“Can you go get one?”

“Emma . . .”

“Please.”

“Urgh.”

Once more, I pulled out of Emma. I walked across the room and retrieved a box of sex toys.

If Emma was after an immediate erection, she knew that cock rings were a quick fix. They restrict the flow of blood, trapping it in an engorged cock.

“Here we go,” I said. “I’ve got this rubber one, which is too tight, and this leather one, which I’ve never used.”



Cock Ring


“Let’s try the leather one,” she said.

“You have to put it on me,” I said, laying back on the pillows. “This is your idea.”

“This wouldn’t be an issue if you had a sufficient erection.”

“This wouldn’t be an issue if you would stop busting my chops,” I said, my voice edging to irritation.

Emma gathered my balls and cock in her hand and wrapped the leather strap around my genitals. She pulled the strap snug—almost too snug—and snapped it into place.

My cock and balls flopped over a sturdy base.

“Is this comfortable?” she asked, stroking me to hardness.

“Yeah, now if you’ll just suck it a little . . .”

She raised an eyebrow. “Not happening, Jefferson.”

I scowled. “I fucking hate you.”

“It’s about time,” she said, her eyes flashing. “About time you grew a pair.”

“Get on your back, wiseass.” My cock was full and growing purple.

“Yeah?” she sat back. “You ready to fuck, finally?”

“Shut the shit up,” I grimaced, entering her.

I held her thighs in my grip, pinning her in place as I took her through her first orgasm. I demanded another.

I could feel her orgasms begin to shudder on my cock in quick succession, her pussy quivering as her eyes grew round. Each orgasm was punctuated by her accelerated groan as her cunt pushed against me, threatening to expel me from her body.

I held my ground.

We had about half an hour remaining. I wanted all she could give.

The blanket was soaked as I pushed her legs aside. “Enough?” I asked.

She nodded, breathing heavily. The ends of her hair were wet with sweat.

I lay beside her, taking her fingers in mine. I caught my breath as I stroked a fingernail with my thumb.

I closed my eyes. Stop pushing me away, I thought.

She looked at me and said it was time to go.

6 comments:

MsBehavn said...

Jefferson, I love the honesty in this post. Us girls are funny creatures. We always tend to push away that which we want the most. I think it's a self-preservation thing.

Anonymous said...

It's good to know that sex and relationships with you aren't just all champagne, flowers and clothes falling away.

Anonymous said...

It reassuring to see you do in fact feel sadness over the loss, or possible loss of a lover, and that you're not afraid to express it publicly.

It would be endearing to see this side of you more often.

Anonymous said...

It sounds to me like she's doing what she can to prove herself right. norby

Preheated said...

Rarely do I see poists this poignant. Can't wait to better acquaint myself with your blog.

Anna said...

This I understand. Emma is a girl after my own heart it seems.