by Molly Harper
“So I think we’ll be fine,” he said, taking my elbow as I walked outside on wobbly legs. “Now go home and write somesex scenes. There’s a game on tonight. Come over and have a beer, if you’re interested. If not, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Monroe winked at me and closed the door, leaving me to stare after him in stunned amazement.
What the hell had just happened?
I called through the closed door. “You know, there’s a reason people don’t always say exactly what they’re thinking!”
******
At last count, it had been almost four months since I’d had any sort of sex. It had been Mike’s birthday. He had too many drinks at his birthday party, and I guess he was too blotto to notice I was his wife, not his girlfriend. So it had been a grand total of one hundred twelve days, three hours, and forty minutes since I’d had even bad sex.
And it showed.
The first sex scene I wrote was basically porn. Monroe said to be as graphic as possible, so I was. I used every dirty word I knew… and some that I just made up. I didn’t even give the characters’ names or backgrounds or a plausible reason for having sex. They were just “he” and “she” and they were naked. There was thrusting, sweating, slamming, biting, pinching, and a lot of extremely clinical anatomical terms I will spare the kids at home.
“It sounds like I have Tourette’s syndrome,” I groaned, deleting it.
The problem, as usual, was that I didn’t know what I wanted. I didn’t know what I liked in bed, so how was I supposed to write about it? Obviously, I knew how to make myself. happy. But who wanted to read about that? Well, I’m sure there were people who wanted to read about it, but they weren’t exactly my target audience. Part of my problem was I was afraid of the penis - not the body part, the actual word. I didn’t know what to call it.
Penis, I typed quickly. Penis penis penis penis. The roof didn’t cave in at this blasphemy, so I would begin at the beginning. With a non-threatening penis euphemism.
Length. Length was a good word. It wasn’t gross. It implied a healthy size. It was far more Nora Roberts than Violet Blue. My hand snaked down his slick torso and palmed the hard length of him, I wrote.
“That’s not so bad,” I said, tilting my head like a sculptor observing a new clay shape. I continued typing.
I sighed, easing back to enjoy the sensation of his fingers gliding inside of me, stroking over the already sensitive nerve endings while I rocked against him.
His hands splayed on the small of my back, anchoring me to him as he slid down my body, kissing the curves of my collarbone. Shivering for what I knew was coming, I watched him. I studied his eyes, the way they took in every detail. He knew what he was making me feel, and for him, that was half the fun. He caught me looking at him, and when I tried to close my eyes, palmed my cheek and brought me back to watch as he worshipped my skin.
I couldn’t seem to get enough of that first sensation, the entirety of my being holding its breath as I stretched to accept him. Knowing this, he pulled away from me and slid into me again. I flexed my legs, wrapping my arms around his shoulders as I rode him.
His thumb skimmed over my lips. I caught it between my teeth, biting down gently. I could feel every ridge of his cool, wet skin with my tongue. I felt the warmth of his mouth against the lines of my jaw, his fingers clutching at my hips as the pace became frantic, desperate.
I opened my eyes and found him watching me, and that was enough to tip me over the edge. It was terrifying how easily I could reach my peak with him. The force of a good strong orgasm rippled through me, wave after wave, until I felt lost in the dark. He was my anchor, driving into me, keeping me from drifting away. Allowing him to have such an effect on me put a lot of power in his hands. At the moment his hands were more occupied with keeping me afloat as I threw my head back and screamed out my release. Monroe followed, digging his nails into my back, clutching me to him.
“Gah!” I cried, yanking my hands away from the keyboard and staring at the Monroe blinking back at me on the screen. Where did that come from? I went back and deleted the name.
It was perfectly natural, I told myself. Monroe was the only available man within screwing distance. He had recently seen me naked. He was the one who put this whole sex scene thing into my head. And he had recently pushed me against a door and kissed me. Really, really well.
“He will never, ever see this,” I told myself as I continued typing.
19 • Amending the No Penis Policy
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In support of our budding friendship, Monroe and I decided to do something new: organized socializing. Instead of just spotting that the other person was awake or doing something stupid and life-threatening and coming on over, we actually agreed to meet at an agreed-upon time and make a meal that wasn’t improvised.
I struggled with what I should cook for Monroe. He agreed to provide sides and dessert and do the dishes if I brought the main dish. As egalitarian as that sounded, I had a hard time returning to that homemaker role. For one thing, I didn’t want him to think I was trying to impress him, some desperate attempt to lure a man through his stomach. And for another, I didn’t want him to expect me to present him with spectacular meals on a regular basis. I’d already had a man who learned to take my efforts for granted and I wasn’t interested in another one.
At the same time, it went against all of Mama’s genes to serve a friend some Velveeta-based slop. So I raided my pantry and found the ingredients for chicken and dumplings. Informal, unsexy, and perfect for the weather, which was finally getting frosty heading into late September.
Unfortunately, Monroe’s idea of side dishes was heated chili beans and raw baby carrots. And he forgot to add eggs to the brownie mix. No man is perfect.
“You need a mommy,” I told him, sipping a Coke as he stood at his sink, washing dishes. “Or a very patient housekeeper. I am volunteering for neither job, but you need one or the other.”
“Hey, I was subsisting just fine on chili beans and frozen lasagna, and then you came along with your homemade goodness and showed me what I’m missing. Now, when you move, I’m going to go into dumpling withdrawal.”
“So you’re kicking me out of the greater lake area already?” I asked.
“Well, you’re not planning on staying through the winter, are you? I’m pretty sure I’m the only one around here who stays through the winter.”
“Well, if I don’t, how am I going to cut you off from the outside world and re-enact scenes from Misery?” I snickered, ducking when Monroe chucked a dish towel at me. “I don’t know what my plans are. It all sort of depends on my lawyer and how quickly we can reach a settlement. You could be stuck with a quirky, dumpling-making neighbor for a long time to come.”
“Eh, that wouldn’t be so bad,” he said, drying plates and putting them in the cabinet. “Once you scrape past that potty-mouthed, perversely perky exterior, you’re not nearly as annoying as one might think.”
“Wow, thank you. Really. I’m blushing,” I muttered, swatting at his shoulder as I followed Monroe to the couch.
“So how are the sex scenes coming along?” he asked.
“I finally wrote one that I would be willing to show you,” I told him.
“Which means there were very dirty early efforts.” He grinned. “So how many times have you used the word ‘length’?”
This time I did blush. “I hate you.”
“You’ll get over it; most of my friends do,” he promised. “But really, how is your story coming along?”
“I’m getting ideas from the weirdest places,” I told him. “Like, I was running the other day and I thought of all the different explanations for the house suddenly coming to life and eating Laurie’s husband. Some of them were lame, like the house standing on an Indian burial ground or being haunted by the ghost of a wronged woman. But a few of them were worth writing down. And I was so af
raid I would forget them, I turned around and ran back home so I could get to my computer.”
“That’s probably when your brain processes everything, when you’re running,” Monroe said. “You should get a pocket recorder so you can tape your ideas when you run. I get all my ideas in the shower. I started keeping a dry-erase board on the bathroom wall so I could write them down.”
“You do not.” I laughed. Monroe marched over to the bathroom door and flipped the light switch, illuminating a dry-erase board covered in scribbles. “I stand corrected.”
“This is the benefit of my professional experience,” he said with exaggerated pomposity.
I ignored his smug posturing. “Well, the bright side to this is that I’m learning a lot about the divorce process through life experience, and Sam is willing to let me pick her brain every once in a while when I run into a technical question. It’s helped me structure the chapters. I think Sam’s glad I’ve found a creative outlet that doesn’t involve a mailing list. Or gasoline.”
I flipped open the CD organizer that held Monroe’s DVD collection. “You have a disproportionate number of Clint Eastwood movies in here. Honestly, I didn’t even know Every Which Way
But Loose was released on DVD.”
“It’s Clint Eastwood and an orangutan,” Monroe said, obviously shocked at my naïveté. “What self-respecting man wouldn’t own this movie?”
“I have so much to learn about men,” I said, shaking my head.
“Well, my movie collection is a good place to start,” he said.
“Dirty Harry, High Noon, The Dirty Dozen.”
“I thought that was the one about the couple with too many kids..
“You’ve never seen The Dirty Dozen?” he asked, clearly aghast. “Are you a communist?”
“I don’t think nice girls from Singletree are allowed to be communists,” I said as Monroe put the movie in the DVD player. “I think it’s against the town charter.”
I liked that it was just understood that I would be staying. There was no awkward thing where I edged toward the door while Monroe tried to convince me I was welcome. I was completely comfortable, even though The Dirty Dozen wasn’t exactly to my taste. I asked a lot of stupid questions, like what crime was Donald Sutherland charged with, and how did half-literate felons manage to come up with such a catchy rhyming plan? But Monroe seemed to enjoy introducing me to an American classic.
Gravity and comfort eventually led to me cradling against him, my head pillowed against his shoulder. It was so comfy, a level of familiarity, of rightness, I didn’t think was possible with anyone other than Mike. I lifted my head, really just to look and see if he was asleep. And found myself nose to nose with him.
“Hi,” he rumbled. His breath was everywhere. His air was my air.
“Hi.” I closed my eyes as he leaned closer. Three words blared against my eyelids in neon red. NO PENIS POLICY.
“Don’t think about it,” he said. “Just enjoy it.”
He positioned my legs on either side of his hips. He wanted me to stay, badly. I could feel the evidence rubbing pleasantly through my sweats. He cupped my chin and pressed his mouth to mine. It wasn’t roses blooming and fireworks, more like a long cool drink after crossing a desert.
“Nervous now?” he murmured. I nodded. He kissed me again, lifting my hands to his shoulders. His fingers snaked under my tank, circling lazily against bare skin. I lost track of time. I heard the movie credits roll and the TV click off.
“Nervous now?” he asked. I nodded again. He yanked the zipper of my hoodie down and tossed it aside. I’ve never had a man toss my clothes across the room. I didn’t feel like a convenience. He was trying for me. That mattered a lot.
Should I suggest that he put on a condom, I wondered. He was a single guy living alone in the middle of nowhere. What if he didn’t have them? Did I need to run back to my place and get one? It would probably kill the mood, but there was no way I was - Hello, what was that he was doing with his tongue?
He dragged me to the floor. It wasn’t the comfiest surface, just a soft old rag rug and some throw pillows, but Monroe had a fire going in the big slate hearth. I let the heat soak into my bones, forcing myself to relax my toes, then my feet, then my legs. Legs that Monroe was settling between, skimming his fingertips along the waistband of my jeans just before unbuttoning them.
“Are you nervous now?” he asked, dragging his fingertips along the contours of my hip bones.
I closed my eyes and nodded. “Yes.”
“How about now?” he asked, pressing his lips just under the curve of my belly button.
“Mmmm.” I grunted in an unsure tone.
He eased my shirt over my head. “Now?”
My answer was lost as his lips closed over mine. I pulled Monroe’s T-shirt off and ran my fingertips along his ribs. He was so warm, each muscle bunching as I brushed my fingers over his skin. Once I finally tangled my fingers in that thick dark hair, I didn’t want my hands anywhere else, so I managed to push his jeans down with my feet. I happened to glance down as Monroe slid out of his jockeys. My eyes went wide. Wow. Mike had been exaggerating about what was considered average.
I had to slow down. Not to think, but to savor. I wanted this to work. I didn’t want this to be bad. If it was going to be any good, I had to tell him… I had to tell him…
“Put your hands here,” I blurted out, cupping his hands against my breasts.
Monroe drew back, startled. “Okay, then.”
Well, at least I didn’t tell him to turn them counterclockwise.
I laughed, nervous, but held his hands where they were. “I’m sorry! But, I just - I want you to know what I want.”
“No. I liked it,” Monroe said. “It’s like Twister. Right hand, breast. Left foot, well, I won’t go there, but - do it again.” He kissed my smiling lips. “Tell me what you want me to do.”
It took me a second to realize he was serious. He didn’t mind being bossed around. He didn’t resent me trying to “take over.” It was a heady thing, to be handed that much power. I took a deep breath.
“Kiss me,” I said, tapping the curve of my belly button. “There.”
I guided his hands to the lines of my hip bones as he obliged. “Tell me,” he murmured against my belly. The buzz of his voice against my skin had my nerve endings singing. A flash of heat zipped straight through me. I felt a trickle of warmth between my legs, soaking my panties.
“You can go lower,” I whispered, unable to draw a full breath as Monroe slipped his thumb over the heart-shaped watermark I’d left on the purple cotton.
Monroe wriggled his eyebrows, kissing the inside of my knees. He reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a little foil packet, which solved the condom conundrum.
I hooked his fingers through the band of my panties. “Take them off.”
Monroe’s lips traveled the length of my body as he settled between my thighs, his “length” pressing against me. I was ready. I wanted him. And this was already so much better than any sex I’d had before. I had nothing to lose.
“Now,” I told him, willing myself to relax as he started that long, slow slide into me. It had been so long since I’d felt so full, so potent. I breathed deep, enjoying the pleasant friction. I focused on that rhythm, the sound of Monroe’s breathing. He grinned down at me, pushing my hair back from my face, running his fingertips along my browline. I was liquid, so relaxed and fluid I felt almost separated from myself, but still focused on every movement, every sound and scent.
I wound my ankles around his, tilting my hips up to his as an ever-tightening coil of pressure built inside of me.
“Don’t stop,” I whispered.
“Have to,” he panted. “Fire.”
“I’m on fire,” I murmured dreamily.
“No, fire,” he said, still thrusting, but now nodding toward the fireplace. While the haphazard manner in which Monroe had thrown my sweatshirt was damned sexy, it was also precariously close to the fireplac
e. My sleeve was burning, threatening to set the entire house up.
“Don’t you stop!” I told him as my body thrummed.
Monroe tried to manage tamping out the flaming sleeve all the while moving over me. He could not do both.
“Just burn the thing!” I cried, tossing the hoodie into the fireplace as I fell over the edge into the dark spasms that shook my body. I screamed with each wave that ran through me, clutching at Monroe’s shoulders. I fell back on the floor, my skin beading with sweat, as Monroe collapsed on top of me.
Even with the smell of burning sweatshirt filling the room, I was floating, blissful. I had almost nodded off when Monroe rolled and pulled me onto his chest. “No sleep just yet.”
******
I’d expected it to be awkward. I mean, once you demand that a man burn an article of clothing in a mid-orgasmic frenzy, it’s hard to go back to small talk. But later, when we were stretched out on Monroe’s bed, chugging ice water like we’d just run a marathon, it was completely comfortable. I might as well have been fully clothed and watching a baseball game on the couch with him. Monroe propped my head onto his outstretched arm and blew a hard, pleased breath out as he smiled at the ceiling.
“If you don’t show me those earlier, dirtier love scenes you wrote, I may weep openly. Obviously, you have some very interesting things going on in that head of yours.”
“And the good news is that the bullet wound has only slightly affected your technique,” I told him.
“Slightly?”
I shrugged. “It’s nothing to be ashamed about.”
“You want to see it, don’t you?”
“No!” I cried before finally admitting, “Yes.”
“It’s okay, I don’t mind,” he said, looking smug as he rolled over onto his stomach. “It’s not the first time this baby has bagged me a curious lady.”
“Nice.” I grunted, slapping his butt.
“Hey! Easy! I’m a wounded man,” he exclaimed.
“Oh, you were a wounded man,” I said, sitting up so I could get a better look at him. I’d expected an actual bullet hole, but what I saw was a long straight-line scar across one buttock. “Well, that’s just sort of anticlimactic.”
