Maria gets louder and her body keeps coming apart in my hands. I move back and forth between her nipples, pulling those dark circles into my mouth. I alternate between pressing my hand flat against her to rub firm, slow circles into her clit with my palm, and drawing my fingertips up the length of her. I can feel my middle finger parting her labia and pressing just inside. Stroke, stroke, stroke, I can feel the wetness in the fabric seeping through.
The best thing about fucking girls is that it’s not obvious when exactly you begin to fuck. Is it when you first touch her through her clothes? When your tongue touches her clit? What about when you’re kissing her labia? What about her thigh? Is it when you put your fingers in? If you even get that far, if she even wants that. Or is it as soon as she’s naked in bed with you? There’s no clear start. You just start fucking somehow, trip into each other’s arms, and slide downhill into ecstasy.
Maria is huffing, breathing heavy. Her sounds are growing higher and clearer. I push back quickly, pull her underwear aside, and lick up the length of her pussy. I want to surprise her, to get her worked up with my hands then catch her breathless with the crisp pleasure a tongue can give.
It works. She makes the most incredible noise. If my roommates weren’t awake already they probably are now. I pull back and slow down. Her inner labia show just a little between the outer, like four lips in a row. The inner pair are dark purple and textured, with a thin, clear strand of wetness reaching out from between them, stretched to a long, wet line in her underwear.
I settle my face against her and drag my closed mouth up her labia, wetting my lips. I use my tongue as lightly as I can, making her nerves reach for the sensation. It’s easy to overwhelm a girl, particularly the first time you go down on her. Turning her on and helping her relax enough to enjoy it aren’t the same thing, and sometimes everything is so taught you can only do one or the other. I try to ease Maria back from that gasping point, where all her muscles are braced but the sensation is still strong enough to force her breath.
I wet every crease, pushing my tongue between her lips just enough to separate each pair. I return to the center and push the tip of my pointed tongue inside of her. It’s not deep enough to feel like penetration, but enough for her to feel the spread. She’s salty and slick. I groan with the tang at the back of my tongue. I pulse in and out slow, going a little deeper each time.
I settle my hands on her hips and squeeze. Now I’m swimming in it, her smell, her taste, the way the skin on her mound is nearly white under that dark hair. Something heady and urgent spikes behind my ears; now we’re fucking. Now I’m inside her.
I look up to see her looking down at me, slack-jawed with lidded eyes. She closes her mouth and bites her lip with a little smile. I want to say, ‘don’t worry about what you look like,’ but my mouth is busy. I reach up and tug on her bottom lip until she opens her mouth again.
Maria laughs, breathy and soft. She licks the corner of her mouth playfully. I make a muffled noise against her and peak my eyebrows in the center, to say, ‘more like that, put on a show for me, you’ve got me hook, line, and—’
Maria puts her hand on my head and blanks my mind to a bright white buzz.
When you fuck a girl, you have to be willing to work right in front of her. To be watched while you try to give her pleasure. But you might find yourself making love to her. Then you’ll be showing her a hell of a lot more than just your earnest effort to make her feel good. You’ll find yourself naked in front of her, all your clothes on and your heart stripped bare. She’ll watch you. Split open and incomplete. Whimpering out months of loneliness in helpless little sounds while you eat her out.
You can work. Make something from nothing, but those same thin hands and ready mouth will betray you. You will show her every dream you had about her. You will breathe heavy, with a closed throat, when she invites you closer. You will give yourself up for her judgement. And you will both know it doesn’t matter if she comes.
It’s a hook up. I hook myself to her like I’m drowning and she can carry me back up.
It’s enough. Just like this. The pleasure alone is enough. More than enough. More than I could ever ask for, or expect from another person. Giving her pleasure is a consuming calling. An honor that takes precedence over everything else. I breathe in through my nose and hum, just sliding my tongue up and down her clit. No worry, no shame, no sense of time, nor goal in mind. Just the girl in front of me.
She’s so wet now. Her pussy is full and red. The bottom is pushed out and the lips are separated in an engorged U. I can just see inside, a dark, warm cave that I taste before filling with my fingers. I lose an hour inside her. I taste her skin while she strokes her fingers through my hair and moans.
Maria pushes me off when her thighs are shaking on my shoulders. I crawl over her to kiss her and we fall in a heap. I spread her legs with my knee and press her pussy to my hip.
I kiss her lips over and over, feeling them quiver with arousal and overstimulation. She pulls my shirt off and wrestles with my utilitarian sports bra for a minute, until she’s laughing too hard to make progress and I take it off for her. She draws her fingernails from the outer edges of my breast to the nipple. She kisses the pad of her thumb and presses it to my nose. I feel like that means something but I’m too undone to ask.
I wrap her up in a blanket and throw on a sweatshirt to search the bathroom for a hairbrush. I find three of my roommates’: one with stiff plastic bristles, a scratchy nylon one with bristles like a fake Christmas tree, and a fine-toothed comb. I grab a banana from the kitchen on my way back to her.
I never asked if she was hungry, but feeding her is the first way I learned to take care of her and I’m not giving that one up. Maria takes the banana with an amused smile and peels it without a word.
I hold out the brushes and comb, “Which of these do you like?”
She points to the one with stiff plastic bristles, “Use this to brush. But hold onto the comb. Do you know how to braid?”
I drop the brush and comb in her lap and crawl behind her on the bed, “Of course I know how to braid. I was a seven-year-old once.”
She laughs, “Braid my hair,” and hands me a hair tie.
I sit behind her, my legs spread on either side of her, and brush out the knots we made with our rocking and twisting. I smell her hair. I say, “It can’t just be honey and egg yolks.”
She laughs and I can feel it through her back. It seems like she’s laughing every three breaths when she’s with me. That’s right, my ego nods, that’s right; I’m good at this. I can see her bare breasts and half of her face in the narrow mirror hanging on the back of my door. I can see a sliver of my own face behind her. I’m surprised by how sleepy I look, with tousled hair and gentle eyes. I part her hair down the middle and braid one side. It’s horribly messy. The three ribbons of hair are all different sizes. They wobble between too tight and too loose. In a couple places, little tufts of hair leave one ribbon and join another.
“It’s perfect!” I exclaim while she laughs. Really laughs. Laughter that trips into deeper, fuller laughter. She covers her mouth and I pull her hand away. I chuckle too because I want her to keep laughing. I wrap my arms around her waist and murmur, “Perfect. Just like this. Wabi sabi.”
She tucks her head toward her shoulder, so the messy braid rests against my forehead, “What’s that?”
“It means imperfection is beautiful.”
She’s very still for a second. She hums quietly, to let me know she understands. No “mmhmm” this time. I hold her a little tighter and she nestles in.
I watch her braid the other side into a perfectly symmetrical rope. She leaves my braid in place and tilts her head back and forth to see both sides in the mirror on the door.
Then she pulls my sweatshirt off and unbuttons my pants. She’s more direct than I’m expecting. She pulls my underwear down and pushes my legs open. She puts her mouth on my clit.
It feels like someone snapped a rubber
band on my skin. I’m so wet my body talks for me. It arches and rolls. My hips stutter. If I open my lips I’ll be moaning loud enough for the neighbors to follow along, so I hold my breath. Maria keeps up a steady rhythm on my clit. She never pauses, doesn’t wander around with her tongue, doesn’t use her fingers. She shoves me straight over the edge. I come.
There’s something I forgot about sex. About amazing sex. When it’s unbelievable and your body doesn’t need any coaxing, orgasm is just something that happens. It just happens, whether or not you chase it. Nothing like the slow draw of getting yourself off with your fingers, it’s this crazy shake that climbs and climbs, rearranges you, then rockets up and tops out.
I hold her to my chest as I recover. She tells me I taste good and I pet her uneven braids.
There are no clocks in my room. I show her how to play all the games on my phone while we lay in a slack spoon. Her reflexes are better than mine. She sets new high scores for me and I kiss her bare shoulders. She starts kissing me back and we fuck again. You can’t tell when the fucking ends, either. It never really ends.
We hold hands with our fingers interlaced while I go down on her. I push my tongue in deep and pull out the thick, white goo her body made earlier. Her labia are soft and loose to the touch. Her body is so warm inside. She tilts her hips against me like she wants more and wants it right now. I’m careful when I put my fingers in. I keep them buried to the knuckle and just twist and curl, rubbing the skin of her g-spot. I don’t want to rub her raw with too much friction.
At one point, I turn off my lights so she can see the moon through my window. Her sounds get louder, like no one can hear us in the dark.
I make her toast and we fuck again. She keeps complimenting all the little things in my room. The bedspread, the expensive, over-the-ear headphones on my desk, the pile of bandanas next to my closet.
She says she has to pee, so I pull our clothes on and walk her to the communal bathroom with my arms around her waist and her feet standing on mine. My phone says it’s almost 5 am. When she comes out, I walk her back to my room.
We put on our shoes and go out. I walk her around the best lit blocks in my neighborhood so I can see her in the streetlights. The city is dead. The quiet hours are about to end. When we get back to my apartment, we start fucking the second I close my door. Like we were both holding it in, holding our breath, letting the urge build, waiting to exhale.
I make her come with my fingers and tongue. I can feel her body contracting around me. She’s loud and I tell her to get louder. I can hear my roommates moving around beyond my walls. I know they can hear her and I don’t care. Sorry guys. I’ll make you both cookies or something. I bet they can hear me too, moaning with my mouth full.
She pulls my hair. I fuck her deeper. I moan like this can’t be real. She says my name and it feels so good. I breathe her in. I love sex. This is what I want. Whatever this is. Is this a hook up? What do you call this? What would you call this if she was here all the time and never left?
We talk nose to nose. There’s this pink flush across her cheeks and she keeps smiling in the pauses. She tells me she’s afraid of loud showers because someone might come in and she wouldn’t hear it. I tell her I’m afraid of dogs. All dogs. Even little ones. She laughs and I shake my head, smiling, “They can all bite. Every single one of them.”
I stare at her while she gets dressed in the pale blue morning light. I don’t think this is a hook up. She says she has to be somewhere in half an hour. I don’t know what to say, how to end a night like this. Inexplicably, I’m aching.
I walk over to where I threw my pants, in the corner by my closet, and pull them on. I feel the wad of cash in my phone pocket and pull it out. Of course. I walk over to her and see her. I really see her.
Her back is to me and I can make out the notches of her spine through her skin. She pulls her shirt over her head. Can that thin layer of fabric do anything to protect her? She pulls her white braids out of the collar and lets them fall down her back. Hers is still impeccable and mine is unraveling.
I put the cash back in my pocket. I walk up to her and put my arms around her. She tips her head toward me as I tuck my face against her neck. I say, “Hey. Do you want to move in?”
She’s still.
Maria turns to face me. She blinks and I hold her eyes. She says, “Yes.”
I grin at her and after a pause where it feels like someone turned off gravity, she laughs. She shakes her head and looks away to laugh again. I pull her close and hold her. I hold her and it feels like it matters. Like I’m holding her still in a small room when she would otherwise be floating through the city alone. It sounds like she’s crying and trying not let me hear. She says, “Where will we put my huge water fountain?”
I snort. “Like, a drinking fountain? Or like a fountain fountain?”
She sniffles, “A fountain fountain.”
I say, “Wherever you want. Right in the middle of the room. Hell, put in the living room. My roommates would love that.”
She nuzzles her head into my chest.
“I hope that’s real,” I say with my lips against her hair, “We should put it in the shower and not tell anyone.”
Maria laughs, “No,” her voice is muffled, “By the front door. Right when you walk in.”
I press my hand to her head to hold her closer. “Yeah,” I whisper, “Perfect.”
I hold her and the sun comes beaming in through the glass. I feel it warm on my cheek as it creeps down our bodies. We spent so long without time that it feels right like this. I just hold her like, of course we have time. There’s always more time.
I break the silence, “I’ll introduce you to my roommates after I apologize for the noise we made last night.”
Maria snorts. She laughs, then the sound stops and her body keeps shaking. Now she’s really crying. She breathes in ragged and I kiss her forehead.
I say, “I think I’m in love with you,” and she laughs through the tears. Her knees go soft and I hold her up. She cries into the shoulder of my shirt and I cradle her.
There’s the rest of it. The missing three-quarters. The part I’ve been looking for. I see it now, complete in front of me, and understand. Like only now that I have it, can I allow myself to want it.
I kiss her goodbye at the door. Fuck the cash. Now I know why the old butch was giving it away.
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Midnight Lunch: An Erotic Story about Microwave Omelets Page 4
