Just as it was nice to be made to feel these things by someone else, it was equally nice to make someone else feel them as well.
I swallowed his salty come. All of it. And then I licked him clean.
When I lay by his side he kissed me open mouthed, pushing his tongue deep into every part of me. I smiled and giggled again, but he never stopped kissing me. "You know you're technically licking your own come, don't you?"
"I do."
When we were too tired, we lay facing each other. I put my arms around his neck, and we kissed gently some more. Eventually, his lips stopped moving and he fell asleep. I joined him soon after.
In the morning, when he woke up, I said to him, "I'll go to your Christmas party with you."
-7-
Turns out the warmish weather we'd had during our picnic was not only because of us being close to the south of England, but also because there'd been a warm front moving past or something. I never really understood much about predicting the weather, probably because my scientific mind could never get its head around the astrological pseudo-scientific aspect of meteorology. I mean, have you ever been given good advice by a weather-man that wasn't already plainly obvious when you looked out the window?
In all fairness to weather-men around the world, England has the worst freaking weather possible anywhere. And only god himself could predict it. Or the dudes who run The Matrix.
Point is: Out of the blue, and without warning, it was now cold!
For the next two or three weeks Clayton and I hung out after classes, not so often in the woods anymore, but often in my bedroom. Most of our talking was done with tongues down each other's throats.
Or with his tongue somewhere else.
I really liked it when he put his tongue there. I mean...really...liked it.
He was sensual, kind, and gentle. He kissed me there with all the love and force I expected from someone who cared about me. In truth, I think the dude truly enjoyed it himself. It looked like he absolutely loved licking my pussy.
Fine by me.
Love. There was that word again. I'd given up on it. Since that conversation in his room we'd never again used the word as such. We'd said "I love licking you" or "I love it when you do that." But not...the other three-word form.
I love you.
We'd both settled on "I really like you" for now.
I was OK with that.
In the times we did talk, I got to know him better. He told me how he was actually a wannabe surfer, but never actually did anything more than a little body-boarding when he was younger.
He told me about his Motocross accident in more detail, the one that left him with the gash running down the side of his body, and how he almost died from it. And how he never got back on a bike again after that.
The photo he had of his sister and him, in his dorm room, was actually taken before she split with some dude that rode a motorcycle and smoked a lot of cigarettes. But that's not the dude she's having a baby with. That's another dude. The currently active program she's now with.
Turns out she lived close by, but she and Clay had grown apart. So he never saw her.
Of course, we also studied together. One thing you'd never guess when you look at Clayton—because he looks so much like a surfer you just wanna scrape your tongue all over him—is that he is smart.
Finally, I figured it out. I was lying on my bed with some books about Discrete Mathematics and Probability Theory. He was sitting on a turned-around chair as usual, reading up on Object-Oriented Programming. And that's when it hit me.
"You're also on a scholarship, aren't you? You're also here on someone else's dime!"
He looked up from his book. His lips were redder than usual today. Delicious. "Took you a while to figure that one out, didn't it?"
I threw a book at him! He put his arm up and blocked it!
Of course he was on a scholarship, because when we first got together he'd told me he'd grown up in the poorer parts of London, and that he was raised by a multi-boyfriend-having, single mom.
"So, what made them give it to you?" I asked.
"I'll show you mine if you show me yours."
"Oh, Clayton Remington, the double meanings..."
"You know, you do that Lauren Bacall accent really well. It's a little...distracting."
"Lauren who?"
He laughed. "Sexiest leading lady to have ever worked with Humphrey Bogart. Sexy because her voice was...like yours."
I made my voice extra husky. "You mean mine is like hers."
He exhaled strongly. "Whatever, it's fucking sexy."
I fluttered my eyes like those old-time actresses and pretended to smoke a cigarette with the pencil in my hand. "What are some lines she used?"
"I don't know 'some' lines, but I know one."
"What was it?"
He started going red. He shuffled once or twice. "She was telling Bogart how to whistle in a film called To Have and Have Not."
"Uh-huh?"
"Well, in this deep, alluring voice, she said, 'You just put your lips together and...blow.'"
I nose-laughed. "Let me guess, your sick twenty-first century mind took that as being a double meaning."
"Maybe."
"You've seen a lot of old movies, haven't you?"
"Plenty. And all the classics."
"Like Casino."
"OK, maybe that one wasn't really a classic. But Goodfellas was."
I started doing it again, analyzing, analyzing, analyzing. Trying to piece together why and how come. I couldn't. "Any particular reason?"
"Because Goodfellas was good."
"No, dumbass, any particular reason you like watching so many classics?"
He shrugged. "I like movies. I like getting lost in a story. And I like...especially...how different things were in the forties. Men were real men in the movies."
"Yeah, and women barely had rights and African Americans couldn't vote! You betcha, great time in history."
"Hey, I'm not saying the era itself was all good. I wouldn't want to go back to it. I'm saying it did have some good things about it. And what I'm really saying is just that the art was great."
"I see..."
"So, I take it you're not a big movie fan."
"Only if it's sci-fi. Because I can learn from it."
"Books?"
"Only if it's sci-fi. Because I can learn from it."
"Wow. Don't you ever delve into fiction of any sort?"
"Only if it's sci-fi. Because I can learn from it."
"No wonder you over-analyze everything. You know, there's a 'science' and an anatomy to fiction just as there's a science to non-fiction. Whether it's romance or comedy or whatever it is."
"Explain."
"Only if you talk geek to me," he said.
I pretended to smoke again, took in a deep breath, and said, "Show me the metrics, baby."
"Oh, so you've seen Jerry Maguire."
"Nope. Why?"
"Never mind. That almost sounded like a line from the movie."
"Whatever, you were about to break down the anatomy of fiction for me."
"Yeah, well, the anatomy is that there is no anatomy. But it gives people hope that things could be a certain way when maybe they're not."
"Hope."
"Yeah," he said. "Hope. You need hope if you want to make scientific breakthroughs."
I was so not buying it. "Explain."
"Christiaan Barnard, the guy who performed the first successful human-to-human heart transplant. Do you think he didn't have hope when he executed that procedure? If he didn't, he would've given up and the dude he was operating on would've died on the operating table."
"Valid point."
"Did you know one of Barnard's brothers died of a heart problem when he was four?"
"Damn, are you like a walking encyclopedia?"
"Something like that."
"Photographic memory?" I asked.
"Something like that."
"Now you
're getting me horny."
"Wanna go watch a movie?"
"Don't you need to study?"
He cocked an eyebrow. "I just told you I have a photographic memory and that I'm a walking encyclopedia. Do you really think I need to study?"
"So why are you sitting here?"
He raked down my bare legs with his eyes.
"You're studying me, aren't you?"
"I am."
"Can't you just take a photo in your mind and look at it forever?"
"It's not the same as having your wetness under my palm."
I shifted my legs. He'd pushed the waterworks button. I sighed out heavily. "Oh, Clayton..." I lay back and looked at the ceiling. "You know this means you're gonna have to lick me before we leave, right?"
"I was hoping you'd say that."
-8-
I tried to get Clay to sign me up for a Netflix trial subscription so we could snuggle up on the bed and watch something on my computer screen with its Cyber Acoustics Subwoofer Satellite System Speakers.
But he wouldn't have it. He knew as well as I did that if we were on a bed together, covered by a blanket, we wouldn't be watching any movies.
Yeah, it was that kind of a relationship.
And he also said that popcorn in a theater tastes better.
Popcorn?
The man was relentless. He really wanted me to get into this whole "fiction" thing.
I'm not into fiction. Not at all. Too many lies. I don't like lies. And even the well-researched fiction leaves you wondering what's true and what's not.
Me? I like facts. And facts only. I can live with sci-fi because a lot of breakthroughs come about because of it. Sci-fi took us to space. Now that's a fact.
And if I'm watching a documentary, don't give me some dude giving his opinion. Show me the metrics!
We stood outside the theater and looked at the billboards. Mandela: A Long Walk to Freedom was on. Wasn't that based on an autobiography?
"Let's watch that?" I said.
He shook his head. "The movie doesn't do the book justice. You should read the book instead. Besides, we're looking for fiction. That one's based on an autobiography."
"Have you read it?" I thought I was being cocky, and that I'd caught him out!
"Of course I have. All five hundred and fifty pages of it."
I gulped.
"We're watching Catching Fire," he said.
"No ways. No ways! A fantasy? How many lies do you wanna throw down my throat?"
"It's sci-fi."
"That's not real sci-fi! It's sci-fi for kids. It's a fantasy."
He stared open-mouthed at me. "I just realized, you probably haven't even read any of the Harry Potter books, have you? Or watched any of the movies!"
"No comment."
"We're watching Catching Fire!"
"Shouldn't I read the book instead?"
"Ha ha. In this case, the movie's better."
I did the only thing I could think of. I crossed my arms over my flat chest and sulked.
Clayton got us tickets and we sat way in the back. Only problem is...the theater was packed!
I'd had ideas of maybe fazing out and getting down on my knees in front of him and showing him some of the salivating love in return for what he'd shown me before we'd left.
But it was impossible. There were just too many people in here!
I did, however, manage to slide my hand into his denims before the show and hold him and rub him...slowly. It was dark enough to do that, although still a little risky.
He hardened quickly under my hand and soon exploded his juice all over it. He made a slight groan, but suppressed it, and the river gates opened up in me when it happened. But it wasn't enough to have him agree to get out of this damn movie!
Finally, the trailers for the upcoming shows ended. Clayton leaned down toward my ear and whispered, "I'll pay you back for that later. But now, you're gonna watch this movie!"
I was uncomfortable throughout the whole thing. So many lies, so many untruths.
And so much...hope.
Damn it, despite that spinning clock and the chink in the force field and those crazy monkeys and everybody dying...this crazy chick with the bow and arrow on the screen still...hoped.
After the movie, I kept my mouth shut about it. It was too unscientific to accept.
And, yet, too personally moving to ignore.
I was gonna have to analyze this when I got back down to earth from the sheer amazement of it all. But, right now, I was OK with being in the clouds for a little longer...
Outside the theater, I wrapped my arms around Clay's neck and tip-toed up to kiss him. I was forgetting things, forgetting any unhappiness I might've ever had before. I even just enjoyed the small pecks he was giving me on my lips and nose and cheeks in return.
Something had changed in me because of that movie...
I was in my own little heaven.
My own bubble.
And then I heard the bitch's voice next to me.
And I was plummeting to the earth like a flaming meteorite blazing through the atmosphere.
-9-
"Clayton," I heard next to me. The voice was velvety, husky.
A husky voice. Hmmmmm...
"So, is this the bimbo you left me for?"
Hey, did this bitch just call me a bimbo!?
Clayton's fingers trembled on my back. He let me go rapidly, cleared his throat.
I looked to my left...and I saw her. The voluptuous sugar-mommy, Kim Kardashian lookalike, my-tits-are-so-big-because-I've-had-three-kids, fully-fledged woman next to me.
She was tall. Very tall. And round. And curvaceous.
Everything I wasn't.
And she was standing here looking down at me.
Now it was I who swallowed hard.
I've never been good with confrontation, unless it's a video game.
I felt my left index finger start twitching wildly down like it was hitting a keyboard key. Slam! Slam! Slam!
Then I realized this was not a game of Doom and that hitting down on the Ctrl key was not going to shoot this bitch across the parking lot!
I wish.
I parked the idea in my mind for a potential future patent application.
She folded her arms and leaned back. The woman really had huge melons. If she turned suddenly, I think my little head would fall off my shoulders if it got caught in the way of one of them.
Brief flashes of Clayton licking those tits and of her going down on him, hit me. I imagined his cock inside them and her squeezing it up and down and then licking it with all the experience she had.
This chick probably even let him do anal on her.
She looked like every man's dream.
My boobs would never wrap around his shaft.
Ever.
I was suddenly very insecure.
"Camila," he said. He held my hand tightly.
"Well, Clay-Baby, aren't you going to introduce me?"
"No, I'm not."
My hand went sweaty in his.
"My, she looks so sweet. Such a small, fragile girl. Moving down the ladder, hey, Clay?"
"We're leaving."
He pulled me by the arm and tugged me off. From behind me, I heard her saying, with all the confidence of an experienced cougar, "I'll always be around if you ever feel the need of a real woman again, Clay-Baby."
In the car, Clayton said, "I'm sorry about that, Layla. She was so out of line."
"No, no, it's fine..."
I couldn't comment. The woman was right. She was all woman. Round and sexy and confident and experienced.
Nathan had given me some experience, but it's different when you've been doing it for so many years. And, in her case probably, with so many different men as well! It's like any activity: Practice makes perfect.
But what really freaked me out were her assets. Both at the FRONT-END and also WHERE IT ALL REALLY HAPPENS.
No wonder Clayton felt like he'd "loved" her when he
was sixteen. If I'd met Nathan when I was sixteen I think I would've believed I loved him as well.
It's that raw, primordial feeling that goes as far down as the lowest glands when you see the epitome of pure sex in front of you. It's millennia of natural selection coming into play. Virile men are more attracted to women with wider hips. And they're definitely more attracted to woman with bigger breasts.
Because it's a physiological attraction. It's an attraction that's written into the very fabric of our body's DNA. It's an attraction which says, Sex is fundamentally about procreation. And men fall into that cave-man think and go for women that they, subconsciously, believe would be able to bear children for them.
Just like animals.
And this is no statement against men. Because, thinking as cave-women, we go for the men that would be able to kill that bear or hunt that lion for dinner for us.
Guys like Nathan.
We're as cave-thinking-oriented as they are when we think with our sex organs.
-10-
In my room, Clayton snuggled up under the covers with me.
"So, what did you think of the movie?" he asked.
The question barely registered.
He moved his hand slowly over my clothed vag and rubbed it gently. My eyelids struggled to stay open. Why did he always do that to me!?
"Not now," I said. I moved my hand over his and pushed it away.
I was already warm down there. But he was indeed like heroin. One touch, one kiss, and my mind would drift.
I didn't want that tonight.
"What's the problem, Layla?"
I said nothing, just stared blankly up at the ceiling.
I could feel his breath on my ear he was so close. I was on my back and he was on his side.
"This isn't about Camila, is it?" he said.
"It is."
He sighed heavily, moved onto his back and looked up also.
Under the covers, he held my hand.
It warmed me inside, and that I didn't like either. But I didn't let go.
"Why did you really leave her?" I asked. "I mean, you told me it's because she wasn't me, but...there must be more than that."
"There isn't."
"Was she"—I coughed—"good?"
One of his fingers twitched against my hand. "G—good?"
Girl-Nerds Like it Longer (Erotic Romance) Book 4 Page 4
