Shorn
I'm thinking one a day. I hate to impose a quote on myself like this, as I know how I'm going to feel when I eventually, inevitably miss one, and the absenteeism spirals out of wedlock, or control, or whatever... but I'm thinking it's nice. I feel like I have a lot to write about, and I feel like I'm getting a lot of work done. I feel good, and better, and who knows? Maybe one day, I'll want to write about something that isn't her.
Shorn
She shaved. Down there. Not often enough to be all-the-time flesh, our intimacies often interrupted by her worrying about the level of pubic growth, but she still made the effort. She gave her reasons as having been in swimming, and having grown used to the practice because of it. The need for a swimsuit-suitable bikini line. The greater hygiene of it, I suppose. When we first started dating and I’d try to put my hand down the front of her pants, before she’d stop me I’d feel the smoothness, or feel the delicate and velveteen stubble. I’d feel it, and I’d want it. I’d fight for it, going back over and over again, being stopped before I could make it anywhere too far below her bellybutton, too far to turn back. I’d feel like a letch, like a pervert, but I’d keep going back. I’d keep hopping that fence and heading for the border, knowing I’d get gunned down long before I reached the promised land.
She was never comfortable showing me her pussy. She’d never spread her legs in front of me. Only when I’d get on top of her, only then would she open herself to me, close and to the hilt. If I pulled back even for a second, for any reason, they’d slam shut again, immediately. Even when I ate her out, I’d pull back to see where I was going, to get a better lay of the land, and SNAP. Gone again, hidden between those thighs and the cleft of that ass that would bury a man alive. That ass that would haunt your dreams.
There was something raw about it, her pussy. There was something that hinted at a kind of primal state. As if it was the pussy from which all other pussies were birthed. Nothing old or unpleasant about it, just some quality that denoted it as masterful, as unflagging and powerful. It had a vitality, not the mewling and whimpering pussy of Gennie or the sneering, challenging aperture Lindsay sported, always so close, always so engaged, but always threatening and hateful. No, neither of those, but there for me, all the same. It was staring and red and vital, and you thought it might swallow you when you were in there. You thought you might die.
There would be times, afterward, where she’d get in close to me, snuggle up like she loved me, and say,
“When you do it like that, it just makes me want to do it again.”
Well, fuck. Once was enough for me. I think the record was three. Three in one night. The most we ever did in one day would be difficult to calculate, as we had our share of afternoon quickies and good mornings, but never entered them into the final tally. Just now, thinking about her passion-swollen pussy and the whiskey still fire in my throat and belly, I’m starting to realize that I’m not going to be able to feel the same about her. That she’d give that to someone else, that she would so quickly forget everything we’d given each other, everything we’d own of each other’s… I don’t know I’m enough of a man to forgive it.
But I’m enough of a man to need a real job, and enough of a man to start editing a film that I don’t have faith in. Just throw the shit together, put the shots one after another and you’ll have a movie. Who cares if it’s embarrassing? Who cares if it’s not perfect? Who cares if it’s not what you set out to do?
Well, I do.
Near the end, she stopped touching me, and we hadn’t fucked in a month. When I tried to talk to her about it, she said,
“Oh, honey! I’m sorry!”
Like she didn’t even realize.
Once I wanted it pretty bad, and I was laying down in bed and she was on my computer doing God knows what. Whatever she did those last few months so she wouldn’t have the acute displeasure of having to pay attention to me. I wanted it, and she didn’t feel like it, so I started to beat off. Right there. I asked her to come over and kiss me, at least. She did, and I got close. Then she started to go back to the computer, and I asked her to keep kissing me just for a second longer. She did, and I came, and it was alright. Then she said,
“There. Wasn’t that nice?”
She never masturbated. Not that she told me, though she could have lied. I never saw her touch herself, though she’s probably buck wild now that she has this buttoned-down self-imposed propriety to live down. Date a bad boy, fuck all the time, get as bad and dirty and low-down as you can get because of all that repression. All that built up emotion that “they” wouldn’t let you get out. But she never touched herself. I didn’t get that. How can you be afraid of something that’s a part of you? A couple of times I beat her off. I’d lay next to her and kiss her, my hand working, using spit and her own moistness for lubrication, rubbing and patting and stroking and stirring, heating up the pot to boiling. She came that day. She came quite a few times, but not always. I was amazed at how little a thing that seemed to be with her.
She complained about my fucking, at one point. She said I was too rushed, too rough. After that, I corrected myself. There were times when I’d ask her to be more open, be more confident or trusting around me. She never did. She hardly ever even took initiative. She hardly ever even moved.
God damn it, I love these girls with their big, brown eyes and their soulful minds and their innocence, but I wish just one of them really knew how to fuck a man.
Shorn
She shaved. Down there. Not often enough to be all-the-time flesh, our intimacies often interrupted by her worrying about the level of pubic growth, but she still made the effort. She gave her reasons as having been in swimming, and having grown used to the practice because of it. The need for a swimsuit-suitable bikini line. The greater hygiene of it, I suppose. When we first started dating and I’d try to put my hand down the front of her pants, before she’d stop me I’d feel the smoothness, or feel the delicate and velveteen stubble. I’d feel it, and I’d want it. I’d fight for it, going back over and over again, being stopped before I could make it anywhere too far below her bellybutton, too far to turn back. I’d feel like a letch, like a pervert, but I’d keep going back. I’d keep hopping that fence and heading for the border, knowing I’d get gunned down long before I reached the promised land.
She was never comfortable showing me her pussy. She’d never spread her legs in front of me. Only when I’d get on top of her, only then would she open herself to me, close and to the hilt. If I pulled back even for a second, for any reason, they’d slam shut again, immediately. Even when I ate her out, I’d pull back to see where I was going, to get a better lay of the land, and SNAP. Gone again, hidden between those thighs and the cleft of that ass that would bury a man alive. That ass that would haunt your dreams.
There was something raw about it, her pussy. There was something that hinted at a kind of primal state. As if it was the pussy from which all other pussies were birthed. Nothing old or unpleasant about it, just some quality that denoted it as masterful, as unflagging and powerful. It had a vitality, not the mewling and whimpering pussy of Gennie or the sneering, challenging aperture Lindsay sported, always so close, always so engaged, but always threatening and hateful. No, neither of those, but there for me, all the same. It was staring and red and vital, and you thought it might swallow you when you were in there. You thought you might die.
There would be times, afterward, where she’d get in close to me, snuggle up like she loved me, and say,
“When you do it like that, it just makes me want to do it again.”
Well, fuck. Once was enough for me. I think the record was three. Three in one night. The most we ever did in one day would be difficult to calculate, as we had our share of afternoon quickies and good mornings, but never entered them into the final tally. Just now, thinking about her passion-swollen pussy and the whiskey still fire in my throat and belly, I’m starting to realize that I’m not going to be able to feel the same about her. That she’d give that to someone else, that she would so quickly forget everything we’d given each other, everything we’d own of each other’s… I don’t know I’m enough of a man to forgive it.
But I’m enough of a man to need a real job, and enough of a man to start editing a film that I don’t have faith in. Just throw the shit together, put the shots one after another and you’ll have a movie. Who cares if it’s embarrassing? Who cares if it’s not perfect? Who cares if it’s not what you set out to do?
Well, I do.
Near the end, she stopped touching me, and we hadn’t fucked in a month. When I tried to talk to her about it, she said,
“Oh, honey! I’m sorry!”
Like she didn’t even realize.
Once I wanted it pretty bad, and I was laying down in bed and she was on my computer doing God knows what. Whatever she did those last few months so she wouldn’t have the acute displeasure of having to pay attention to me. I wanted it, and she didn’t feel like it, so I started to beat off. Right there. I asked her to come over and kiss me, at least. She did, and I got close. Then she started to go back to the computer, and I asked her to keep kissing me just for a second longer. She did, and I came, and it was alright. Then she said,
“There. Wasn’t that nice?”
She never masturbated. Not that she told me, though she could have lied. I never saw her touch herself, though she’s probably buck wild now that she has this buttoned-down self-imposed propriety to live down. Date a bad boy, fuck all the time, get as bad and dirty and low-down as you can get because of all that repression. All that built up emotion that “they” wouldn’t let you get out. But she never touched herself. I didn’t get that. How can you be afraid of something that’s a part of you? A couple of times I beat her off. I’d lay next to her and kiss her, my hand working, using spit and her own moistness for lubrication, rubbing and patting and stroking and stirring, heating up the pot to boiling. She came that day. She came quite a few times, but not always. I was amazed at how little a thing that seemed to be with her.
She complained about my fucking, at one point. She said I was too rushed, too rough. After that, I corrected myself. There were times when I’d ask her to be more open, be more confident or trusting around me. She never did. She hardly ever even took initiative. She hardly ever even moved.
God damn it, I love these girls with their big, brown eyes and their soulful minds and their innocence, but I wish just one of them really knew how to fuck a man.
posted by DeadLanguage at 4:13 AM
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