He said it was no big deal, “Its not like I’m psychic or anything.”
He didn’t “read minds” per se. He told her it was more a case of reading people, their body language, the way their eyes would dart around a room when they told a lie or how her eyelids dropped when desire pulsed through her. He said he simply noticed people, the tone of their voice, the rhythm of their breathing.
But he knew things about her that he did not know about others. He got feelings. Inklings. Hunches.
“What’s wrong?” he would ask, from miles away, when she felt bereft. “Please don’t worry so,” when anxiety nagged at her.
“Its a connection, I don’t know why its there,” he said. He told her this the first time he was inside her. “I have felt it since the first time I heard your voice. You and I have this . . . thing. I didn’t tell you, I was afraid I would scare you away.”
Of course, by that point, he could not have scared her away. That first time, when he sank into her, she knew it was some serious sex. There was chemistry, attraction, it was between them from the first time they met. And the sex proved that true.
A natural skeptic, she pointed out when he got something wrong. If he called her and told her he saw her wearing green when she was wearing blue, she made a point to tell him.
“Are you outside, in the sunlight?”
“No, I’m in my house! See you don’t know everything.”
But he knew enough, the important things. He could tell when she was tired, or happy or angry. Or wet.
When she had sex with others, he knew. He mentioned it only after, only in passing, only to let her know he knew. The next morning or the next night, he would make a reference to it. Not accusingly, or gloating, just to tell her, to reinforce his claim to her, strengthen their connection.
“Did you come, last night, when you were with him? You did, I think, I felt it.”
He could feel it when she came, even from hundreds of miles away. He said it was a trembling, a shiver, shaking his mind. Even when she was alone, when she masturbated, he felt it. She would hear her phone as her pussy clenched and her clit twitched.
“You are killing me, that is mine, save that for me,” a text would read. “I should be the one to make you come.”
So it was little wonder, she thought, that he would know what she wanted in bed without her telling him. He knew how she wanted to be kissed, the spot that liked to be bitten. He sensed, she thought, how she wanted to be held, to be touched.
“Lay back,” he would tell her, or roll over or turn around, and she did, without thinking, she didn’t have to.
Was he that sexually intuitive? Was he that in tune with her pussy? Or did she want these things simply because he did them? As he bent her over, her hands against the wall, he told her to leave her boots on. Then when he stood behind her, his hips lined perfectly up with hers. She knew that was what she wanted, but really, the idea hadn’t crossed her mind before she was doing it.
Yet, when he kissed her mouth softly, sucking her bottom lip, it was perfect.
And when he shoved his tongue down her throat, it was exactly what she wanted.
That was the beauty of the whole thing, the ease of it. The rest of her life was spent in her own head, constantly thinking thinking thinking. Working, running, going, doing, fulfilling the needs of others, in fact often anticipating those needs, occupied most of her time. But when she was alone with him, there was no “have to,” it was just feel, receive, enjoy. Even giving him pleasure was to feel joy, there was no effort. No thought process or planning, she simply did what she felt.
Feelings had no time to even gel into conscious thought before he was acting.
“I want to know your body better than you do,” he told her, at the beginning. Maybe, she told herself, that is it, he has simply studied me, learned me. But that wasn’t it , she knew it. No amount of study could make a dancer perform a perfect ballet if there was no choreography. And there was none, they didn’t plan their sex, they just did it.
When they came together, there were words, yes. But not instructions, directions. Yet, his fingers slipped into the cleft of her just as his teeth clamped down on her nipple. Not hard, just right, at the perfect moment. His fingers plunged into her, just far enough, out to tease her clit, not too hard, not too fast. Perfectly.
When he was on top of her, he held back just long enough to make her hook her ankles behind his back, pulling him down, wanting his dick in her so bad she heard whimpering noises in her own throat. Then, fast, smooth, plunging into her, filling her up, he would stop, letting her feel it, experience him all the way in her, let her clutch his cock, savoring the deliciousness of that moment.
She didn’t feel she had to do anything to please him, yet he was pleased. She wondered if maybe his sexual ESP worked both ways, that he was somehow telling her, without words, what he liked. If so, she thought, let him have at it, I don’t care. If he is directing all this with his brain waves, like some Uri Geller of fucking, if he was telepathically conducting this symphony of sex, then he was Leonard Bernstein, let him do it. Whatever it was, it worked, why worry about it?
“I was just thinking about you,” he said on the phone.
“And what, pray tell, were you thinking?”
“Nothing really, you were just on my mind.” But she knew better. Because she had been thinking about him. Sitting at work, she had been fantasizing, actually. Specifically fantasizing about what it would be like to suck him while he was in her chair and she was under her desk.
“I was just thinking about how cool it would be to have sex at your work.”
“Oh were you?” She laughed, apparently a somewhat non-professional laugh, as several coworkers turned to look. “You want to come over, late maybe? After everyone leaves for the day? I can stay late, I have a key.”
“Really? That would be great, for some reason its been on my mind. Just the image of you, on your knees, in your office.”
Was she sending these thoughts or receiving them? Who cares, she thought. He feels me, I feel him, if those thoughts meet somewhere and become intertwined, does it matter whose head they originated in?
“Come over, later,” she told him. “I’ll be thinking about you.”
It started like most things do, without much thought. Just shooting the breeze.
“C’mon baby, please.”
It was ‘that time of the month,’ she was out of commission, sexually. Not that she didn’t want to make love, she most certainly did. And he was willing, but alas, it was not to be. But, oh, he wanted relief.
They were laying on the bed, him watching TV, her reading. And he muted the set, right in the middle of a King of Queens rerun, and said, “Suck my dick.”
Now, she was not adverse to doing that either. Quite the opposite, she really enjoyed giving him head, it was such a turn on, knowing how much it turned him on, as well as the power she felt when she knew she was driving him insane. But his approach, she told him, needed work.
“You have to make me want to do it,” she tried explaining. “Like, kiss me, get me worked up, I’d probably do it without you asking. But just to say it, just like that, ‘suck my dick’ well, its just not very seductive.”
He tried it again, explaining that he didn’t see the problem, he was just stating what he was feeling at the moment. She tried one more time.
“What if I would just say, ‘eat my pussy,’ huh? What would you think? What if I just walked in and said, ‘Hey, eat my pussy?”
He answer was immediate.
“Are ya kidding me??”
They laughed. “But I would never say that, that’s the difference, that’s why it would turn you on.”
They had been together for years, and she had never said it before.
But she kept thinking about it, although she didn’t know if he had. She thought once or twice about calling him and leaving the voice mail, just that, “eat my pussy.” She considered calling him on his cell phone while she was in the bedroom and he was in a different room, just calling him and uttering those obscene words. But she never worked up the nerve.
She had almost forgotten all about it, about saying it to him, telling him what she wanted him to do to her, when he mentioned it.
They were doing things couples do, in the kitchen, fixing dinner. She opened the refrigerator, and he turned at a certain moment. The ended up in an embrace, which got heated. He pulled his hand from her ass to the front of her jeans as she tasted the skin on the side of his neck.
“You’re going to have to say it,” he whispered. She knew instantly what he meant.
“Yes, you will. If you want it, you’re going to have to ask for it.”
She went weak in the knees, a surge of energy went from her belly up to her nipples.
But she thought he would never do that, would never expect her to say those words. She had asked him before, without actually asking. She had said, “Please” when they were rolling around, hands on each other, mouths leaving wet trial across each others’ bodies. And “please” had been all she had had to say.
She had answered him “yes, oh yes oh yes” when he asked if he could, “Can I put my mouth on you, can I lick you, I want to make you come.” She had been glad, grateful even, when he said he wanted to do these things.
But to say it, like that, to tell him to do it, command him to, she couldn’t imagine it. Yet, he told her he wasn’t going to do it until she asked him, told him, in those words, what he wanted.
“Eat my pussy.” Every time she thought of it, she found herself getting wet.
And then there they were, in bed. He pulled her shirt off, her bra, his mouth on her nipples, and she wanted him to, to eat her. She reached down, felt how hard he was, so turned on, she wanted his mouth on her, his tongue.
He put his hand on her, she put her hand on top of his, pushing it down into her pants, grinding her self against him, pushing his fingers into her. She really wanted him to, especially when he brought his hand up to his face, licking his fingers. She moaned.
“You know you’re going to have to say it,” he told her.
“Oh god, don’t, don’t make me say that, just do it.”
“Say it, ask for it, tell me the words.”
Their hands went down, again, into her pants, one hand between her legs, she used the other hand to pull the pants down, off.
He pushed his fingers up into her, both their hands were wet, the tops of her thighs were slick. He swirled a nipple in his mouth, worked his way down to her legs, the backs of her knees.
“Just three little words, just say . . . what you want.”
He started licking her juices from her thighs, his finger up and down the cleft of her, never touching her clit.
“Oh god, I’m dying, please . . .” his mouth was so close, she could feel his breath on her cunt.
“Ten little letters, just say them, just tell me.”
She could no longer endure it, her brain was filled with it, the wanting of it, so badly she needed it, needed him to lick her, she needed this, to come with his mouth on her.
“God, do it, eat my pussy, please please, eat me, eat my pussy.”
And then, he was there, and she was coming, coming, on his fingers, on his mouth.
“See, all you had to do was say it, three little words,” he told her.
“Big answer,” she smiled.
I was satisfied, really.
We had come together as the sun burned the fog off trees turned by Autumn the colors of a scatter rug from the 1970s, rust, gold, burnt orange. The air held a bite as we climbed the stairs to our room, cold air swirling up my skirt, over the thigh-high silk stockings I had volunteered to wear.
The door had barely closed when we reached for each other. Not that we had been far apart. When in close proximity to this man, I always find I want to be in closer proximity still, touching, feeling, smelling, tasting.
We had started before we knew we had, standing at the foot of the bed, him barefoot and me in heels, his dick was touching my belly before I realized he was naked. I put my foot on the bed and slipped him into me, a movement so spontaneous, so unrehearsed, so effortless we hardly noticed when it happened, only that it was . . . perfect.
After that, we had done everything we had told each other we would, carried out all our sexual plans — me on my knees before him, his dick down my throat, him behind me, fucking me so hard the mattress scooted off the bed, I had been on top and underneath this man, we had come into each others’ mouths, onto and into the other. I had watched his orgasm coming closer, closer, seen it across his face, felt his hands squeeze my ass, as if to gather me into him as he came.
We had stopped, caught our breath, discussed, recapped, went for more. I told him he was done, finished, kaput. That it was over, for today, that even if he wanted to make love to me for hours more, it was just physically not going to happen. Our bodies, in middle age, had done all they could do, we were sore, exhausted, hungry and thirsty. Even if I would get aroused again, which I doubted, his dick was not going to go again.
“Let it go,” I told him. “Save some for next time.”
We were up, getting dressed in fact. I had put on my bra, his tighty whities were on. We were walking around, looking for our clothes, a sock thrown over a chair, a shoe under the bed. I turned and found myself in his arms, we stopped, kissed. Kissed again.
“Please,” he said, I asked what he was pleading for. “Not you,” he said. “I know you will do it, I know you want it when I do. I’m asking my dick to please, please let me do it again.”
“No, baby, I can’t, I’m worn out,” I told him as his hands found the small of my back, pushed my hips into his. I tasted the skin at the base of his neck, salty and smooth. Tracing his jawline with my fingertips, I felt the pulse in his throat, the smell of him evoking a response from my body I had not expected. I felt the familiar warm syrup feeling in my belly, a twitch between my legs that told me maybe I was wrong.
“C’mon,” he said, his hips swaying side-to-side, a little happy dance-seduction move that never fails to turn me on. “We don’t know when we’ll see each other again. I want all of you I can get, every drop, I need to take all I can with me, please. Don’t you want to, just a little? Please.”
The longer we stood by the bed, his arms around me, his dick is willed into a command performance and rises. My hands find it, maybe . . .
He pushes me down on the bed, tells me he understands I am tender, he loves me, loves my pussy. Kisses it while my thighs are closed, then ever so gently spreads my legs, the softest touch imaginable. I don’t think, just feel, receive, with no thought beyond his mouth on me, his tongue caressing me.
His fingers open me slowly, he is unhurried. His tongue travels the length of me, he swirls it inside me, tastes me, truly tastes me. Licks my clit, huge under his tongue. I cannot think, I am floating on this, feel myself rising, up, up, then tumbling, falling, a freefall that seems endless. I have never come like this, it is drawn out, lasts, takes my breath.
Then he is beside me, kissing me, loving me, loving my orgasm it seems.
“I knew it,” he tells me. “You always have one more in you.”
He never closes his eyes. He looks at me when he kisses me, brings his hand up to my face, as if he is afraid I am an illusion that might dissipate, he watches me to make sure I don’t disappear.
My lover tells me he is a visual creature, that is true. Strange that is does not make me uncomfortable or self conscious, his always looking, watching. He tells me he is recording me in his mind, that during his long hours alone he will play me back, the line of my jaw, the play of emotion over my face, an orgasm rolling over my features.
For some reason, I don’t mind his study. While I hold no illusions of beauty so great he cannot tear his eyes away, I know he sees something in me, on me, that I do not.
Sitting across a table, he looks at my eyes, my hair, my smile, when he walks behind me I feel it, feel the intensity with which he watches my stride.
So when he looks down to see himself going in and out of me, I watch him looking. When he tells me what he sees when he fucks me from behind, I am not pushed over the edge by what he is describing, rather that he is describing it, that he is making note.
When I am riding him, facing his feet, and turn to look behind me, look over my shoulder to see his face, it is more than my eyes he sees, or my shoulder, or my hair all wild. It is not just the pinkness, the juiciness, of my cunny sliding up and down on his dick, it is the picture that is being projected onto his eyes, into his heart and his mind. He never stops recording.
Except for that one instant, less than a second, when he starts to cum. Then he squeezes his eyes shut, grabs my ass, bucks, shouts as he comes into me. For that one second, he stops looking, he is inside his own head, just sensation, just the point where we join, that is all.
Then he opens his eyes, yes baby, I am still here.
“It’s not as sexy as it sounds,” he told her.
It doesn’t sound sexy, she thought, it sounds scary and stupid and pointless, jumping out of an airplane.
But she dreamed of him jumping, looking at her, stepping into nothing; gone
then she was on the ground and he was falling falling falling
And suddenly it was sexy, she wanted him, tangled up in a parachute, with heavy boots on his feet.
Prepared, matter of fact
Into the air, landing on his feet. Just doin’ my job, ma’am
He unbuckles the harness, the ‘chute falls away. She pulls him to her, down onto the rocky ground, pushes the helmet from his head, kissing his mouth; he is still breathless from the jump, his heart pounding, she can smell the rush on him.
She dreams of this, yet it frightens her. She doesn’t want him to be on that plane, or falling through the sky. She doesn’t want him to land hard, hit the ground running.
But the dream of him looking down at the earth, the thought of him, agressive, “fuck you airplane, who needs ya?”
It came unbidden, uninvited, unwanted, it brought guilt with it, and doubt.
The desire to make love to a man who would jump, fall, go go go out the door and down to the ground surprised her, dismayed her.
Was it him, or the jump? Were the two separate?
The landing? Going up again?
No, it was the ballsiness of it, the assumption that he will land, will know what to do on the ground. To actually plan to jump from a plane for no other reason than to land, because it is hard, it is dangerous and therefore must be mastered. Just because he knows he can do it.
And he can – he does.
“Not as sexy as it sounds.” No, it didn’t sound sexy. It sounded scary and stupid and pointless.
It sounded like nothing that she had ever given a moments’ thought, much less a man who would do such a thing. An adrenaline addicted cowboy, obviously. An asshole of epic proportions. A jackass, an egotistical bad boy out to prove he wasn’t even afraid of goddamn gravity.
A hard-on with a few yards of fabric strapped to his back.
She wanted no part of this, she was not a woman who loved ‘men in uniform.’ She found them tiring, uncompromising, difficult, that type of person, of men.
But in her dream, he wears camouflage fabric with his name stamped on the front that she pushes up to feel the skin underneath. There are buckles and belts and metal hooks for tools and weapons, he makes a jangling sound when he hits the ground, the parachute flying out behind him. She gathers all this, all of him, into her arms, pulling him down, on top of her.
But he commands this moment, it is his decision when she unbuckles his pants. He is completely in charge, although it is she who guides him inside of her, and while she moans, pleads, he merely plunges into her, intent, focused.
On the ground in her dream, and in her bed when she wakes, she is coming, gasping, afraid of this, of the woman who would want this.
“Not as sexy as it sounds.” No, it didn’t sound sexy, it sounded scary and stupid and pointless.
But the man who would do it? Ah . . . him.