He is a serious man.
His music, a mixture of death metal, heavily orchestrated rock and classical, is serious. His books, Poe and Sagan and math texts, are serious, as is his outlook on matters, from politics to culture to the environment.
His eyes are serious. He doesn’t just look at things or places or people, he examines them, he observes and registers and commits to memory. If he is looking at you, you can feel it. His gaze gives you a sensation not unlike the feeling certain tribes have about being photographed, that the look will take something from your soul.
His drink is serious – whiskey, straight, no ice, no chaser, usually straight from the bottle. When he does drink wine, it is red, dry. No fruity swill for this man.
So when I poured him a glass of my champagne, I knew he wouldn’t drink it. It was very cold, and very fruity, and very sweet, a celebratory drink for a happy evening. When you are in a long distance relationship, you celebrate every moment spent together. We are seldom apart when I visit him – I go to the post office with him, we sit outside together when he smokes, he stands behind me in the bathroom as I dry my hair, kissing my neck.
I put his glass down in front of him, and there it remained, undrunk. Which didn’t surprise me. A silly drink for such a serious man? Never gonna happen.
We sat in silence, occasionally touching each other, each in our own thoughts, knowing it was our last night together for what could be months. It is always a bittersweet evening, the last night of each visit.
So his glass sat, untouched, on the table along with the detritus of the day: a plate from our snacks, the dog’s toy, sunscreen and a towel from the beach. We were relaxed, our skin tender from the sun, buzzed from simply being together. I was on my second, or was it the third? glass of wine, starting to get giggly and silly, which always makes me a bit self-conscious, being so very goofy around such a very serious man. I’m laying on the couch, my feet in his lap, just soaking in the moment.
“Lift your hips,” he tells me, and at first I don’t quite get what he means. It’s not a request, no, it’s not a demand, you get every day.
So, I lift my hips, and he pushes my sundress up, and lays the towel underneath my ass.
“Why? What are you going to do?” I ask. I have no idea where this is going, but any scenario which includes him pushing up my skirt has my instant attention.
“I’m going to drink my champagne,” he says, a gleam in his eyes, his very serious face belying nothing.
He pushes my knees apart, picks up his glass, pours just the tiniest bit on me, which trickles down onto my pussy, cold and bubbling. It takes my breath, everything about it, the cold liquid with its effervescence, the fact that he is doing this, his eyes being on me down there.
He licks it off, sucking the wine off me, savoring the mixed flavors of my juices and the sweet champagne. He pulls away, grins up at me, and pours some more on me.
The fizzy wine almost burns while it is cold, a sensation like nothing I have ever felt. Then his mouth, warm and soft, sucking the liquid off me, kissing me, then pouring more wine.
“Oh my god,” I utter the cliche, but even as it echoes in my head, I’m beyond caring. I am simply floating away on sensation. His mouth, the wine dripping down on the towel, my head swirling with all this, this moment.
Then, his glass is empty.
He has sucked all of this silly wine off me, making serious business of it, befitting the serious man he is, the intense lover, this man who can quote Plato and claims to be a distant cousin of Shakespeare.
He slides his body up mine, I feel his hardon through his jeans, huge, as it presses into my stomach, I feel my pussy twitch, wanting, begging, dripping.
He kisses me. I taste myself and champagne, and him.
“I will never drink champagne any other way,” he tells me, a silly thing to say. I giggle, wrapping my legs around him.
“I promise you, I won’t let you”
That shit is serious.