No great genius has ever existed without some touch of madness. -Aristotle

You should never doubt what nobody is sure of. -Willy Wonka

In the end, we all become stories. -Margaret Atwood

It might be possible that the world itself is without meaning. -Virginia Woolf, "Mrs. Dalloway"

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

Foreplay - The Beginning

Part I (middle) of an attempt to write an erotic scene in a yet unwritten novel.
***
We end up at a motel instead. Something about new paint and the nosy bitch next door.

We sit on the bed – which side do you prefer? I choose the right. He turns on the satellite radio; “Once Bitten Twice Shy” is playing. He flips through the cable channels, stops on Good Will Hunting, mutes the sound. We make small talk as he pours two shots. I’m already mellow; I’m not much of a drinker. We talk and laugh and talk some more, a few more shots and I’m primed. Lesson #5: Do not mix split personalities with alcohol.

Would you like to watch the movie? No, I say, the music is good. “Animals” comes on. He looks over and grins, moves closer, gives me a light kiss, looks in my eyes. My eyes look from his eyes to his lips, back to his eyes as I notice he’s moving in closer. He puts his hands on my hips and pulls me down so I’m somewhat reclining – half-up on the pillow, half-down on the bed. He props himself up on his right arm and smiles. Are you OK? I smile. His breathing is changing, mine is matching. With his tattooed arm he reaches over me for the small of my back, and pulls me towards him. My breath catches in my throat. He brushes my lips with his, I wait. He reaches under me and begins to rub my back and moves lower, up and down, slow, determined. His hands are strong yet gentle. I curl over to him, tease his lips with my tongue, nip his lower lip, kiss it quick, mate his tongue with mine. He groans, I gasp.

He pulls back and I notice his eyes are changing and his breathing is deep. He pulls his tattooed arm back, brushing over my breasts. He clears his throat – are you thirsty? I nod, very much so. What would you like? Anything, water, soda. I’ll be right back. OK, I say, please hurry, I think.

I still feel him on me, his touch, his kiss. I can smell him, taste him. Thoughts run through my head like a sheared live wire: is it too soon? Is it too late? Does he have condoms? Is this just about sex; is that all he wants? Is that all I want? Ozzy offers “Shot in the Dark.” Screw it, tout ce qui se prĂ©sente.

He returns with two 16 ounce bottles of water and two diet cokes. I sit up and take the water. Thanks, I say. No problem, he says. He watches me. He sits next to me, opens a diet coke and chugs half, turns his head and burps. Excuse me. I smile. I scrunch my knees up so my stocking feet are flat on the bed. I look over at him; he’s grinning. Just like the Cheshire cat. Why am I here, what am I doing? My real self is telling me to leave, this is wrong, it’s just about sex, it’s only about sex. I turn to get off the bed but the alcohol knocks me back down.

He straightens out my left leg and I recline myself this time. He leans over and puts his right leg over mine. He’s propped up again, stroking back and forth between the bottom of my neck and the crevice of my breasts. My heart begins to pound. I take his bicep in my hand – I only fit half around – and squeeze, release, squeeze, inch up, squeeze. I trail my hand up to his neck, pull him in, lose my fingers in his long, silvery hair. He’s kissing my lips, my face, my neck. He kisses the trail he had been stroking, this time daring the crevice. My back automatically arcs and I move myself underneath him. He pulls me close, parts my legs with his and positions himself on top. He unbuttons the only button on my shirt, tugs on my bra, starts kissing my breasts. My hands are on his back, his sides, kneading him, stroking him, my lips kiss whatever comes near. I bend my right leg and he groans. He looks up at me, more than ready which I already know. He’s not asking, I’m not offering. Our hearts are beating together, we are trembling, rocking, waiting – who will make the first move, what is the first move.

He reaches down for the snap on my Levi’s; I touch his hand and look into his eyes. I want to say something, but I don’t know what. What’s wrong, he says. I’m not sure, I say. He’s breathing rapidly; his body is tensing. I’m nervous, I say. He smiles. That’s OK, he says, there are other things we can do. If you want to – he hesitates – do you want to? I can’t answer right away, those questions haunt me. He haunts me. I put my hands on each of his biceps, squeeze them. I travel up to his neck, down to his chest. I undo a few buttons on his shirt, reach inside, stroke his chest. I look at him; I lean up and kiss him. I won’t say no, I won’t say stop. He moans and leans into me. Metallica wishes us well with “Nothing Else Matters.”
***

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