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Braille
You won't talk. Maybe you can't.
Touch me touch me touch me your body says but your mouth is sealed, your lips might as well be glued shut duct-taped like some kidnap victim bondage game.
Touch me touch me touch me. Maybe you want to make me guess. Maybe you're shy. Maybe you're scared.
It makes me crazy sometimes, makes me want to slap you. I am frightened some days by how much it irritates me. I'm scared I'll lose control and just start pounding my body against yours until you scream "Stop!" and I will at least have had the satisfaction of making the word, any word, even one which says I can never come back.
Sometimes it makes me want to press my lips against yours hard and tease my tongue between them slowly, pry them apart, inch them open then between the teeth, carefully, tongue exploring, fishing for the syllables. They have to be in there somewhere. I'll scoop them out like a cat laps up milk.
Sometimes it makes me want to tickle you. Sometimes it makes me want to kiss you gently over every inch of your skin. But the motive, slap kiss tickle pry, it's always the same. I need words.
You're lying there in that cold way.
You're not cold, of course, your body is practically steaming. You sweat easily, and you start to sweat from the moment we first touch, even before our bodies meet and part and meet again. You just sweat. I think it embarrasses you. I like it. It's the heat, the same heat in your food and your spicy smell and taste. The heat I see in the way you eat, with your hands, like the food is too precious to distance yourself from it with metal. The heat in your eyes when you watch someone and I know you're studying the way their body shifts under their clothes, the way their ass moves.
You're not cold. The room isn't cold. Even the light from the window is a generous amber, not parsimonious moonlight. I remember your telling me once how much you liked sex in the afternoon. I remember how strange I thought that was - sex was for the middle of the night, in the utter dark, with the lights out and the near-sleep around us. Sex was for already weary bodies, for pleasant post-orgasmic dreams. You taught me that sex is how to divide a day into morning and evening, how to start over again and have two days in one.
You're not cold. The room isn't cold. The light isn't cold. But your silence - your complete speechlessness - I feel like I need to pull a quilt around myself and hide inside it, hide from you and the space that you put up between us.
I am tired of guessing. I'm tired of thrusting up and down on you and not knowing whether you wanted this at all, or if you wanted my long fingers to pinch and tickle your clitoris between them, or if you wanted me to lean down and wriggle my tongue along your cunt, up over your clit, rubbing all your pussy hairs into the same direction like a cat cleaning and watching as they spring back into their curly mess and then moving back down to taste the red acid flavor of your juices again.
I'm tired of saying "Do you like this? How do you feel about this? What about this?" and maybe sometimes getting a nod or a squeak or a sigh but never a "lower" or a "faster" or a "put your other hand inside me while you do that, could you?"
I'm tired of Braille, of reading your body for clues. Oh, don't misunderstand me, I'm not tired of your body. I will never get tired of your body. I love the color of your skin. I love your dark straight coarse hair, so unlike mine. I love the way your nipples stiffen when I blow on them. I love the way your clit doesn't react for the longest time, and then suddenly - as if giving up the fight - swells up and decides to revel in the sensation after all. I love the way you try to wrap your legs around me, without thinking, as you tense up just before you're about to climax. And most of all I love the noises you make.
I just wish that there were more of them.
It's not that I don't sympathize. I don't tell anyone my fantasies, not even you. They make me blush. If we were ever to actually play one, I'd break into fits of giggling midway through. Not that there's anything wrong with giggling but it kills the mood.
I have fantasies where I can't talk. Lots of them. There are ones where my mouth has been transformed so it closes with a zipper. Ones where it's been sealed over with a mask. Ones where it's gone entirely. Duct tape, gags, straps. I have all those. But in those fantasies, my seducer knows exactly what to do, where to touch.
Is that what I'm supposed to be?
I don't think that's it. No.
I think you lie on the bed, on your hard thin mattress, spread-eagled, and you remember again - you forget every time - what real nakedness is. You remember that the skin isn't the point. You realize how fully exposed you are, how much you are offering. The sacrificial lamb with the dark fur and the exotic eyes.
And you freeze like a deer in headlights. Waiting for me to come along and cajole and tease and thaw your steaming body.
I love you. I want to slap you. I can't stand it.
One day I will lie on the bed before you get there. One day I will be there, arms and legs wide, not yet erect, no vital signs. One day I will be the cold doll and you will have to be the one who teases and prods. You will be the one forced to guess and pry and poke.
And I will be damned if I utter one single solitary word.
© Columbine
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I read something this evening, very late, which immediately made me want to write two stories in response. One of them will have to wait; it needs to simmer a while, and If I wrote it tonight, it'd keep me up until four a.m.
This one took only a half hour to write, and it's here instead of in the story area because ... well, because it's not really a story. I don't feel like explaining right now.
It contains frank sexual language, but it's not really about sex.
And before anyone asks, it's not about Nonelvis either.
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