Fright I. He holds to. The make of his lip, turning into my own, turn until I kiss back. I think he is smiling but means it the same. Kisses to bit breaths and touch of his tongue making fast me, does he notice? Doesn’t say or doesn’t care. Just amuses his mouth and flips all my blood over. So here’s how grown men kiss and this one knows how. I know it’s a fine kiss but gird for what follows as, in the depths of his curtain, some dying fly sings. Hear it go against the glass and. Put your bag down, he says stripping it, tossing it, kissing again. Gone fuck to forbearance. Mouth on my neck. Then deep with mine. Open. Working out something else like under his worn shirt his whole body is. And his skin is so live and likes being touched — even my barest morsel of palm on his stomach. My skin shifting too, if not quite there, scares to his search for a zip on my dress. There isn’t one either, he gets that quick. Instead ups the dress, up my thighs, past my tights. Up my back. Arms up, he says, pulling it off and I am I’m. Getting bare. Bra. My old bra, the red marks it makes and. Oh God I am blood thud at the hand on my breast. Beg off the moment he might want to look. Undoes his shirt though. Thanks reprieve. Shrugs it off and swings far with kissing. Lovely. But getting precise with his hands. My grey straps simple tugged down. Then where he slides one of mine so I Jesus! I eyes wide. This isn’t a game. This is already well underway. And I’d like to look at his body but he doesn’t know that and I am miles too shy to ask, for now the kissing’s more biting. Now it’s Show me your breasts, and the bra’s off like Voilà! He steps back. I fold up. Too late for modesty, he laughs, yanking my wrist. I can’t though. Just clench in. He tries again. I double over. Hey, is something wrong? I don’t reply. Are you sick? Shake my head. Have I hurt you somehow? No I, eyes pricking wet. His voice turning anxious What’s just happened? What’s wrong? And I know I must any minute NOW say I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m shy.
Silence in the courtyard. Silence in the street. His low laugh. Don’t laugh. Well don’t be shy with me! Jokes won’t go for now though, not with ignominy to the eyes. I’m not laughing at you, sorry, he solemnifies, then hides me with his body. Touches my hair. Whispers You don’t have to be shy with me, pulling up his duvet. But Oh my God, I just Oh God, exhale. Ah now Ireland too much shame. And he covers as much of me as I’ll let. You know, we don’t have to if you don’t want, right? I do want I really do it’s just Alright then, he says Let me have a think. So the fly and Nick Cave get their wicked way as he ponders my state, and I cringe.
Okay, he rouses Here’s the plan: I strip off while you look on. One good gawp at my skinny white hide should cure all that shy, don’t you think? Hot-faced I imagine what I might see, and he gets smile-narrow eyes Alright, sit. So I do, clamped in duvet. Now look up at me, he says That’s all you have to do. I force my eyes up, though not to his. To his slim shoulders. His pale chest. The curve of his arm and strings of veins. Ribs showing a little through. Darker hair on his stomach than his head. More? I nod. Trousers pushed down long legs. Thin, not skinny. Sorry really old pants, and he flaps at his shorts Still with me? Yes. Excellent, because this next bit’s the best! And he inches the waistband to his pubic hair. Fuck go my guts and squirl. He bends. I. Oh. Rips a sock off instead. Ah ha! Caught in the act! he says What a filthy mind! No I just. Then he just takes them down and
I’ve never seen a whole naked man.
Bits only, in isolation
but
that’s not the same and
Here you go, he says doing a turn and
the thrill of him goes right down my leg.
Stop catching flies, he says, then — air-hostessing himself — Time for the guided tour. Head with own hair. Face. Neck. Collarbone, once broken. Shoulder dislocated — painful that. Chest. Left arm broken. Right, intact. A few fucked fingers. Ribs cracked, three. Stomach. Legs. Left foot fractured. Jesus, what happened you? I fell off a roof. Ow! I say. Ow is right but it was a long time ago. And this — presented in finger and thumb — is my penis, at half-mast now but I can promise better later on, circumcised too, for your delight. Are you Jewish? No it was too tight or something when I was young. Why ‘for my delight’? Women like that sort of thing, he says Or so I’ve heard. And I don’t know if it’s planned but all his chat feeds time to familiarise. So, feeling less shy or more sure I’m a freak? as he hunkers down in front. Both! Well no pleasing some people, then he leans in and kisses me again. Soft this time. Like coax with his tongue. Persuading though that what he wants, I want. Implicating me in first incursions to my breasts. Then in his suggestion I open the duvet to let his mouth touch as well. And I do, just enough to admit him in and for me, not him, to see. Plenty though for me to. Fuck. Neck clicking back at the little of his teeth and I must red nod when he asks Nice? It is. Good! Now how about the knickers and tights? And my fingers unprise from the cliff.
First — Duvet from between my knees.
Second — Mid kiss, his proposed I’d like if you touched me.
Third — My quick Oh! That’s big! Great news, he laughs But it’s about average, mind if I touch yours?
Fourth — So if I let him?
Fifth — Enjoying that?
Sixth — Yes a lot
Seventh — Then you know what’s next. No! I’m not taking this duvet off! Come on, sex through a sheet, maybe, but a duvet? Anatomically no way and besides, it’s freezing out here.
Eighth finger — Fucking hell, you came here for this.
Ninth — His thumb runs the length of my face. Listen, I think I know what the answer is but is this your first time? Oh God! I look away. Don’t worry, he says We all have one. Why don’t you lie back?
Tenth — And let’s just get it done.
So here we are. Here I am. Naked, in bed with a naked man. Under his body. Matching his kiss. Tangled legs. Parted lips and daring myself to the furthest furthest til What are you doing? Going down on you. No! No! I’m not doing that! Well, technically you wouldn’t be, I would. No. Come on, you’ll like it. I would not! Just try me, I’ve been told I’m pretty good. Thanks, I say I’ll do without. Might help, he says. How? With the getting wet. Oh Jesus — I sit bolt up, crucified — That’s it! I’m going home. Don’t go, he says, plying me back. No, this is a disaster. Don’t say that, I’m actually having a weirdly good time. Really? Really and if you don’t want to that’s fine I’ll just do something else. Like what? Well you’ll have to stay and see.
So tempted enough and shame defied, I let him elaborate where he’s allowed. And he gets me as ready as anyone might, almost to wishing he would. If this game’s touch he knows it well and where to find what of me understands. Getting breath getting quick against his mouth. Sync timing hip til I’m gripping his side. God I could really be inside you now, ready to have a go? And his fingers and going and Alright, yes. That’s the spirit, I’ll just get a thing, he says, patting a hand about under the bed. Finds. Rips and rolls it down on himself. Oh God it’s really now isn’t it? And he’s so ready it’s true. You know this might hurt a bit? I know. Just say if it’s too much. My eyes go open at this, to his. Close up I think they’re grey. Flecked with concentrating on mine as he finds to the place. Little spit on his fingers — Just in case. Kissing then sloping me, shifting his weight Ready? Yes. And he. Jesus Christ! No don’t pull away. It hurts. I know but it’s not quite in yet. I can’t. You can, just let me, he says It’ll never be as bad again. How do you fucking know? Educated guess. Then Oh fuck, he goes That’s it. And he is all against me. And he is inside. Attempting to kiss through a pain running wild from his body far into mine. I bite my own lip and stare above. Ceiling swirls there. Cracks. Worlds beyond the pain not improving. Now. Or now. Or yet. I wish I hadn’t. I’d never done this. I wish he didn’t know. Oh God. Hey, look at me, he says. I don’t. I’m being gentle as I can, do you want me to stop? No. He tries to kiss again but I won’t. Come on, don’t make it like I’m here on my own. Humiliation immaculata though sprouts its own tongue. Just get yourself off, isn’t that what you want? Don’t be like that, he says Do you want me to stop? Just stop fucking talking and come and be done. The look in his eye then, what does that mean? Fine, he says — voice all turned down — What the fuck is it to me? And he does it then. Jesus. And again. And again. Until I cry but now he’s not asking how I am. Just fucks like I said. His breath showing work and some gratification at what he does, in and to me but only for himself. I can’t tell how long until — so far in — the gritting and fucking starts becoming every sex sound I’ve ever heard, all at once in my ear, while his body works through every single thing it wants. And mine, in his best moment, silent, accepts the mess it’s made.