“So their theory is that to reach a higher plane of understanding one must literally be…” he was expounding.
“…In contact with higher beings…” I finished.
“Right!! Have you read it?” I shook my head. Cross-legged on his mother’s living room floor in a long skirt, I was wriggling my hips to some old bebop I had never heard before while we were discussing this book that he was keen on. “You are a bad woman…”
“What? I am not.” I was a little confused. His tone was accusatory and his face scrunched in frown.
“No…I mean, you are baaaad.” A small sideways grin crawled across his full, shapely lips as he motioned to my body.
“I thought we were being responsible about our friendship, and…huu,” I sighed.
“Yes. Yes, you are correct,” his reply changed his face, but only slightly. “Dance with me.”
He pulled me up by the hand, kissing it with a little bow. I slowly swished closer, accentuating the drop of my hips to the backbeat syncopation. “Bad,” he whispered in my ear after he pulled me up close and tight against him.
I wagged a finger at him accompanied by a teasing smile. The record hissed the transition to the next song. I let my head slip back and sway to the adagio beat. He stroked his fingers lightly across my throat to the nape of my neck. And we danced…oh, how we danced. Every move anticipated, seeming almost choreographed. I switched style; he followed. He jumped back forty years in time; I made the leap.
“It’s so hot…” I panted.
“No, I really need to remove a layer,” I chuckled. “Seriously, I have a tank top on.”
He roughly pulled the unbuttoned shirt I had layered from my shoulders and off my arms. “Ssss. Goodness.” I wrapped my bare arms around his neck and shoulders. His warm, strong hands slid down from my wrists and rubbed my back in slow circles. “Hmmm…no bra?” He smiled, voice lilting with pleased surprise.
“I told you. Only when necessary. Evil contraptions.” His touch was mesmerizing, timeless.
He led me to the sofa and sat down, patting his legs. I sat on his lap tentatively. “You don’t seem relaxed. You aren’t putting your full weight on me, are you?”
“No. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Ach. I don’t want you to worry about that. In fact, I don’t want you to care one way or the other.” This, I did not understand at all.
“Really? You don’t want me to be considerate or worry about your comfort?”
“No, not really. Just relax and think of your comfort. You can’t hurt me. It feels…well, you feel fantastic.” And I knew that he was being truthful by the shift in the contour of his lap.
As I eased fully onto him, his erection wedged perfectly between my legs. Holy shit; he’s huge. “Oh, my God. You do like this, don’t you,” I teased. I stroked his cheek, fingertips playing at the edges of his covered hair. It was soft and twisty; I wanted to play in it, but he kept it covered like a good boy should. This, of course made me even more curious.
I continued our dance, his hands following the motion of my body. Excruciating pleasure piqued with a melancholic longing for more coursed through my veins. But there was not to be more, not for several years. Always on the verge of decision, of completion, and of fulfillment I would linger, unable to move for fear of making a tragic mistake. That was my mistake. Pain and pleasure was inexorably linked by indecision on the lap of a gorgeous soul whose intentions I would never really know.
“Do you remember Pee-Wee’s Playhouse?” he mumbled. His hands ran down my sides and over my hips.
“Ha!” I barked out a laugh. No transition…from transcendence via extra-human interaction to seduction via dancing to Paul Ruben… I didn’t yet comprehend the arc. “Yes, I remember. Why?”
“Well, there was this one character called Chairy…the pink chair, yes?”
“Yeees…” Still not knowing where this was going.
“And Pee-Wee would sit on her—right on her face, basically.” And he paused for quite a while, stroking my hips, fingers padding around my bottom.
“I would love it for you to use me like Chairy.” My pulse quickened, a slow burn tingled in my chest. I felt a little nauseated by the sudden adrenaline rush. And guilt settled in my gut, the pit of which was that this idea was very appealing. The nagging church-girl voice in my head said: that’s so bad; he’s right, you are a bad person. Mm-hmm. Oversexed.
Contemplations Upon You
I settle onto your gorgeous face,
Enjoying your initial shock and subsequent acceptance
Of the juxtaposition between deprivation
And overstimulation of your senses;
I pulse from toe-tip to nose,
Thinking of your lips lingering closely to mine
Of your sweet breath warming my delicate skin
And overstimulation of my senses.
I contemplate the universe beneath me,
Creating a microcosm, which you now inhabit,
Of flesh and presence without pretense
And overwhelming you;
I channel lyrics of passion and
Feeling distracted by musings mundane and divine,
Of aliens, forces of nature, and fertility
And overwhelming me.
I take you in my hand, satin-covered steel
Swelling at my tentative bashful touch
Of wanting to please and bind you
To me in an unexpected way.
You clench your fists at your sides
Relaying a message not quite understood
Of overwhelming sensation coming
To you in an unexpected way.
“Look what you’ve done. Mmph. What are you doing to me? How did you do that…I usually don’t…” he took my face in his hands, kissing me, eyes soft and mouth soft.
“You don’t like to or you choose not to?” I mused. What a strange guy. He seemed to enjoy it but not happy about enjoying it? Hmm.
“It’s a choice; it’s always a choice. This,” pointing to his temple, “is in control. You did it just like I like, what drives me mad. How in the blazes?”
“Wasn’t in control this time it seems,” I teased. “Did you like it?”
“One thing I will say; you are passionate.”
“Huh. Well, I don’t suppose I will do that again if it will just put you out. Dang.”
“Psh. Come here! I’m bloody cold.” And he pulled me into his lap and squeezed me.
Katherine Menon started writing poems and stories before she could spell, and it has been part of her for as long as she can remember herself. After earning a Literature degree and setting straight away not being able to do anything with it, she is finally working toward using what questionable talent she has to do something: write.