“It’s…” I bit my lip. Grinned helplessly. “Crow, your penis is colossal.”
He laughed. “You know how to make a man feel good about himself, Charlie-girl.”
I reached out, because I had to touch him. Had to feel him, to know how he would fit in my fist. Soft delicate heat, skin stretched thin against his shaft, the veins blue-purple. I wrapped my fingers around him and he flinched, his cock twitching. I glanced at his face, and he had his eyes closed, but flicked them open in that moment, to watch my hand on him. A single slow stroke downward, my fist stuttering lightly over his veins. My mouth was dry, my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth, heart pounding—I was doing this. Touching this man. Simply letting go and allowing him to go down on me was one thing—that felt like an out-of-body experience. Passive, in a way,allowingsomething to happen to me…something delicious, incredible, every fantasy I’d ever had come true. But still, a passive event.
This was something I wasdoing.
Very, very different. In my sex-starved little brain, at least. I mean, it had been months since I’d had sex, and even flying solo, my Os had been lackluster at best, because apparently I lack any kind of imagination. I had even tried porn a few times, but everything just seemed so stupid and contrived and silly—and I sampled a little of everything. Plain fucking? Gross, who wants to watch fifteen minutes of ultra-closeups of a giant hairless penis entering a surgically enhanced hairless vagina—both disembodied? Not me. Um, how about the more “female-oriented” stuff? Still just an actor and an actress pretending. Not as many extended closeups of body parts entering body parts, but it just didn’t turn me on, watching two people have sex. Oral scenes? A little better. I had no experience with giving BJs, so that didn’t do anything for me, and I also just had this feeling giving a blowjob was forhim,not me, and that I would find it fun to watch him enjoy it, but that I wouldn’t personally get much out of it. The only thing that ever really got me going even a little was videos of girls getting eaten out.
Because god, I wanted that.
Just for a man to want me enough, to care about me enough, to put me first long enough to just give me pleasure.
It was that fantasy which got me going, not the contrived sounds and elaborate displays of position, all the arching and writhing and screaming.
Now, having experienced Crow’s oral skills, I realized that maybe, just maybe, some of that wasn’t entirely contrived.
“Charlie?” Crow’s low, amused voice.
I started. Realized I’d stopped, just holding his cock in one hand, and had been spacing out.
I grinned sheepishly. “Sorry.”
He just chuckled. “You really get lost in your head, don’t you?”
I nodded. “Yeah, I do. I’ve turned overthinking into its purest art form.”
“Just be here, now.” He snagged my wrist. “And don’t do anything you don’t want to.”
I sighed. “Idowant to,” I said. “That’s the thing. I really want to…try new stuff. And you’re…I guess you seem like a safe person to try it with. But…I’m just fighting a lot of…mental conditioning, I guess.”
“Maybe instead of getting lost in your head, you just talk it out?” He pulled my hand away from his member.
I shook my head. “It wouldn’t be sexy to hear me going on and on, like some sort of messed up hormonal female version ofUlysses.”
He snorted. “Not sure what that means, but you’d be surprised what would be interesting to me.”
“Interior monologue.Ulyssesis a novel by James Joyce, who more or less invented the idea of what he called stream of consciousness, where the narration of the story is the interior monologue of a person.”
“Sounds boring.”
“It’s not boring, per se, but hard to follow, if nothing else. It’s a book a lot of people like to say they’ve read to sound more erudite than they really are.”
He caressed my back, fingers tickling and tracing, following the angle of my extended shoulder blade, the curve of my spine. “Well, this ain’t James Joyce, and I am interested in hearing what’s going on in your head.” He gathered a handful of my hair, running it through his fingers. “You don’t have to be doin’ nothin’ to me, either.”
I bit my lip, tracing his rugged, brutally handsome features with my eyes. “Crow, I know I don’t make any sense. But I do want to touch you. I want to…” I swallowed. “I don’t how to put it.”
“However it occurs in your head, babe. No filter, don’t worry about sounding cool or shit. Just say it like it is.”
I felt his eyes pulling me in, deep dark wells of intelligence and kindness and complexity and desire and a million things I couldn’t even begin listing. I let myself fall into his eyes, let my mouth run, just let the words tumble out unbidden, unfiltered, raw and weird and maybe incomprehensible.
“I just…I’ve always done the right thing. The good thing. My mom has a super strong moral compass—we’re not really a religious or spiritual family, but my mom was always like super into being the best version of yourself. Doing the right thing, always, no matter what.Beinggood.Doinggood. Sounding articulate and intelligent and sophisticated and cultured and proper. No swearing, no crude jokes, don’t use fillers like ‘um’ or ‘like’ or whatever. I’m the oldest, so I got it the worst, so to speak. She was the strictest with me. Had the highest expectations for me. So I was always the absolute paragon of virtue, morality, rightness, and achievement.”
I stared into his eyes, relaxing my tension, letting the whole dumb story fall out, because for some bizarre reason he waslistening. As if he cared. As if I was the only thing in this world worth looking at, worth listening to, and it was genuine and it just drew words out of me like a clown pulling on a trick silk tie.
I let my fingers dance on his firm skin, over his belly, on his thighs. Just touchinghim, not sexually, just…male skin, reassuringly real and warm. He didn’t move, didn’t stop me or urge me anywhere, just kept his own hands busily moving on me, tracing continually from shoulder to spine, hip to side to clavicle, never touching me sexually, just…touchingme as I was touching him. So weird, to be this comfortable with a near-perfect stranger. I didn’t dare examine that too closely—just went with it.
I kept talking, my voice pitched low. “I never cut loose. Never partied with my friends. I stayed home and did homework, helped Mom at home. Watched my younger sisters, did chores. Book reports, just for myself, for fun. Boring, nerdy, ridiculous nonsense. I had friends, and we’d go to the mall together or hang out and do each other’s nails or hair, girl stuff. But I didn’t drink, didn’t smoke, didn’t sneak out. Never had a boyfriend in high school. I kissed Scott Pruitt under the bleachers during a football game my sophomore year. Kissed Al Crenshaw in the limo on the way home from senior prom. He wanted to go further, tried to cop a feel, but I wasn’t having any of that and told him so. I just…I couldn’t have messed around with him and then faced Mom. She’d have known, and would have disapproved. Even though I know now that she wouldn’t have disapproved as long as I was in control of myself and the situation and wasn’t being pressured into anything, especially senior year, it was this ingrained idea that I had to be perfect, and messy physical relationships felt imperfect to me. Letting a boy touch my boobs felt wrong. Letting him touch my privates felt wrong. Me touching him? Even more wrong. Dirty. Nope—not happening.”
