a waking-up-time story
It takes me a while to estimate what time it is; the indiscriminate gray of morning washing pale through the windows and filling the room. I know that I lie pinned to the bed, my left arm under her neck, my other draped over her body, hand stuck between the squashed cleavage of her breasts. Her back is to me, her ass out with her legs curled, and my body contoured to press against it.
It’s a time to slowly take stock in the memories of the night before; before their intensity fades like watching a Polaroid in reverse, the colors and detail blooming in reverse, the inky darkness swallowing everything up before your eyes.
She had come hard against me, legs finally shaky and unable to stay balanced on her knees as her hips gave way in my hands. The explosion of her hair half flung in the air and half clung to the sweat on her back below me. The tightness of her pussy squeezed further in rhythmic pulses matching the trembling of her body, and it made me cum, my body continuing to thrust into her body as it grew limp.
My hands had gotten so used to the half-slap-half-grab of her ass, and I used it to spur her on. She shot her feet upward, balancing her legs on her knees and pointing her toes to the ceiling, propped up on her elbows and pushing back against me. It was about the entry and exit now, my cock slippery wet and sliding in and out of her pussy with ease. And with friction.
The last kiss was symbolic as much as it was physical, her mouth just on my cock and my lips still wet with the slickness of her pussy, and it was clear what was next. Making out on the couch, tearing each other’s clothes off and placing our mouths on each other, the next step was to leave the crumpled mess and get to the bed.
And before that was the conversation we had while sitting on the couch, the television volume so low it murmured in the background. It was a potpourri of topics, the kinds of talks that waltz from the banal to the reflective. I would start a new job, soon (yes, again!) and it prompted a look at the recent history of our wanderings. She’d been to med school, tried her hand at being an inner-city grade school teacher, and worked for a pharmaceutical research laboratory.
There’s the most recent of modern history— one that we don’t talk about as much, or as often. I’m partially to blame, and I believe I’m still trying to understand exactly how I feel about her current gig of providing a body rub and a (penis) tug on a price per hour basis. It’s lucrative, easy, and in her mind the best use of her youth and looks without the strain of a real job. And whoever the strange men were, at the end of the night she was mine.
“That’s enough, right?” we had silently asked each other.
And just like all myths of New York City winters, we wouldn’t dare venture out to find the truth; instead, digging in, staying close, and waiting for the Spring thaw, where these troubles would slowly melt, fade, and disappear, like the dirt-encrusted glaciers on the street sidewalks.