Monday, January 03, 2005

Cheesiness has its advantages

When the wrapping paper had all been wadded up into balls and stuffed into garbage bags, and the cardboard boxes had been flattened and thrown into dad's garage, and the final "Merry Christmas's" and "Happy new year's" had been exchanged, and Steph and I finally returned home, the real fun started.

We walk through the door. I wonder where I put the newsp-" I begin.

She interrupts me with a long, passionate, slow liplock. We separate with a smack. "I just want you to know, that is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me," she says.

"The photo album?"

"Mm-hmm. I can't believe my mother gave you those pictures!"

"She didn't. I scanned them."

"With WHAT?"

"Her scanner!"

"But that doesn't work!" she says.

"I fixed it."

"You FIXED it? How?"

"I reinstalled it. It was easy."

"So you drove ALL the way up there, and you fixed her scanner, and then you made that whole photo album for me?"

"All in a day's work, sweetie."

"You are SO sweet, and SO thoughtful," she says, beaming at me.

"Even though the cheesiness level was off the charts?"

"It was NOT cheesy! It was sweet and thoughtful!"

"I really appreciate what you did, too. I'm gonna hang that picture in my family room."

She kisses me again. It's an I mean business kiss. We fall down on the bed, and before you know it, clothes are flying off.

"I thought your friend was coming," I say.

"It's ok. It's not that bad right now."

She puts her hand behind my neck and pulls my face tightly against hers. She kisses me again. I turn to my right and switch the lamp off.

She is laying naked on her right side. I lay on my left side, facing her. I watch her as she strains to see my face in the dark.

She touches my face, the bottom of my chin, my cheekbones, my nose. It's almost as if she is an artist studying her subject before beginning a sculpture.

"Steve, I want you to make love to me," she says. There's a gravitas to her voice that wasn't there before. I can sense that we have reached some kind of signpost, some kind of critical point in our relationship. It doesn't matter that we haven't said "I love you" yet: It's gotten very serious these last few weeks.

I have never had sex with a girl on her period. Not on the first day of her period, anyway. One girl I dated years ago used to like to do it towards the end of hers, when it was almost over, and sometimes the condom would look a little....gross afterwards. But this is totally different. It's uncharted territory for me, and I am putting my faith in Steph that she knows what she is doing. I am trusting her that my bedroom won't look like Sharon Tate's house when we are done.

As I penetrate Steph, I notice a difference right away. I note, with euphoria and horror, that she is more...slippery and warm than usual, like when you use too much lube. I like it, but something tells me I won't like it when I turn the lights on.

I'm laying down on top of her, lifting myself up on my hands and feet, so that our genitals are the only things touching. I look down and see my cock, silouetted in black shadow, gliding noiselessly in and out of her.

"Make love to me, baby," she says.

I get harder, and harder still, as our fucking becomes more urgent. My cock feels like solid marble, like it couldn't possibly be more erect than it is right this second.

Yeah, I really like this. I like the idea that this is something I've never done before, that she is letting me do something taboo to her, something that people Just Don't Do. And not only is she letting me; she asked for it. She wanted it.

"Ohh," she moans. "That feels so good, baby."

I feel myself slipping into the throes of orgasm. It's a point at which I normally relax my pelvic muscles and stave off the climax. But I'm not planning on a long session tonight, based on her....situation.

"God," I say, and I let the climax come. I push myself more deeply inside her and feel the sweet release of orgasm wash over me.

I kiss her neck. Our faces are close together, close enough for me to feel her breath, to see the whites of her eyes in the faint light streaming in from my window. We lay like that for a long time. She is staring at me, again, as if she is memorizing every detail.

I roll over and reach for the light switch.

"Don't," she says. She gets up and rushes to the bathroom off my bedroom, and comes out a few minutes later wearing sweats. Light from the bathroom spills into my room, but I stare at the ceiling. I don't dare look down. "We probably should-" she begins.

I walk to the bathroom and flip the light back on. She is balling up the bedsheets. I don't look too long, but as I glance over, I see enough blood for a horror movie.

The Shout is on the top shelf of the laundry room, honey. Apply liberally.


Monday, December 27.

"There's a package for you," Bonnie says.

She hands it to me. It's about the size of a box of cigars.

I open it. It's a heavy wooden pen and pencil holder, much more upscale than the one I had. It's engraved with my name and title, and the year.

There's a note attached:

Sorry I broke your other one.

Merry Christmas,

I'm actually beginning to like that guy.