To lick or not to lick

Friday, June 24, 2005 11:00pm
Tim's house

We've somehow wound up in Tim's kitchen again. There's a painting of a rose-filled vase on the wall; the color scheme matches her decor exactly. On the far wall, there's a window-sized opening overlooking her living room; through it, I see a huge, wood-framed mirror and an expensive-looking couch.

"Do you ever go without a condom?"

"No. Why?"

"Just curious. It's funny. Most guys don't want to use one, but I noticed you didn't even ask."

"Right. I use 'em 100% of the time."

"Why?"

"Isn't that obvious?"

"I'm on the pill."

"There are other reasons to wear a condom."

"I know."

"It's no coincidence that I've never caught anything."

"NEVER?"

"Never."

"How many women have you been with?"

"A lot."

She smiles. "I KNEW you're weren't gonna tell me."

11:30.

We're sitting in front of the TV, drinking Margaritas. Tim has managed to find a Melrose Place rerun. Heather Locklear is making out with some dude, from whom she will no doubt be extorting cash, or firing, in the next scene.

"Did you ever notice how when people kiss on TV, their lips are never lined up right? Look! It looks like he's kissing her upper lip!" she says, jabbing at finger at the screen.

"Well, it's Heather Locklear, so I guess he's not holding out for someone hotter."

"Has anyone ever told you you are a very good kisser?" she smiles, turning to face me.

"Yeah. I hit the lips every time!"

"You ARE!"

I feel my cock go stiff. Her voice is sexy, slightly husky and soft. And my stomach is going so crazy that putting those Margaritas in the blender was totally unncessary.

I lean in to her and stop with our mouths an inch apart. I look at her lips. She looks at mine. We kiss so softly that at first I am not even sure we're touching. Her fingers wrap softly around my wrist; I hear the clink of her placing her glass on the table.

I pull away from her for just a moment and look at her, all of her: She's wearing a dark blue off-the-shoulder flowered sundress, and one leg is folded under her body, with the other dangling off the side of the couch. Her left hand grips her naked ankle; the other my wrist. Her blonde hair hangs over one shoulder and behind the other, exposing her long, slender neck, and her eyes are closed, her feather-duster eyelashes resting against her cheeks.

I smell her hair, a big, flowery smell, like a huge bouquet. I suddenly remember that, the first night I was with her, I returned home and woke up the next morning somehow still smelling it.

It's a moment just like the one in the hotel room with Lila last summer, a snapshot of flawless beauty, a scene so pleasing to the senses that it makes me grateful to be alive.

She's saying something. "....gonna run out on me again?"

"No, baby."

"So kiss me." And I do. Our mouths open and our tongues find one another, pressing hotly together, then apart, then together again, with equisite slowness.

I feel the soft skin of her hands as they slip around the back of my neck. As crazy as it may sound, her touch gives me goosebumps.

The kissing gets harder. Our bodies press together more tightly. I am so weak with desire that I doubt I could stand upright, even if I wanted to.

Her fingertips glide slowly across my cheeks, then through my hair, then again to the back of my neck. She pulls away from me; I open my eyes and she is staring at me.

My hands have found their way around her waist. Her leg is draped over mine. I am pulling her body so closely against me that the two of us barely take up half the couch.

I've got it bad for this girl. Tim does something to me; she always has. She doesn't do anything fancy: The conversation isn't the most interesting, and the food and drinks aren't the best I've ever tasted. But she somehow manages to set a mood, and I get the impression that she's in control of every single thing that happens.

I draw a deep, flowery breath. I'm relaxed and at peace. I'm happy. I'm having fun, so much so that I don't want this moment to end.

Shit. I sound like a lovesick teenager. LISTEN to me!

My hand wanders slowly between her thighs. She looks down for a moment.

"I believe it's your turn this time."

"What do you mean?" I think I know, but I want to hear it from her.

She unzips her dress and slides it down, revealing a statuesque, gorgeously nude body, quite possibly the most beautiful body I have ever seen. Sure, I've seen it before, but it stops my heart just the same.

She lays back down on the couch, straddling me with her legs, then fixes her eyes pleadingly onto mine.

I don't like going down on a girl until I've known her for a while, and until I'm fairly certain that she's not warming every cock in her zip code. Tim clearly does not qualify. So why am I considering it?

I'm considering it for a lot of reasons. I'm dangerously horny now, and I'll be in major physiological trouble if I don't have sex; plus, I don't want to jepardize a sure thing. What, exactly, is so bad about going down on a girl, anyway? Well, besides the smell, and the taste, and the way those kinky hairs stick in the back of your throat and make you want to throw up?

"I did it for you, baby," she purrs.