“Talk to you later, cherie. Get some rest...”
We kissed Viviane goodbye at her stop, then continued on to ours.
The train was full of people with shopping bags, looking drained and hot. I rested my cheek on Jefferson’s shoulder as he held my hand and kissed the top of my head.
A couple in their fifties, clearly on vacation sat across from us. The woman looked at me and we smiled at each other. A few seconds passed, and when I glanced back their hands were clasped together on his leg.
I closed my eyes and nestled closer.
At our stop we bought a Sunday paper, and then floated up to the apartment.
Drinking water, Jefferson asked, “So, baby, what do you vote we do?”
“I really want to veg out, maybe watch a movie? I’m not good for writing anything yet.”
“You’ve brought Kinsey! I’d watch it again.”
“Of course you would. You get to see Peter Sarsgaard nekkid. He's so yummy...”
We take off our clothes and he goes to refill glasses. I spray myself with the water bottle and towel off, deciding to put on underwear.
I walk toward the kitchen to help with the drinks and nearly run into Jefferson coming around the corner. He stops short, and his mouth drops a bit when he sees what I’m wearing.
He says nothing; just follows me into the bedroom where he starts the DVD.
We settle back together, watching the true story of two people, who by coincidence or fate meet, fall in love and become part of an international discourse about sex.
I start thinking about how my early experiences with adult love affects the way I am today. I’m talking about how I saw my parents express love, which was not much. Not openly. They had five children together, but I don’t remember seeing them kiss or hug each other in any way other than quickly, as an aside.
There was always an air of sexual tension in my parents’ house which I attribute to the difficulty of making time for each other while raising five small children.
I remember hearing them making love one night through the wall separating my room from theirs. I was eleven. I knew what they were doing. I wondered then why he never touched her in front of us.
I was thirty before I ever heard him say to my mother, loud and clear, without any prompting, "I love you."
I started making a point of telling my parents that I loved them when I was in high school. A classmate of mine had been killed in a car accident which is, I’m certain, what prompted me to tell my family and friends that I loved them.
So they’d know.
In case anything bad happened.
It makes me so happy when my children, apropos of nothing, wrap their arms around my waist or knees, saying, “I love you, Momma!”
As many mistakes as I make as a parent, I know that this is not one of them; they always know that they are loved, and they are not hesitant about expressing it to others. I'm glad of that.
I'm glad, too, that I can be in love with Jefferson, and he with me, and it doesn't hurt either of us knowing that there are others with whom we can share ourselves.
The movie ends and Jefferson and I are lying down, his fingers skimming the skin of my stomach, stopping at my panties. I tense and relax my stomach muscles.
We are giggling at the Kinsey Archives’ animal sex videos at the end of the credits. I roll from side to side, clutching my stomach, as Jefferson, putting on the Voice of the Porcupine says,
“Come on, baby….suck it…..suck it...”
I am breathless from laughing, smiling.
I prop myself onto an elbow and kiss him, touching his face.
It is so easy, this love.
I move my body down and straddle his right leg to lick and suck his nipples. My hand reaches for his cock, which is semi-hard.
“What do you want to do now, Jefferson? Read the paper?”
“That is one of the options on the short list, yes…we could also write or take a nap or have sex. But if we have sex, you might not be able to form coherent thoughts for your readers…”
He is well schooled in my sex hangover symptoms. And he is absolutely right.
“Well, my pussy can wait until later to have you inside it. But I don’t know that my mouth can."
Now, you may believe me or not; it really doesn’t matter. I did not keep count of every single time Jefferson’s cock was in my body over the course of those six days, but I can tell you this: That was the hottest blowjob EVER.
Maybe it’s because I never removed my white cotton bra and panties.
Maybe it’s because it was cocksucking for cocksucking’s sake.
There was no leading toward something else—something greater—this was it. I wanted to give him pleasure: physically, visually and emotionally, without needing anything in return.
Except that I always get something in return.
It excites me when his dick grows in my mouth. When it twitches and bobs and he sighs and holds my head and feeds it to me, burying it in my mouth and holding still so I can suckle; my tongue and lips forming a quiet suction around his shaft.
I stop and ask him a question. I want to know exactly what he likes and why; I want to know what it means when he moves a certain way, and what makes it different. How I can increase his enjoyment.
After all, we write about sex. We’d just spent two hours watching a movie about a sexual clinician. Matter-of-fact talk works just fine for us.
We are quiet, enjoying ourselves in the evening light of his bedroom.
His breathing quickens, and his hips thrust upward as his legs bend and extend and his body arches. He lifts his head, lips parted. His hand on my head.
“Unnh… I’m cumming.”
I smile and sit back, jerking his shaft.
I climb up to his face once he’s finished. He looks at me, half-laughs, and smiles. I kiss his mouth, and stare at his eyes, our faces nearly touching. My hair is falling around us. I am making a memory of the way I feel at this moment.
I’ve done it with my children since they were born. I’ll find myself with them and close my eyes, making an imprint in my mind, because I want to remember this sight/sound/pain/love/taste/smell forever.
I look at Jefferson and feel my soul in transit. I want to crawl through his eyes and live inside his skin.
New York City