old notes 5

Looking down at our bodies as we ease away from this first half-embrace, she will be noticing the untamed hair which contrasts so greatly with the finely combed patch, shaved to a neat triangle under her own belly. My labia spill out past their boundaries; my clitoris has already begun to engorge, peering out from behind the protective thicket, as if it were a little penis, eager to enter her. There will be juice dripping into the scented water; there will be twin snail-trails marking each of my thighs. I press her own thighs open slightly and marvel at the delicate neatness of her slit. My hands touch her inner thighs and come out scented with a hint of gardenia. I hold them under my nose to confirm it. There is not trace of human odour. I suspect that even her arsehole will be honey dipped.
She steps into the bath and slides back under the tap. A drip of water slips onto her pink-tipped nipple. I am leaning towards the pendulous drip of it and somehow, suddenly and without effort, I am in the water, surrounded by bubbles, latched onto the little bud of flesh. My thirst sated by a single drop of water. I feel it’s slow progress as it slips down my throat. I would drown in her. I am suddenly desperate to see the colour hidden behind the prim patch of hair between her thighs. I want to know if it is a match with the blush at her breast. I will dive for pearls. I let the nipple slip from my lips and take a breath. She anticipates my action and holds my head between the palms of her hands. She kisses the breathe out of my lungs. She is so gentle with her kisses but so insistent. She gives me her lips when I would have her whole mouth. There is no room for the insistence of my tongue.
She picks up the sponge and fills it with an abundance of lather. She squeezes foam against my neck and the slow tracing of its path has made me hard, every protuberance of my skin arcing forward. My flesh displays it’s desperation to be touched from the rash of goose bumps on my shoulders to the arrow tips that my nipples have become to the straining of my clit, and finally the little jet of juice that hisses out of me, colder than the steaming bath water, thicker, leaving a slimy trail across my trembling legs. I won’t be stayed any longer. My fingers slip under the suds. I wave them away because I must see her cunt as I touch it. My fingers slip towards her hips. I adjust them, pulling them forward, to where I will be able to look into the secret folds of her. My fingers spider across the neat patch of hair and I am touching it. I am easing the neat lips apart and very gently unveiling the sweet pink meat inside. She is perfect. Even the rugged little tearing of her hymen has healed so sweetly. I remember the day after this opening was made; her horror at the pain of it and the blood which fell for days after the fortress of her virginity had been breeched.
Now I touch the perfectly healed fabric of her hymen. I would have been gentler with her, stretching the delicate skin in slow stages. I demonstrate this silently, wriggling just the tip of my finger to fit inside. Despite the soapy water, there is little lubrication. I dip my finger into my own slippery ink and it is with these juices that I prepare the way for the intrusion of my finger. There is more juice inside. I tease it out with my slow stroking, spreading it over her lips and touching it to the tiny hidden head of her clitoris. I want her to respond in some way. I want her to make some sound or to move her hips towards the gentle rhythm but she is silent and still and her eyes are closed to me. I wonder if she is imagining that I am a boy. I know she has never desired women. We have spoken of this many times. Perhaps the juice of her desire comes from the imagined image of some other man. I want to open myself to her, show her how my cunt is a darker red than hers, show her how my clitoris extends with my desire. I would like her to slip her fingers into both my orifices and feel the wonder of the little contractions, which simultaneously work the muscles in each of the paths of entry. I want her to see how high and pointed my nipples reach when I climax.
I take her fingers and her nails are pointed spears, cutting the delicate skin inside me, but I don’t mind. The path is well lubricated and her index finger slips in up to the knuckle. It is a taste of her, but I want a meal. I want to gorge myself. I want her whole hand, a fist full of coy pink talons. And another woman might have begged for it, but I temper my desire to this hesitant finger, biding my time. Hoping there will be other forays such as this when I know that this taste will leave me forever hungry.
She is not a lesbian. This one time can be laughed away as her curiosity, a peek into a strangely foreign world. Her sense of self will not survive a second foray into this unfamiliar territory.
She stands quickly. The water slops over onto the floor, soaking into the bath mat. There are little clusters of bubbles making their collective progress down her skin, which is red in patches from the heat of the bath. If I lilted my head and leant forward, my chin would fit snugly between her inner thighs, my tongue would be within reach of the suds trapped in her pubic hair.
She steps out of the bath and covers herself with a towel and I say nothing as I follow her into her bedroom. I am too eager as always. She is settling her wet hair onto her pillow just as I am settling my tongue into the sweet smelling folds of skin. I find her clitoris in an instant and I know that it took her years to find this very spot. I am tasting the sharp tang of soap and highly scented body products. No scent of human flesh, no exquisitely salted slipperiness. I curl my tongue and thrust it into the neat little opening but there is nothing but the taste of bubble bath. My tongue becomes numb with this fruitless digging. I spit and she shrugs away from the only lubrication to be had. I drag myself up to where I can straddle her as a man might, hoping that this positioning will re-ignite the passions that moved her to invite me into her bath. I rub my vulva against her own, enjoying the slippery friction. She lies still, compliant. She will tolerate this rubbing but won’t participate.
Our moment is gone. I roll to the other side of the bed, pat her thigh gently to show that I am not offended by her rejection.
She slides silently off the bed and there is the noise of running water in the bathroom. When she returns to the bed the perfume is stronger. She has completely hidden herself from me. She pulls her nightdress over her head and the retreat is completed. What was offered is removed.
We lie chastely side-by-side and when she takes my hand it is an apology, not an invitation.
“So,” she says, turning towards me as if to continue a conversation that we have just begun. With this she completely erases the bath and the furtive touching.
“Are you going to see him again?”
“Who?”
Her nightdress is white, appropriately. There are little frills at the shoulders. She has been transformed into a little girl under her chaste white sheet. I am still naked to the evening air. It feels obscene. I pull the sheet over me and she tips her body away from me almost imperceptibly.
“Michael,” and I suddenly remember her gay school friend.
“Oh. Michael.”
“I can give him your number if you like.”
“Do you think I should?”
“Of course.”
Her words are pushing me away and yet he is her friend. Perhaps with this pairing she wants to keep me close.
“OK then.”
She turns away from me in the dark and it is settled.
I lie awake still aching for release even as her own breathing slows into rhythm with her dreams.
This is how the thing starts, in a bath with someone else and stretches out into my wakeful longing. I will go on a date with a gay man I barely remember because I want to be close to his painfully heterosexual female friend.
Talk to me about love and I will whisper of adventure.
I finally find sleep just as the sun is rising. Even as I begin the plummet into the abyss of dreams, there is a strange stirring in my stomach that has nothing to do with the alcohol we have consumed earlier.