Knobby-kneed and flat-chested, I was a lanky cauldron of empty threats and spritely libido for the first two years of our relationship. Though I had been offering to since we were twelve, I was all tease and talk until that day. My burgeoning sexual energy was properly constrained until the eighth-grade afternoon when we were alone in the same room, dressing out for gymnastics practice.
He was as beautiful as any boy I had ever seen and he gave off a musky scent that most probably should have been better controlled by a good antiperspirant. The aroma was intoxicating; not a single girl since Eve's first-daughter-in-law--from China to California to Charlotte to Mumbai-- has smelled that scent emanating from the boy that she adored and not quivered. The loin-blazing reaction to this scent---rising from the first boy a girl loves--- is matched only in ferocity by the dulcet combination of aromas that waft from her three-year-old son, swelling a mother's heart.
I had completely disrobed, and stood before him. With his head bent down and his eyes looking toward the ground, I was close enough for his tallest curls to tickle me. They did. I stepped in so that the tips of my pink-painted toenails touched the fore-rubber soles of his sneakers. He noticed my naked feet first.
Crouched to tie his shoe, when he looked up, he was in perfect position to kiss it. Even though he had never even kissed my mouth, I was oddly self-assured that one was not a prerequisite to the other. I knew that my boundless desire for his lips upon it would only be satisfied when he complied.
Although I had loved him since the day he first spoke to me, it was not until that instance when my loins sizzled with the same ferocity as the red carefree can-sized curls upon his milk-toned head that I positioned--with more than passing whimsy--my unclothed pelvis in his face. I stood bare before him, naked head-to-toe, emitting my own erotic scent. I shuddered, ready to erupt, as I awaited what I fantasized would be his autonomic lingual response. With the squeaky-sultry voice that might have been reminiscent of a Marilyn-Monroe/Candace-Bergen love child, I spoke the words , "Kiss it."
"OH MY GOD!" He screamed from the most deeply-pitted spot in his diaphragm as though toward the back of the gymnasium—never mind that we were in an eight-by-ten bedroom --"Oh. My. God."
I was arrhythmic.
I knew that he smelt it too. Suddenly wrapping around my legs and swirling with the scent of female desire, a silent, invisible, gaseous bubble had snuck out from the opposite side of my body. I looked down at his face, pokered as though he held a pair of aces and didn't care about the flop, and waited for it to tense in reaction to my emission. It did not. I smiled down in his direction with an emulsion of elation and horror. Although I had gassed, I was no less afire; it probably served as a propellant because for every second that he smiled with the explicit joy of his two previous almighty-inspired exclamations, I felt more and more ready to burst.
For the next fifteen years, my love for him grew forth from this moment. , expanding outward in every direction, consuming my heart and every chamber-shifting beat. He would be my husband some day; I gazed dreamily into the not-so-far future. We would have a perfect lovesome son--I knew it--who would dash between our legs and complete our universe. Though I wanted him in the most primal way, I wanted him more absolutely and completely into an eternity that spread unconstrained into the future and into even that future's future. And from that contrived imaginary future, I looked back again to this moment as the genesis that must have banged forth from this special kiss--the kiss I expected.
Just a few months after this event, he told me he thought he liked boys and proceeded to name certain classmates. "Yes," I agreed, "what is not to like about him or him or him?" They were, no doubt, the comeliest boys in the school, so it did not seem wholly odd to me. He was attracted to beauty, and I thought this was acceptable given his affinity for all other things beautiful. After all, he enjoyed a cappella gospel music, black-and-white Tennessee Williams plays made films, contemporary art museums, and he wrote blank-verse poetry.
He made up a language to describe our relationship and taught it to me. With our language, we lorded over all others around us. He was consumer and creator of beauty, and I was beautiful by proximity and affiliation.
This did not deter me nor did it deter my aspirations to be the future Misses to his Mister. I always spoke of our future wedding as though it were a foregone certainty: how I could not wait to stand by his side at the altar before God and before our families. He always agreed, so I knew that all I needed to do was persevere through the silly phase that seemed to have gripped all of the boys on the cheerleading squad and most of the more patent male members of the drama club.
Parallel to my fantasy, over fifteen years, we grew into this family, with this child, with this blessed union. We made it through the humps and bumps, my infidelities and his, through school and parties and tailgates; we made it through the excruciating years at the groves and the death of his best friend whom I loved for his sake.
We made it through since that first day: when the third "Oh my god!" was accompanied by, "I have one too."
I looked confusedly down at the top of his head as his eyes bulged with excitement of the discovery which I had libidinally exposed and forced before him.
He had noticed a piece of dark lint that had caught itself upon the stubble around my labia.
"You have one what?"
"A mole, just like yours, in the exact same spot! It's like a little chocolate chip!"
I looked down and noticed the lint which did, in fact, look like a piece of my anatomy. Not wanting to diminish the excitement of the moment, wishing for any connection onto which I could grasp, I confirmed that I, too, had been searching for another with the same beauty mark.
He broke into a cadenced rap--an impromptu cheer-- spitting out a barrage of variations of the word chip: "Chippy chip chipsters, chippily chipping chips...CHIPPER! Weeeeeee're CHIPPERS!"
Awestruck by what I had just witnessed and its utter randomness to the situation as I had staged it, I instantly banished it from my consciousness and memory. In short shrift, it would return as the basis of our organically grown 'chip latin.'
"Yes, it is. I bet it is very sweet," I sultrily managed to respond to a question he did not ask. I wanted to invite him again--hoping that this time it would be accepted--to kiss it. I was ready to beg, but the intense heat that was raging through my core soldered my tongue in place. I was ready for what the inescapable words could not have captured anyhow.
He stepped back, now focusing his gaze on my face. He smiled with such intensity that I could feel the muscles in his face flex in my own. He reached his hands down into his white shorts and firmly grasped his penis with one hand while he used the other to pull his shorts and underwear down to his mid-thighs.
My alveoli emptied and my areolas tingled.
His newly-unleashed musk mixed with the other scents which, on their own, had already combusted all around me. I was on the verge of melting into a pool of my own desire. My heart throbbed in my ears and I felt my face flush.
I looked down at his flaming red pubic bush and traced with my eyes his stubby, stark-white penis. Again, I gasped. Still holding his penis in his hands, he walked nearer me. Unable to maintain my equilibrium, I managed to control a faint onto the chair against the wall. Wiping an imaginary bead of glistening perspiration from my brow with my entire forearm, I heaved deeply and could feel the fire in my loins explode outward through my belly then my knees then my cheeks then my feet. For a moment I felt my elbows throb.
He continued steadily in my direction, taking steps constrained by his shorts, the elastic waistband of which still stretched just above his knees. Except for a dusting of blonde hair on his legs, the white shorts blended almost completely into the palette of his white legs. Shirtless, I could see the slightly darkened change in hue on his stomach, above where his shorts usually sat. His skin was so light, save some tiny orange freckles on his shoulders where some sun had visited but never stayed long, that I could see his blue and green veins tracing along his pectorals, rippling in some spots on his biceps and forearms. It was as though a marble statue had come to life and ambled toward me. The bright orange explosion of hair was the visual manifestation of the same red heat that raged invisibly throughout my entire body.
He had now assumed the position with which I had recently enticed him. My face was a tongue's length from his penis which he maintained in his hand. Entranced, I looked up into his eyes and waited for him to give me my instructions. I told myself that I would obey without equivocation. His lips parted and, at last, he spoke.
"See, I have one too!"
He began digging through his pubic hair and parted it with his two hands, his penis dangling and noticeably un-erect. With his two thumbs and forefingers, he created a heart around a flat, brown mole. "Up until a few months ago, when all this hair started growing, it's all you could see, well that and my penis." Matter-of-factually, he continued. "And you have one too. This is perfect!" He beamed, "Like a couple," he continued without irony, "chocolate chips." He repeated, this time nearly squeaking, "You have one too!"
"Yes," I deflated. I could feel bile surging toward my throat. I faked a smile and lied, "I do."
Then, without warning and without changing the expression on his face or the position of his hands, he bent down and kissed my forehead. I knew that, for the next sixty years, I would eye-pencil-dot my pelvis with a chocolate morsel-sized chip.
"I bet it tastes sweet," he said playfully, in a way that was completely devoid of anything but a passionate love for sweet milk chocolate.
"I bet it does," I considered inviting his kiss again, but settled for the dollop I had just received above my eyes.
With that, he quietly farted as he reached down to pull his shorts back up.
"Excuse me," he chuckled.
"I love you too."