Obtuse
(explicit content)
(explicit content)
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."