book-1760998_1920I sit beside you on my couch, wanting desperately to kiss you… so of course I read to you instead, reeling in skeins of text that I cough back up as I interstitially ogle your pouted lips – imagining how I might take them hostage one at a time, between my own, biting and sucking them into my mouth before surrendering them back to you. I finish The Bus Driver Who Wanted to be God, the first and eponymous short story in the collection by Etgar Keret and watch your lovely face break into that sweet smile, immediately followed by your life-affirming laugh. Your radiant profile reveals your soft, feminine cheekbones, your smooth brown skin, and those thick black eyelashes. I want to fuck you, Irene. With my tongue. I want to rip off your shoes and socks, peel down your black jeans and begin sucking and kissing my way from your little toe to your big toe, from your big toe to the arch of your foot and on to your calf muscle. From your calf to your inner thigh. Tracing my tongue lightly up your warm smooth skin until I sense the trapped heat of your sex beckon. I want to tease my mouth around your mound, planting soft kisses and teasing my tongue beneath your panties as I hear your breath begin to halt, watch your hips begin to grind, smell your cunt begin to stew. I want to tear through your panties and rain my thrashing tongue down upon your saturated sex. I want to drink you, Irene, usurping your essence from every sweet fold and crevice until I am baptized, nay drowned in your stewing twat. I want to make you come until you can come no more, Irene. But I got us tickets to see Etgar Keret speak at the 92nd Street Y in a couple hours, so instead, I read on.

I begin cherry picking stories by title this time, Breaking the Pig, about a kid who unexpectedly falls in love with the piggy bank he must shatter to buy the toy he thought he always wanted. As I read, your body language actively engages, as if you’re physically drawn into these absurdist stories. Your energy is breathtaking.  You look so beautiful in your cotton blouse; I try not to gawk as the tops of your soft, full breasts gently rise and fall as laughter rollicks through your warm spirit. I marvel that I ever had the courage to invite you to my place on our first date.

How did I ever pull that off? So unlike me. So unlike you as I would learn.  Perhaps all that phone sex we had emboldened me. After a few messages on OK Cupid we talked on the phone, until we fucked on the phone. I swore to do things to your body that I’d never done before… things you’d never had done to you before. An awkward transition that one, from no holes barred phone sex transmitted over thousands of miles to that date I thought would never happen, the one where you’re sitting next to me on my overpriced couch – well really you’re sitting next to Sophie, my pug, who has sandwiched herself between us, just as my pit Delilah bookends you on the outside. The distance that made the crudest of sex acts palatable has now collapsed as if by black hole, drawing us both inextricably together, if not for the pug of course.

I can take it no longer and steel myself, leaning over the pug as I approach your mouth. You intercept my lips mid-Sophie and meld with mine in the softest, most sensual kiss I have ever known – ever will know. You don’t grapple my lips or engage my tongue in some UFC submission technique, but melt your mouth around my own, while initiating the softest, wettest most luxurious tongue play imaginable.

Is this what a kiss really is? I wonder. Was this what was supposed to happen all those other times? Some other time… even one other time? I realize that this is not merely a kiss. You are making love to my mouth with your own, engaging my lips as if gently grinding your sex in my face. Kissing your mouth is like kissing a silky, warm, wet, gushy cunt – your cunt as I would come to find.

I realize that you are teaching me, showing me how to kiss for the first time in my life. Showing me how to abandon my self-conscious need to control my saliva. You unrestrainedly mop my lips with your own sweet spit, slowly stirring it with my own as you continuously lubricate our face-fucking. I suck your upper lip into my mouth and secure it with my teeth before thrashing my tongue back and forth across it. I release it only to take your lower lip prisoner and subject it to the same treatment.

I inch my right hand under your blouse, kneading your full breast through your bra cup before working my hand beneath it and tweaking your left nipple. You exhale audibly as your teat erects itself and hardens from my touch. You gently stroke my erection through my jeans. I abandon your nipple and slip my hand beneath your waistband, underneath your panties. I feel the heat of your sex as my fingers inch down your clean-shaven mound, finding purchase in your swollen, slippery labia. My cock aches beneath my Tommy Hilfiger’s as I slowly insert my middle finger into your cunt.

I tell you I want to fuck you – badly, adding that we should probably get going if we want to catch Etgar Keret. I describe how I want to fuck you with my tongue. With my big throbbing cock. How I want to act out all those things we said on the phone… As I await your answer, Delilah begins to whine, like the needy bitch she is. It’s time for her midday walk, a brief one of course, because it’s almost 5:30 and we really need to go, Irene. Etgar Keret is speaking at the 92nd Street Y…

Why the fuck did I buy us tickets to see Etgar Keret goddamnit.

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