Blowjob
by Memory's Grace


There's a look she gets on her face when she's debating
whether or not to take off her panties. She leans a little to the
left, like she's curling up a bit, and rests her butt firmly against
her heels. Then she twitches up.

I don't know if she takes them off or not. I'm trying to relax.

``What is it?''

``I....''

``You always get like this,'' she smiles. ``You're in good hands, you know.''

I don't know what it is about a slightly chubby brunette that lets her smile
like that. It's a warm glow of happiness.

I feel like a vampire.

Or maybe I've got the positions reversed.

``Open your legs.''

``Uh-ah.''

I don't know why I make that sound. I really don't. I'm nervous, and then I'm
nervous but enclosed by her lips. And I can't relax. And I can't relax.

A wet noise escapes her lips. She always makes those when she gives head. I don't
remind her because she finds it horribly embarassing. As if somehow it's unfeminine
to have saliva. Cock in the mouth is fine, though.

Just fine.

She comes up, ``you're tense, again.''

Yeah, I'm tense. I'm tense.

``Just relax.''

I don't want to relax. Because when I relax....

She caresses my neck and I feel her breath on my ear. ``Fancy a kiss, sweetie?''
She's cold. She's the love of my life. God, she's cold.

Because when I relax, this happens.

She traces a hand down my chest, my skin prickles and dies. I tense up and jerk
a little bit.

``Mmmmmm'' comes from between my thighs.

Her hand comes up and grabs my jaw in a lover's grip. ``Let's do a little remembering,
shall we?''

``Shall we?'' The atonal vowel at the end stretches on to forever and becomes a white
rain. A white glistening rain. It grips me, then caresses me, then it bleeds the fucking
life out of my ears.

And then, then we are all alone.

And I'm in the woods behind my father's house. The snow is all around me,
so bright I don't know what day it is. My jeans are rumpled around my knees, my body
screaming at me that something is definitely, definitely wrong.

The wind blows around my erection. Yes, a scientific term. In the interest of science, it
is cold, and it is dry, and it is not friendly at all.

I wrap my hand around the top of the shaft, and begin.

My legs twitch a little bit, trapped by the jeans.

It's hot and cold. It's about to get a lot colder.

I take out my pocketknife.

I cease masturbating, and bring up my palm, and I rest the knife blade against it.

You really shouldn't cut the palm. It takes a lot to get much blood out of it,
and it stings for days.

Not to mention the inconveniences while jerking off.

There's a wet noise between my legs. She adjusts her hair to keep it out of her mouth.

There's drops of blood hitting the snow.

In the movies they always make sounds like you can hear the blood hitting the snow.

You can't.

Not really.

But you watch it and you think you can. You can see the small spatters, and you grip
your fist, and oh so much more comes out.

Dear god.

``Sweetie?''

She stops sucking for a moment, and looks up at me. She does this sometimes and thinks
I don't notice. I don't, really, my eyes are rolled up in the back of my head, and I'm,
well, I'm relaxing.

``Sweetie?''

Yes?

``Those were great times, weren't they?''

Yes.

Yes, I was so creative back then.

``You're bullshitting yourself again, sweetie. Only I found you interesting.''

Yes, well, permit a young artist his foibles.

She's picked up her pace, now.

Most porn makes it look like when girls pick up the pace while sucking a guy off, they
get frantic. Not her, at least. She doesn't so much speed up as coaxes. The slight smile
as she tips her head back as she pulls away, then the nod forward as she comes closer in.

``aaaah.''

At that, she stops, pulls off, and delivers a kiss.

Then she comes up and sits in my lap. She loves these armchairs as much as I do.

She rests her head against the back, jaw against my shoulder: ``Do you mind if I ask
a personal question?''

``Heh.''

She asks anyways, ``why don't you ever come?''

I don't know. I turn and look her in the eyes. She's been with me a while, now, and doesn't
worry about meeting them.

She looks at my eyes for a moment, then grabs my left hand. She runs her thumb along the lines
on my hand. She's relaxing.

This is our quiet moment. I'm her last for the night, Tuesdays. She leaves her hair down,
and doesn't worry about being sweaty. The caressing of my palm is more to work out the kinks
in her hand than mine.

We go to bed to sleep, and in the morning she and her fourty dollars are gone.

``Sweetie?''

Yes?

I'm fixing coffee.

``Someday, you're going to have to let me go.''

Maybe someday.
