Saturday, June 16, 2012
Like the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood hides his species behind grandma’s clothes, she hides any hint of her femininity behind her hoodie, Dickies work pants, and shaved head. She stands like the manliest of them, legs a good width apart to make room for something phantom in between.
She looks at me as if I am some kind of gourmet delicacy, usually encased behind glass. But here I am, close, and she wants a bite. A taste test. She'd like to spear my body with a toothpick.
She flirts with me like a boy will with a girl in grade school, finding reasons to give me a noogie, or yanking my hair hard. Either she’s hovering around me or I’ll look up, and find her staring me down from across the room.
"Do you need something, Deanna?" I'll ask, because I work at her home, and tending to her needs is part of my job. She’s a client at the Halfway House where I am staff.
"No, nooo… I’m about to make some spaghetti…You want some?" she asks.
"Yes," I say, though I’m not hungry. I only agree because she gets so offended if I reject her small offerings. She’ll either ask me over and over again until I give in, or storm off like it’s not the thing I’ve rejected, but her.
She’s a real know it all type, and loves to hear herself talk. Despite her verbosity, she’s never taught me a thing. The dialogue is often desperate as she’ll use anything to move mouth.
Like when we are watching TV downstairs, and she’ll rehash for me what we have just seen on the screen, as if she’s certain I didn’t quite comprehend it, and here she is, thankfully, and generously, just in the nick of time, with the Law and Order for Dummies cliff notes.
"See, Stabler is really stressed out because he sees this shit everyday, Bo. He’s at his breaking point because he sees this sick shit everyday...."
"See, that’s why Olivia works at SVU, Bo. Her daddy was a rapist. He raped her mom. That’s why she works at SVU, Bo. This sick shit, it’s in her blood..."
"Spaghetti’s done, Bo. Here, I’ll get you a plate."
She’s up, moving about the kitchen, getting me utensils, deciding that I want a pinch of garlic, and two pinches of salt, that I like my ice-t without any ice, babying me with the small details of a meal that I don’t want, a meal that I just accepted as an act of appeasement.
I don’t move from the living room couch, assuming that I’ll just pretend to eat as we watch TV.
Instead, she puts our plates down on the dining room table, in two chairs right next to each other.
"Sit here Bo, otherwise you gonna be leaning over yourself. Getting sauce all over your pretty shirt."
I get up. As I’m adjusting myself in the chair, she picks up a napkin, opens it, and quickly stuffs it down the top of my shirt.
"There you go, Bo,” she says, with a final pat of my napkin bib, now perfectly aligned with my shirt’s neckline. “It’s gonna get messy…."
© Fiona Helmsley
Sunday, June 3, 2012
The things I want to do to this boy. The things I want him to do to me.
At first, I expected him to be sort of shy or passive, blame for that placed squarely on the shoulders of pop culture concepts like Mrs. Robinson and cougars. I assumed because of the gap in our ages (I’m older by seven years) he would want me to lead the show or dominate it with an accumulated sexual knowledge greater than his own.
Perhaps those extra circles around the block would even be my appeal. I played this scenario out in my head and was ready to eventually become resentful and bored because of it. Because sometimes I like to be shown. And a good majority of the time, I want to be dominated.
Then he flipped the script.
He comes threw my storm door like a home invasion fantasy.
Every time, after he leaves, I say to myself, next time, there will be much less talking and much more invading.
But there is always talking, he’s too interesting to not acknowledge in that way and time always seems to pass between visits, events transpire, and we need to refamiliarize.
I watch him as he talks, and most of the time, I’m thinking, I want to kiss you. The want is so strong I have to sit on my hands, play with my hair, fiddle for my chap stick.
Those lips of yours that are moving, telling me things, smart things, funny things, things about you- I want them silent and on mine. Yes, I’m listening, but I want to get into your lap and bite your lips. Your stories are amusing, but we don’t have that much time (he’s going through a bad break-up with a live-in girlfriend and they share an automobile, so there are always time constraints) and more than anything, I want to have those lips and you on top of me.
The swirling, just vaguely contained desire I feel makes me insecure as I’m going against my nature. I’m being phony. This dogmatic, self- oppression- he is man, not meat!- makes me act like I did as an inexperienced teenager, before losing my virginity in the dirt pile in the backyard, before sex work, all that- nervous and shy. I do like that I can control myself, it says to me that I’m not completely damaged. But I do not like the time wasted as a result.
And how is it respectful to sit on your hands when the other person wants it too?
But I tell myself I have to wait; let him talk, otherwise it would be bad form. It’s so ridiculous waiting like a hungry animal for the appropriate moment to arrive and when it does, knowing I will wish I had acted sooner so I could have had more of it.
His body is incredible. In the dark, all I see and feel is taunt muscle. His thighs are like blocks of rock.
Sometimes, when the moment comes and I hop into his lap, he’ll wrap his arms around me and lean forward, away from the couch, his arms and legs holding the weight of me there on his thighs.
When this happens, I think that sometime I hope we have an opportunity for him to fuck me like this- holding me there on his cock, leaning me backward, the only safety net preventing me from falling to the floor his arms and his cock.
I have to hope for this opportunity because I don’t get to see him that much and though he always gets me off, I’m never satisfied. I want more, more, more, more of his taunt body and long hair that I like to pull like fine ropes to bring him closer or deeper or hold him there.
His sex has depth. When I pull his hair I’m just helping to guide a course he’s already set. It’s what he seems to be going for with his body, all his sexual appendages- cock, finger, mouth- the bottom, the back, the furthest point.
It’s the motif of our sexual congress. It’s my motive for all the torturous waiting.
What I’d really like is one night or two or however many it takes for me to get sick of him, not sick of him forever-just sick of him for a little while.
One night to have my gluttonous fill- to check off my to do to you list and to not feel as he’s going out the door that I’ve wasted precious time pandering to a misplaced idea of emotional depth when the physical kind feels so nice.
© Fiona Helmsley