Because
You Just Lie There and I Want To
Steve
Finbow
I stroke your skin, your thighs. Downy hairs interrupt
the smoothness of it. Do you only shave below the knee? I never
noticed that before. Your thighs are quite muscular –
what a word. Muscular. Almost a phylum of its own. Your legs
are long and tanned. You like jogging. You play tennis. You
do yoga twice a week. Is that where they're from? Your muscles?
You also watch TV most nights. Do you flex your muscles while
you watch the soaps? Do you clench your buttocks on our leather
sofa? Your arms are remarkably hairless. Your toes line up like
Matryoshka dolls. I know your right nipple has two hairs at
five and six o'clock. You snip them off when you remember to.
Your belly button is inward. I quite like outward ones. But
yours is cute. I like to lick it and watch you squirm. 'Make
me want to do pee-pee,' you once said. And I licked it more.
Never pierce it. Promise? Your stomach is small and rounded,
like a little girl's. I love it when you wear cropped cotton
tops and hipster jeans. You shaved your pubic hair just for
me. Thank you. Your breasts are still firm. Your armpits have
just a touch of stubble and a light dusting of deodorant. Your
hair looks red at night. Is that its real colour? Are you really
blonde? You hardly move when you sleep. You murmur. Mumble.
Mutter. You have a habit you don’t know about. Shall I
tell you? You rub your nose with your right index finger while
you sleep. Quite vigorously. I wish you were wearing panties.
I like to slip them off while you’re sleeping, drink in
their yeasty perfume. Are you surprised you’re naked some
mornings? You never let on. Never tell. I kiss your nose. I
kiss your eyelids. They flutter. Are you dreaming? Who cares?
I kiss your mouth. Lick your lips. Lick your chin. Kiss your
throat. You move your head gently left to right as if you were
not sure about saying no. Yes. I will. I hold your nose. You
let out a gentle cough. I pinch your lips together. I put my
thigh over yours. Feel the heat. My knee touches your pubic
bone. I let go of your nose and lips. Stroke your breasts. Your
nipples begin to become erect. I lick my fingers and rub your
nipples. You brush my hand away and turn on your side. Silhouetted
against the window, your hips are, I realise, amphora-shaped.
I stroke them. I imagine them to be a shadowy roller coaster
and my hand is the car, out of control, coming off the rails.
I pinch your left buttock. Quite hard. Then I stroke it. Pat
it. Pet it. I want this part. I move my finger up between your
cheeks. You blink. Your eyes open and then close. I whisper
in your ear, ‘Are you awake?’ You murmur. You mumble.
You mutter. I nuzzle into your hair. I bite your ear. What would
it be like? Would you know? Could you tell? Shall I? What do
you think? I think I will. You’ll never know.
....
Steve Finbow lives in
London. His fiction, essays, short plays, poetry, and stuff
is in, or will soon be in, 3am Magazine, Big Bridge, Dicey Brown,
Eyeshot, The Guardian Online, InkPot, Locus Novus, McSweeney's,
Pindeldyboz, Über, Word Riot, Xtant, Yankee Pot Roast,
and Zacatecas. He writes the bi-weekly column Pond Scum for
Me Three. He is currently working on a novel. (Yeah, right).
Other TES stories by Steve:
read Ghosts of Another
Size
The
Last Time I'll Ever See You
