Page 132 of Pucking Strong

I duck into the bedroom and find it empty. My side of the bed is pristine, with nothing on the side table except a phone charging cord and a glass of water. Teddy’s side table overflows with books and electronics in various states of charge, vitamin bottles, reading glasses, his retainer case.

He tried to hide his retainer from me at first, only putting it in when he thought I was already asleep. It was charming the first time he woke in a daze, forgot it was in, and spoke to me with slurredspeech. He only stopped fretting about it when I let him catch me making a mess with my water flosser.

The bathroom door is wide open. Our unspoken rule is that an open door means the other can enter. I step through into the bathroom and immediately see Teddy back in the closet, one foot in the air, tugging on a pair of rust-colored chinos. He’s shirtless, his sweater and T-shirt left in a pile on the floor.

“Hej.”

He jolts upright, tugging the chinos up around his hips. “Do you think she hated us?”

“What?” It takes me a moment to even think of Cheryl. “No. You heard her; she forms no opinion of us. The facts will speak for themselves.”

He snorts, buttoning his pants and zipping the fly. “Yeah, right. And you believed her? Everyone forms opinions about everyone.”

I step into the closet, watching the way the muscles of his torso twist and flex as he moves. There’s hardly an ounce of fat on him. He’s long and lean, yet more angles to add to his composition. He turns around, showing me the muscles of his back, as he searches in the drawer for a fresh T-shirt.

Not for the first time, I wish I didn’t leave all my photography equipment in Sweden. I’ve never really felt inspired here. My work is so all-consuming that I don’t often pause to mourn my lack of other hobbies. But in this moment, with the closet lights casting shadows across the planes of his back and shoulders, my fingers itch to capture him.

Luckily, there are other ways to capture a moment. I step in behind him, smoothing my hands up his sides.

He jolts again, standing upright. “What are you doing?”

Is it fair to say I don’t know? Up to this point, we’ve limited our experimentation to kissing, which I’ve enjoyed. Quick kisses in the car. Slow, burning kisses on the couch, Teddy in my lap. We accidentally kissed in front of Karolina last night, which sent her doubling over in fits of squeals and laughter.

I’ve felt ready to try more, but I haven’t known how to express it. Part of me wishes Teddy would just take charge, shove me againstthe wall, and have his way with me. Call it extreme exposure therapy. But he’s been so obliging, always asking if I like it, assuring me we can take things at my speed.

But I don’t know what speed I want. And I have no sexual experience with a man, so I’m not really sure what to do. I would take what I like and try to replicate it, but I’ve never enjoyed sexual touch before Teddy. Each time, my senses went into overdrive until they went numb. Things always felt too wet. There was too much friction. The scent of the latex condom made it feel all the more clinical, coldly procedural. Too much panting. Gripping hands, whispered moans.

I shut it all out, until I felt cut off from my body. Floating somewhere in a dark ether in my mind, I concentrated on just one sensation: coming. That’s what my partner wanted from me, right? That’s what I was supposed to want? To come into the condom? With my eyes closed tight, I made myself come.

Then I thanked them.

And they left.

I always stood alone in the shower after, hands shaking, wondering why I felt so broken.

With Teddy I finally feel different. I feelmore. His body is a tether that keeps me grounded in the moment. I don’t try to escape. When he’s touching me or I’m touching him, I feel curious. I like watching him react. I want to learn his body better.

I glide my hands over his ribs and up his back, brushing them over his bare shoulders. His skin is so warm. And smooth. And there’s not a single hair. I circle my thumbs over his upper trapezius muscles, pressing down lightly.

He pushes the drawer closed with his hips, his hands lifting to grip the shelf above. “What are you doing?” he repeats on a groan.

“Touching you. Do you want me to stop?”

“No.”

I’ve slept next to him for a couple weeks now. Usually, he wears a T-shirt to bed. I think it’s his way of keeping our touch platonic. I’ve spent my nights wrapped up in him, breathing him in. Before, he was my life raft. I needed him. He kept me afloat.

But I don’t want to need him anymore. I want towanthim. I want to crave him like he so clearly craves me. I want to memorize his every line and curve so I can picture them in my mind when he’s away from me. I step in, my hands slipping under his arms to brush down his chest.

He sucks in a breath, his head sagging forward.

I press my front against his back, heart pounding as a sensual feeling races through me. It’s like a fluttering of wings in my gut. I feel fevered, but it doesn’t repulse me. His skin warms under my touch, and my skin warms to match. This is a natural reaction. It’s nothing to fear.

He groans again, dropping his hands to a lower shelf, as I skate my fingertips down the rigid muscles of his abdomen, letting them glide across his hips. He has hair on his stomach. A faint dusting, hardly anything. I’m much hairier across my chest and abdomen. I’ve never noticed it before. Never given it a second thought. Does it bother him?

“I have hair on my chest,” I whisper.

Teddy stiffens. Then he snorts a laugh. It shakes his shoulders. “I know. I’ve seen it.”

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