Page 58 of Kiss My Glass
FRANKIE
It was only a matter of time before Danny commented on my eating habits. To be fair, most people comment immediately, and they only pretend to be curious when they’re actually being a hundred percent judgmental. When I was a kid, I was always called “picky”. Even my own pretty chill parents became frustrated, and I became frustrated right back because it seemed obvious to me that I wasn’t trying to be difficult. I was trying to be clear about what I would and wouldn’t eat, and if they’d only stick within my parameters, we wouldn’t have any fights. It’s not as if I ate only white food and was at risk of going blind through Vitamin A deficiency. I ate vegetables, and fruit – just a narrow range of them. Mom tried all the time to introduce new foods into my diet, and occasionally,I’d be okay with whatever it was. Mostly, I wasn’t, and when I was little, I could never properly explain that it wasn’t just the taste of certain foods that I objected to but also the texture. All I could do was spit stuff out, and then the whole family would get angry with me for being gross and abnormal.
And, of course, when you’re “bigger”, people judge you even more. I’ve learned how to ignore stares and whispered comments from fellow restaurant diners. Because I know full well that it’s not me they’re judging. They’re projecting their own fears onto me, that have been instilled in them by the ridiculous amount of societal pressure to be a certain size. This pressure is so insidious that we’ve come to believe it’s normal and correct. But it is patriarchal, capitalistic bullshit, that uses our fear of rejection to oppress and control. Women mostly but also men. The system sucks, people. Don’t buy into it.
I have to admit, I’ve been surprised by how little Danny seems to care about what I weigh. When we first met at Nate and Shelby’s wedding, I thought he was your typical vain L.A.-dweller, where nothing less than Hollywood-standard physical perfection is socially acceptable. I thought he’d choose who was on his arm as carefully as he’d curate every other aspect of his appearance. He is vain about his own looks, but he knows it, and he’s funny about it. He hammed it up in front of the mirrors today, a born showman. But whenever he looks at me, I only ever see pleasure and appreciation in his eyes. To be honest, I’m not used to it, and there’s part of me that doesn’t fully trust that it’s genuine. I hope it is, but I can’t convince myself just yet.
I can sense Danny looking at me now. When I’m driving, I keep my eyes firmly on the road, plus I’ve been mentally ranting, so I haven’t said a word since we left the freaky-animal café. Probably should rectify that. It’s a little rude to demand multiple orgasms and then ignore your partner completely.
“So … when should we talk about the crush party?” I ask.
“Whenever you like,” he replies. “How about in the rest periods between our upcoming energetic bouts of sex?”
“Amazingly, I’m not at my most mentally alert during those times,” I say. “How about tomorrow morning? In the winery office?” I add because someone has to inject a note of professionalism.
“Sure,” says Danny. “Boring but practical.”
He’s still looking at me. I don’t think it’s a simple adoring gaze.
“Something on your mind?” I enquire.
“Just realized that in our shopping frenzy, we never talked about how you feel about your Mom probably coming home early,” he says.
“There’s a very good reason we didn’t talk about it,” I say. “And that is: I don’t want to.”
“Okay.” Danny doesn’t sound convinced.
“Do you want to talk about your relationship with your dad right before we have sex?”
“Fair point well made,” says Danny. “Consider the subject closed.”
We’re coming up to the turnoff to the workshop. If you didn’t know it was there, you’d miss it, owing to it being overgrown and approximately the width of a deer track. I remember once Cam had settled in and was officially making barrels, Dad asked him if he wanted a sign put up, or a mailbox, but Cam was happy to hide out like a serial killer. We could park back at Flora Valley Wines and walk instead, but we’d be spotted immediately and it would be embarrassing having to come up with a patently false excuse for why we’re hurrying away.
With a silent prayer for the Karmann Ghia’s paintwork, I drive slowly down between bushes and low-hanging branches to the workshop. The original building is over a hundred years old, all that’s left of an old lumber yard. Dad fixed it up and made it useful again, and Cam slept in it on a camp bed before he decided to stay and build his tiny house. I kept away from this place when I was a kid – mainly because my older brothers told me frightening stories about it. By the time I was old enough not to be spooked, Cam was living here and it felt weird to invade his privacy. I’m glad of Danny’s presence in the space. Feels like a few ghosts have been exorcized.
I pull my car in beside the BMW. Soon as I turn off the engine, I’m struck by the silence in this clearing. Gradually, my ear attunes and it’s not silent anymore. I hear bird calls, the rustling of leaves in a slight breeze, the creaking of branches. The mid-afternoon sun makes shifting leaf-patterns on the ground and walls. I don’t think I could live this remotely all the time, but there’s something to be said for a cabin in the woods. Especially if you want to get loud in the bedroom.
Danny unlocks the door and closes it behind me. Now that we’re alone in here, I feel strangely self-conscious. After all that anticipation, I’m suddenly at a loss for how to proceed.
My hesitation must show because Danny’s looking at me quizzically.
“We don’t have to get down to it right away,” he says. “We could watch a movie on my laptop, instead?”
“No, I want to,” I say. “But could we take it slowly?”
Danny smiles. “Nothing I’d like better.” And he follows me up to the bedroom.
We get undressed at leisure. Danny’s been smart enough to leave the window blind down, to prevent the sun turning the room into a furnace. We stand facing each other, and the soft light filtering in through the gaps gives our naked bodies the dewy golden quality of a renaissance painting.
“You are incredibly gorgeous,” says Danny. “The first time I ever laid eyes on you, my jaw dropped.” He gives me a lopsided grin. “When you tore a strip off me at the wedding, I was simultaneously terrified and aroused. I’m glad you decided not to stab me with a cocktail skewer. I’m veryglad you’re here.”
I move towards him, brush my fingertips across his chest, and then slowly down his ab muscles, feeling them tighten under my touch. Lil Danny is straining at the leash, but if I stroke him, too, going slow may no longer be an option. It’s nice to know he’s glad to see me, though. I trace my fingers around Danny’s ab muscles again, enjoying the contrast of hard muscle and soft skin, and the sound of Danny’s quickening breath. Enjoying the sensation of my own body loosening with desire, becoming soft and molten and ready. I’m close enough now to feel the warmth of Danny’s body and smell the musk of his sweat. Danny’s not much of a cologne guy, another surprise, so his scent is pure him, with a hint of the cedar body wash I found in his shower the other morning and may also have liberally used.
“It’s Old Spice, isn’t it?” murmurs Danny. “That you smell of?”
“Why, yes, it is,” I say. “The original and best.”
He bends his head to the crook of my neck. His mouth hovers above my skin, and a delicious shiver goes through me. I want him to kiss me all over. Every inch from head to toe until I’m vibrating with lust and on the brink of coming like a freight train.
