Page 15 of Sicken of the Calm
I remove one of my hands from hiship and shift my upper body slightly to reach towards the drawer of my bedsidetable, looking for the bottle of lube I keep there. The bed is big, the onlyreal luxury in the apartment, and I practically dislodge him from me on myquest. The bedside drawer is a little broken, needing two hands to be opened,and I fumble with it for a moment before I succeed, pulling the lube out. WhenI lie back down, Ezra straddles me again, breathing out a laugh that sounds alittle relieved as I show him the lube. He extends his hand and I flip the lidopen with my thumb, squeezing some on his palm before capping and tossing itbeside me.
My hands return to his hips, andso does the movement on his dick. Slicker now, Ezra picks up the pace, a slighttease but not as torturous as when he’s playing with me. My dick twitchesslightly as I watch him, but I know my orgasm was too intense to get hardagain, and I’m glad. This is better undistracted, just watching Ezra, baskingin the warmth of having turned him on this much without even touching himbeyond a kiss. I get to see, unencumbered, as the rhythm of his hand picks upwith intent now, watch him bite those already red lips, watch those blackwhisky eyes of his look down at me like it’s my hand on him, like there’s nodoubt that it’s me making the flush on his cheeks rise. I get to see how hisballs rise up, how his dick darkens, and that moment, right there, right at theedge, when he closes his eyes and forgets himself, and I get to hold his hipsas he comes, the perfect shape of my name on his lips.
His cum shoots onto my shirt,joining mine. He shudders, breath harsh until it finally subsides and he slumpsforward, the mess of his brown hair falling against his forehead. I watch the aftermathtoo, the way his eyelashes flutter and how wet his lips look, and lock it awayin a warm place inside me.
I lift my hand and pull him downgently for a kiss. He doesn’t hesitate, not even opening his eyes as he goes.The kiss is slow, deep, a little breathless, still tasting like mango and him,and me.
He pulls away, smiling at me, andI can feel an echo of the expression on my face. He sits up and stretchesbefore getting up. I don’t move, but I follow him with my gaze. He washes hishands and, just like yesterday, he goes into my wardrobe to retrieve a shirt.Somehow, Ezra searching my things doesn’t feel like an imposition, even whenI’m fully conscious to witness it. I’ve prompted it, this time, if onlyindirectly by suggesting he help me relax, and he’s rightfully taken it aspermission to continue whatever it is that he started last time.
When he returns, he lifts myboxers and jeans up, doing them up. I know why he’s rolling the shirt up thistime, and the gesture seems almost sweeter than yesterday. I sit up and he putsthe clean shirt on me. The whole ritual feels intentional instead of anannoying necessity, like he’s taking care of me.
When he’s finished, we just lookat each other.
I feel like I could drift away.
**********
The best part of those summerswith Iva had been the sudden, almost unfettered freedom in having whole days tojust bike around town, unleashed and wild. I can close my eyes and rememberperfectly the feel of it, of the wind against bare skin and thick hair, of thesmell of sunscreen and baking tarmac and therush. It would coursethrough me, gentle and complete, the feeling that I could go on forever, that Icould melt into the air.
Like I was part of something.
CHAPTER THREE
I spot him as I glance over theshoulder of the girl that’s talking to me. Tight jeans, red shirt, and his hairall a mess; the sight of Ezra is a lightning strike. He’s gesturing widely withhis hands, probably less drunk than he seems judging by his clear-eyedexpression, and the sight of him shouldn’t be a surprise – he told me he’d behere. When Iva had mentioned the same party a few days later I had acquiescedeasily, showing my hand. Surprisingly, she hadn’t teased me beyond a look.
Ezra and I had talked for a whileafter getting dressed – or, at least, Ezra dressing the both of us – in myroom. He’d sat on his chair as I sat lengthwise on the bed with my back againstthe wall. Ezra had scooted the chair close and rested his legs on the bed,pressed against mine.
“That wasn’t too much?” he’dasked. Despite it only being a hand job, I knew what he was referring to – theorders, the hair pulling, the control.
“No, it was… good,” I’d said, notknowing how else to describe it, even though ‘good’ seemed inadequate. He’dnodded slowly, watching me for a second before changing the subject, slippingback into his usual nonchalance.
Those moments, by far, were thestrangest ones. When the fire had burned straight through and there wasn’t evenanticipation to keep me distracted. When it was just Ezra and me, and I couldfeel him on my skin, still, inside my mouth and at the back of my head where myskull throbbed. Ezra would focus all his attention on me and it was the otherside of the commands and the violent grip; the thing that kept it from tippingover intotoo much. Ezra seemed so sure, seemed so calm, that it helpedme not question it – what the hell I was doing, why I liked it, why I liked itthatmuch– fuck. The questions would go on and on, each one more confusing thanthe last. But there, with Ezra, in the aftermath, it was all silent, back tothat alternate reality that Ezra created for us.
Now, with the sounds of the musicand the chatting and the shouting outside in the garden where a game of beerpong is taking place, I’m back to not knowing how to approach Ezra, whatreality will meet me when I do.
The swell and backwash ofpartygoers take Ezra away from sight, and he reappears some time later wherepeople have congregated to dance, or writhe, or move to the pull of the moon.Ezra himself looks like he’s being attacked by a swarm of bees, flailing hisarms and shaking his head like they’ve hived in his hair. The slim, pretty girlin front of him is just as enthusiastic, jumping up and down in time to thebeat. She starts doing coordinated moves with the lyrics of the song and,although I can’t hear it, I can see the wide laugh on his face as he joins her,moving his hands like he’s doing magic tricks. He’s such a dork that I can’tstand it, grinning to myself like I’m in on the joke.
I try to concentrate on the girlin front of me. She’s gorgeous, with big almond eyes and a thick, natural afroaround her head. She’s telling me a story about a friend of hers, who runs oneof the radio stations for the university, some late-night program for themultitude of students that burn the midnight oil. The girl, Aisha, has an easy,calm confidence that puts my usual social fears at ease.
“Is that your girlfriend?” sheasks suddenly, cutting herself off. I realize I’d been looking at the dancingpair again and pause awkwardly, caught. This is the thing about being anythingbut heterosexual – each person I meet is a debate over whether to tell them.
The choice is taken from my handsas my gaze slips to Ezra, now belting out the lyrics to some song, and hersfollows.
“Ah,” she says, turning back tome. “Have I been barking up the wrong tree all night?” she asks. It takes me amoment to catch her meaning and tense up further as I realize she’s beenhitting on me all night and I hadn’t even noticed.
“Um – not really. I mean, I likegirls. Too.”
“Oh, equal opportunity, just likeme,” she says easily, but she’s still searching my face. “I think it’s time todance,” she says.
“No, I don’t-”
“Oh, please, Puerto Rico. Comeon.” She’s removing the cup from my hand and setting it down before I’m beingdragged toward the dancing crowd, toward Ezra. I try to dig my heels but Aishaquells me with one look.
I guess I’m dancing, then.
The truth is, I’m not a baddancer. I got used to the sounds of plena coming from my mother’s old CD playerfrom before I was big enough to reach her knees. She’d lean down, grabbing myhands and moving me around, singing, bailala, bailala, bailame la plena que’sta buena de verdad.
Every song is different, but whenit comes down to moving your feet and your hips and your shoulders, it’s thebeat that counts.
