Ninety Three Seconds

I’m certain I was yammering as we walked through the door. There was a plan: to drink, to cook, to eat, and to fuck.

I had assumed in that order, and therefore, was not expecting to be held by the hair and drag/pushed into the living room. That was certainly a surprise.

But when he pulled the pillows off the sofa and dropped them to the floor before me, I had an inkling.

And when he pulled his phone out and fiddled with it after ordering me to masturbate, I had another inkling.

Some time after the orgasm, after he’d given me a taste of him, after he’d told me to get dressed and make him a drink, he’d nonchalantly told me that it’d taken me 93 seconds to orgasm.

“Because you were watching me,” I explained.

Manual override on my own could take an hour. Any sort of stimulation when he’s watching me takes significantly less time.

Dinner was decent.

It was during the fucking when I was asked how long it took me to orgasm earlier.

I don’t know how the fuck I remembered the number.

But I did. “Ninety three seconds, Sir.”

He started to smack me. Slowly, then quickly, altering speed and intensity.

And then he stopped.

“How many is that?”

Well. I don’t know. Maybe it’s like the pillows and I’d had some sort of nonverbal cue. Or maybe it’s something I always do, the counting.

“Fifty.”

I could hear him smile. I felt the swell of my own pride in getting it right.

Here’s what he doesn’t know. I think I lost count somewhere after the next 20. I dropped into some altered state for a moment and when I came back….I could have sworn we were at 83, not 93.

But those last five smacks were double handed and hit hard.

Maybe they counted for two.

What’s next?

He’d been driving at least an hour to get to my house. He’d told me before he left that he’d want a shower upon arrival, so I responded that I’d wait to take mine with him. He also usually wanted a drink, and sometimes a smoke. And at some point, we were going to have to eat.

And fuck.

“What would you like to do first?” I asked, after kissing him hello

“Pee.” He answered.

“Okay,” I answered, smiling and stepping aside so he could move past me and toward the bathroom.

When he emerged, I was waiting for him in the living room. I inched closer to him, staring into the deep blue pools of his eyes. “What would you like to do second?”

What started as a soft kiss quickly escalated. His hands were everywhere: around my throat, in my hair, clawing at my breasts and thighs. I gave him what I could, and what I couldn’t he took from me.

I paused to catch my breath. “I still need a shower,” I whispered. He chuckled, “So you’re saying you’re a dirty whore, right now.”

He spun me around and held me tightly against him with his forearm across my chest. “Yes, Sir,” I answered.

Then I was bent over a chair, my skirt hiked up. I could hear zippers and rustling. When I looked down on the floor I saw his shadow cast from the lights behind him. He’d undressed. He was walking toward me, carrying something.

I feel the first strike of the belt across my ass.

By the fifth or sixth they were making me jump.

He’s fucking me. My god, it feels amazing, but my leg is cramping up. I try to shake it out, but my calf is seizing. I tell him so.

He drags me by the hair up to the bed.

I’ve come more times than I can count. We’ve reached the point where I’ve stopped asking for permission to come and I’m growling at him, “I want it. It’s mine. I want it, now!”

I explode. I can feel him starting to twitch. He surprises me. In a flash, he’s pulled out, flung the condom off and he’s coming on me. A drop lands directly in my mouth, the rest on my neck, chest, and belly.

It takes a few minutes to regain coherent speech.

“What do you want to do third?” I ask.

Ms. Hardy’s 6th Grade Class

I remember the first time I became aware of her. I was sent to her classroom with a note from another teacher.  I’d stepped in just as she was quieting down her students after some sort of disruption, and she turned her head as I opened the door with her big, almost accusatory eyes piercing through my timid little soul.

I handed her the note and her demeanor changed.  “Oh. Okay.  Thank you.”

The following year, she I was assigned to her sixth grade class.

I’ll admit, I was scared. I remember talking to my friend about her.  Until then, all our teachers had been ….

What’s the word I’m looking for?

Sweet? Passive? I don’t know. They all just seemed like they liked us.

Not her.  She could quiet a room full of schoolchildren with a stern look. She was there to teach, not to babysit us.

And teach us she did.  After a few weeks, I started to realize that Miss Hardy wasn’t really all that scary. She didn’t have to like us. She respected us. She was an excellent teacher. It was in that class that I first learned there was such a thing as Black History Month.

Or maybe, it was in that class that I first paid attention to it.

Because Miss Hardy was black.

I remember thinking it was strange – that all of Black History could be taught in one month. It didn’t make sense to me.  Why wouldn’t we learn about historical Black figures throughout the year? I also pondered why it had to be the *shortest* month that was picked for this focused instruction.

That’s a question a naive child asks herself – the naive child who had learned about the United States Constitution and believed everything she’d heard about an America that believed in Civil Rights, denounced cruel and unusual punishment, and valued truth, liberty, and justice for all.

Oh, sweet, dear young me.

Most of my memories of actually learning can be traced back to the year I spent in Miss Hardy’s 6th grade class. I remember details from the lessons she taught me more clearly than any other in my entire educational history, all the way into college. I still have all 51 prepositions memorized in alphabetical order.  I still use many of our weekly vocabulary words in every day sentences.  I first became fascinated with the story of Mount Vesuvius in Pompeii in her class. I looked at pictures of the ruins in Ancient Rome – these relics of ancient history and learned about the importance of innovation with the aqueducts. We drew the ocean currents in blue crayon on a huge world map across the back wall.

She was the teacher that interrupted our scheduled lesson for the day to pass around the front page of the newspaper the year that the Berlin Wall came down. She explained its significance to us.

But there was much more she taught me that I didn’t even realize I had carried with me all this time. She taught me not to judge people based on their appearance or their first impression. She taught me that to be respected was often significantly more important than to be liked. She taught me about the America that I could be proud of despite its questionable history.

I miss that America, sometimes.

Today is the first day of Black History Month for 2017.  It makes plenty of sense to me now.

Can you help me? (Or: Why I’ll never allow a television in my bedroom again)

It’s not surprising that he’s crept into my thoughts more during the past week. I learned how to Christmas with him in my life. Doesn’t help that google likes to remind me what happened “on this day” X years ago. Anything more than 3 years usually includes memories of the time that my label was “wife.”

This morning, as I have been for nearly all the mornings during this holiday break, I woke up way too early. The light coming from outside my bedroom window was still dark enough that I couldn’t find my phone on the bed without feeling around for it.

In the process, my hand found the handle of my vibrator. I’d fallen asleep last night before making use of it. I thought perhaps a nice, slow morning orgasm would relax me enough into another hour of sleep.

I peeled off my underwear and pulled the sheet up over my shoulders to keep the chill out before I got started. As I do, I let my mind wander through the Greatest Hits – the handful of fantasy situations I imagine when I’m just trying to get straight to the orgasm without so much meandering along the way.

I lightly grazed my hand over the sheet and felt the little jolt of sensation when it traveled over my pert nipples. I smiled, thinking about recent events that involved my nipples and my lover’s warm kiss.

But then, it happened. The sound of my own voice, in my head…

Can you help me?

Instantly my mind shifted from this happy place by remembering her. The she that was me before he died.

“Can you help me?” as I lay in bed beside my loving husband with my vibrator pressed up against my clit and his hands clutching the video game controller.

The orgasm evading me as I tried to call up the feelings of being desired while he focused all his attention on smoking pot, taking Ambien, and watching documentaries.

“Can you help me?” I’d ask in my small voice, laced with yearning and unmet hunger and the wanting of the slightest bit of attention.

And he would sigh. Hold the controller with one hand while reaching over to grope my breasts with the other.

With my eyes closed, I could pretend he was actually looking at me while he did it.

The orgasm would come. I’d drop the vibrator. And, without a word, he’d pick the controller back up and carry on with his game, or the documentary, or the bong hit I’d interrupted with my request.

Can you help me?

It dawned on me, not for the first time – but for the first time in a long time, that for nearly three years, that was the entirety of my sex life. That was how we “did it.” That was as much as I could get in terms of active participation from my husband in my orgasm.

It pained him, by the way. He knew that he wasn’t giving me what I needed. He knew I wanted more, and more often. But tired. Pain. Depressed. High. Busy.

There was always some excuse to mask the complete lack of desire he had – not just for me, but for anything. The drugs and the pain killed it all.

The best he could muster was a healthy grope on one of my breasts. It was really all he could do for me.

I flashed back into my present tense. I set the vibrator down. I was never going to get there thinking of that. I went back and read some of my texts from yesterday evening from my lover. That’s not my life anymore. She is not me anymore.

But yeah, for a few minutes this morning, I felt really, really sorry for her.

Bathtub Drabble

When a challenge is presented, one either elects to accept or reject it. Should one accept said challenge, one should fulfill said objective to the best of her ability.

Which brings me to this point, crafting one hundred words via text while in a hot, bubble filled tub as suggested by he whose suggestions are accepted with similar reverence as the above referenced challenges.

I recall a time in the not terribly distant past in which another challenge presented itself within the confines of this very same tub.

I have twelve words to convey that underwater blowjobs are indeed possible.

More November Dribbles and Drabbles

November Dribbles: Perfect Circle

Someone over on FetLife created a November Dribble/Drabble challenge.  A drabble is a story made up of exactly 100 words (title not included in this version of the challenge).  A dribble is exactly half that – a story set in 50 words.

The challenge is to complete either one drabble a day or one dribble every two days (as telling stories in fewer words can be more challenging).

I didn’t catch on to the challenge until November 7th, so in order to catch up, I posted three dribbles in the morning, and a drabble later at night.

Here are the dribbles.  Next post is the drabble.

#NovemberDribbleDrabble


Perfect Circle (Part 1)

It had been a stressful week, but not unexpectedly so. “Will you have the energy to do anything later?” he’d asked. She replied confidently that she would. “I want you to fuck me so hard I forget my name.”

“Oh, I’ll remind you your name, whore.” he replied.


Perfect Circle (Part 2)

They sat in the theatre, exactly 1127 seats, most filled. Comedians traipsed across the stage in measured order. The music began; he ran his warm hand gently up her bare arm. The music, crowd, and stress dropped away. For the first time in weeks, she felt still and silent again.


Perfect Circle (Part 3)

“Please, please, please!” Her cries were muffled by the palm of his hand, else echoing through hotel room walls. He’d pounded her into orgasm after orgasm earlier, but now forced her tortured restraint. As her pleas reached critical mass, he growled, “What’s your name?”

Whore,” she responded breathlessly.

Permission granted.

Ritual

Her shoulders are hunched as she takes each knock-kneed baby step toward the kitchenette, using her french-manicured and liver-spotted hands to steady herself on any furniture she passes along the way. I offer to help, but no. She won’t allow it. I sit back and send an email to work that I’ll be late this morning.

She fills a plastic measuring cup from the water cooler and takes a cautious three steps over to empty it into the kettle. Then she steps back to the dispenser and repeats it. Then again.

There is a hot water lever on the dispenser, but it’s the kind that requires you push down a red button while pulling on the lever – too difficult for her frail, arthritic hands.

I smile as I watched her struggle. There’s no point in offering to help again. I’ll only irritate her.

While the kettle heats, she spoons some of the herbs into the hollowed out gourd and inserts the metal straw with the built-in filter. She pulls the tall thermos out from under the counter and spoons in a touch of sweetener.

When the kettle is finished, she pours the heated water into the thermos. She returns to the sofa in the sitting area, this time using the walker on wheels to rest the thermos while she carries the gourd in one hand.

She sits beside me and pours the water over the leaves, setting the thermos down on the floor before handing me the gourd.

I say nothing, and take a few sips. Memories of generations of childhoods brought up drinkingmate (mah-teh) in the morning erupt onto my tastebuds. The warm liquid soothes my throat, still healing from a week of high winds and higher stress.

“I haven’t even eaten breakfast today,” she tells me as I drink. “But I got up at six this morning to drink mate.

I finish up the liquid in the gourd and hand it back to her. She refills it and returns it to me. “Did you eat?” she asks me.

“I had a protein shake on the way here.”

“A protein shake? That’s not breakfast,” she tells me.

“And what did you have?” I remind her.

She sighs. “I don’t have an appetite, with everything going on.” My grandfather, he was moved back to the hospital again last night after he woke up agitated in the nursing home, confiscated a wheelchair and somehow made his way out to the street before the attendants were able to bring him back inside. Unable to sedate him at the home, they sent him back to where he could remain under medicated observation.

I nod and take another sip. When the sound of the air pulling through the straw comes through, I hand her back the gourd. She fills it again and returns it to me.

This is the ritual she has every morning, rain or shine, every day of her life. Usually with him, but for the last two days he’s been gone, after a few falls had the doctors concerned about his low energy levels.

She serves him. And without him there, she’s frightened.

I reach over and take her hand, fingering the diamond ring on the intricate golden band that I claimed for myself when I was ten years old. “I like that ring, bubbe,” I’d said. “I want you to leave it to me in your will.”

All my cousins are boys and none of them would have wanted it, but I wanted to be sure that would end up mine.

She sets the thermos down on the floor. I take another sip. “It’s so good, bubbe.”

“You’re done?”

That’s part of the ritual with mate. One does not acknowledge it until they’re finished. That is when they say thank you to the person in charge of filling it and passing it on to the next drinker to indicate they don’t want any more.

“No, but I’ll serve it now,” I say.

I finish out the water that’s left in the thermos as we sit and chat. At one point, she forgets enough to have regained her appetite and fixes herself a bowl of cereal. Corn flakes. She offers me some.

“I’m okay, bubbe. I need to get to work, actually.”

“Ok, Ok. Go. Go. Don’t make problems for yourself. I’m fine,” she says.

She is, and she’s not. My grandfather retired decades ago from his job, but her job had always been to take care of him. She never really considered retirement. She never considered having to live a day of her life without him.

My widowed heart sinks as I recall those first few days. It won’t be easy for her.

In many ways she’s been in a 24/7 dynamic her whole life.