by Kenneth Brady
(08/28/02)
I love the way her eyes taste, all creamy white satin, deep blue sea salt, a
hint of rose petals. I feel her voice pattering up and down the skin of my
shoulder blades.
I reach out to grab the words floating by my head, and my fingertips brush
each syllable lightly.
"I need to know what you are experiencing," she says. The words tickle;
hummingbird wings flutter up my arm.
I know I should focus on the meaning. I try. What does she mean? The
experiment. The process is working. It has to be working. Nothing else could
explain what I feel.
"You did it, didn't you?" I say. I wonder if my words skitter across her
skin as hers do mine. Perhaps my question pauses to fondle one of her
breasts.
Her smile is so sweet, so incredibly rich and decadent. Chocolate never
tasted so good.
"But, how?" I ask. I have so many questions. I want to know which
calculation was the critical link. What had we missed all along? Which
neural pathways had we overlooked?
"I'd rather not tell you," she says. "I'd rather show you." Or, that's what
I think she says, because my skin turns to gooseflesh, and my erection is
instantaneous, urgent.
She sees this. Or she feels it, or smells it, or tastes it. I realize that I
don't even know if she has the same wires crossed inside as I do. Perhaps
everything is normal for her. But....
I wave my hands around the lab and see the sharp stabs of electrical current
flowing through the air. A blast of air-conditioned cold dances along the
tiled floor. I see the neural pathways flickering in my brain, and hers.
She moves toward me with a calculated mesquite strut, and I taste every
curve, every inch of flesh.
As she drops to her knees and beckons me onward, I unzip my fly, letting my
erection out into the air to feel the sound of her breathing.
The perfume of her skin reaches me then, and I've never heard any sound so
vibrant and clear and pulsing with amplified excitement.
"We'll be rich," I feel myself say. I envision the marketing department of
Calvin Klein rushing to market a new scent called Synapse. I imagine the
boys at Trojan making a condom that's ribbed for her every pleasure, and
just happens to look like a white hot orgasm on the shelf. I foresee a new
age of interactivity in Hollywood.
Her tongue moves slowly toward my penis, reaching for the small glistening
drop of semen on the tip, and her breath blows dazzling rainbows before my
eyes.
"I see what you're saying," she says. "But don't talk. Your words are like
fire."
And she moves.
During the exact moment of contact, I smell my own salty semen in her mouth
and I convulse, every sense alive and awake.
And I know she's feeling the same things.
