by Jeff Hemsley
(11/10/04)
"Don't speak. Promise you won't?" Sophie asked as I entered.
I nodded. She closed the door behind me and took my hand, guiding me
to a
chair. Sophie motioned for me to sit. I did. She sat in a chair
facing
mine. The old burn on the left side of Sophie's face, from ear to jaw,
was
twisted and red. Her pale blue eyes showed fear, maybe of rejection, as
she
unbuttoned her simple white blouse. After removing it, she let it slip
to
the floor next to her chair; a small white island on the blue carpet.
I had never seen her arms until now. Over the past two and a half
years of
knowing her, she had always worn a long-sleeved shirt; cuffs buttoned.
She
looked at her arms now as she twisted them around this way and then the
other, offering them to me. Letting me see the short crisscrossing red
lines -- self-inflicted scars; some new, most older and fading. These
memorials to pain were densest on the backs of her forearms, but some
were
on the softer, meatier inside too.
Sophie looked up tentatively into my brown eyes. Reaching forward
slowly,
I touched the marks on her arms, tracing some with my fingers. Turning
her
head to the left, showing me the fine-featured side, hiding the angry
burn,
she pretended to look at the bookshelf. My hands gently lifted hers
to my
lips. Then I turned her face back to me and our lips brushed; the
gentlest
of kisses.
Over time, we had developed a comfortable friendship. First talking at
the
office about work and the people there; later finding we both shared a
passion for history and reading. We met often after I took a new job;
talking about my endless series of failed relationships; listening to
her
pain over her father's drinking.
Soft solo guitar music played as she stood, facing me in her jeans and
white
tank top. Her little breasts stretched the top, and I began to feel
aroused.
After unbuttoning her jeans, she slowly wiggled them past her hips and
let
them drop to the floor. As she stepped out of them, I felt my eyes
grow hot
and wet as I saw more evidence of self-mutilation; a heavy
concentration on
the front of her thighs, less on the softer inner skin.
A year ago, about the time she had confessed she was a virgin, I swore
off
chasing women. Sitting on a moonlit beach, after hearing my story of
being
a latchkey child, I heard of how her mother died rescuing her from the
fire; and how cruel kids could be to a little girl. That was the first
time
I held her, protectively, in my arms, as we listened to the restless
ocean.
Sitting down, in her white panties and tank, she took my hands, kissing
each
palm, then placed them on her thighs. Where her skin wasn't puckered
and
red, it was fine and soft and white. Never have I felt anything as
soft as
the inside of her thighs.
Sophie opened her legs a little wider as my hands explored her thighs.
I
slid off my chair, on my knees, as if in prayer, between her legs,
letting
my hands feel the unmarred skin of her hips. Lifting the white tank
top
exposed scars on her breasts and stomach, though not too many.
Tenderly, I
kissed these wounds. Every one of them. Sophie stood, looking down at
me,
while she slid her panties past her thighs, letting them fall to the
floor.
Months ago, I had helped her move out of her childhood house, where her
slurring, sullen father still lives. Alone. Since then, we had made
dinner
together in her studio, where she encouraged and gently critiqued my
first
attempt at a historic novel.
Gently, I guided her back into the chair, where she opened her legs for
me,
allowing me to kiss the scars on her inner thighs. Allowing me to part
the
fine brown hair around her vulva and kiss her lips. Soon her head
relaxed
back, and moans delighted my ears. I pleasured her until she cried out.
After removing my clothing, she guided me to the bed in her small
studio; a
bed I set up for her after she bought it; a bed we had sat on
across
from each other while sharing our dreams and our hurts. When we were
done,
we cried, holding each other until all the tears were gone.
