by I. K. Velasco
(03/12/03)
She used to read to him.
When he was on the road, she'd do it over the phone. Her voice, muted
through the speaker, muffled, sometimes harmonizing with static, would
travel across the lines and space between them. The lilt and dip of her
voice always made him forget about his days filled with the calculated,
but never contrived, existence called "rock star life." It was the only way
he could sleep.
When they were together, she'd do it when they were wrapped up around
each other. They always turned all the inside lights off, and she would read
only by the light of the streetlamp, filtering through the glass with slants
of yellow-tinged pale color. Sometimes, there was only moonlight. Silver,
instead of yellow.
He'd cling to her and play with her hair, reddish gold in the dim, his
eyes and heart shimmering with love glow, listening rapt, with bated
breath.
He was already naked. She was surprised, but didn't mind. She
liked the way the light reflected off his amber-bronzed skin and how his cock
bounced proudly when he approached her. He led her to the bed with the
same haughty confidence.
The source of her nightly storytelling varied. Sometimes she would read
classics: Marquis de Sade, Anaïs Nin, Pauline Reage; or modern works:
Cecilia Tan, Susie Bright. But always, there was something sensual
about each piece -- some exploration of body, lust, sex, and love.
Sometimes she would read her own work. Pulling out the tattered
notebook from under the bed, turning the ink-scrawled pages with combined
familiarity and reverence. Her voice was different when she read these pieces.
Those were the stories that he liked best.
He peeled her clothes off like ripping the rind of an orange --
a little rough, but gentle enough to keep the juiciness intact. When he
touched her pussy, her lips separated like citrus sections, fleshy and
ripe.
About a paragraph into it, she'd reach across the clean, white sheets
and touch him, grasping his cock through the cotton. The tattered notebook
or dog-eared paperback balanced precariously on the fingertips of her left
hand. She'd tug and pull, but the touch was almost an afterthought. He
was already hard. And it was her voice that brought him over.
He kissed the silk of her thighs. Leaning in, he laid his
tongue on her, licking out her crevices like digging out sweetness from a
honeycomb. She even tasted like milk and honey.
He always wondered if she wrote about him. He tried to remember their
lovemaking -- compare it to the action of her fictional characters. But
all he could ever remember was her face -- how it twisted beautifully when she
came and how she never once turned away from the intensity of his
warm blue stare. Maybe because he couldn't remember detail like she could
write it. Or maybe he was just distracted by the tug of her hand.
She always said that her words were naked, unlike his, which danced and
weaved to melody and harmony. He always disagreed. There was something
inherently musical in her words -- her soul's song. While his words are
rock and roll, hers would be jazz -- the low croon of a sax, the soft tinkle
of piano keys, the sultry voice of a songstress.
He pierced her hard and fast -- wild jungle beasts, writhing
against each other. He was so deep inside her, pulsing, beating. She
could hear the blood in her ears, how it was rushing to her limbs, warming
them. She could feel his cock inside her, pulsing with the same rhythm, engorged
with the same rushing blood. She whimpered, hot in his ear, licking at his
sweat.
They came together, like two ocean waves rolling, tumbling again and
again.
He comes at the same time as her characters, spilling thick milk and
honey over her hand, staining the crisp, white sheets. She rubs it on his skin
and then brings her hand up to her mouth to taste.
She pauses for dramatic effect and then asks as she always does, "What
did you think of that one?"
"Beautiful. Your best one yet."
