by Scott J. Ecksel
(04/28/04)

For some time, Daniel and I hadn't been getting along. Not fighting, really, just not connecting as we used to.

Or maybe the problem had to do with touching. We hardly touched anymore. In the morning, he'd slip out of bed without even hugging me. In the evening, when we greeted each other after work, I'd get nothing but a peck on the cheek. In bed, we slept back to back.

And during the day? Disembodied questions over the phone. Can you bring home some extra cash? Did you call about the drain? I guess you could say I craved a bit of tenderness. A bit of drama.

A bit of lust.

Maybe he craved it, too, for he's the one who, when they woke him, woke me.

"Gina!" he whispered. "Do you hear it?"

Startled, I clutched the covers to my throat. Daniel's mouth was against my ear, his breath heating my cheeks. I brushed him away. "It's still dark!" I couldn't see him at all, so I glared with my voice. "Why am I awake?"

"Shh!"

I listened but couldn't hear a thing. "I hate being woken up," I said. Hoisting myself away from him, I buried my head in the pillow. "You know that, Daniel. What time is it, anyway?"

But he didn't answer. He didn't make any sound at all, as if he were holding his breath. So I reached behind me and poked him.

"Shh."

"Shh yourself," I said, turning back over. As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I could make out his silhouette. He lay twisted with his face towards the wall, breathing through his half-open mouth. Immobile for silence.

I sat up, leaning on both elbows. My little movements an avalanche.

"Shh."

From the kitchen came a moaning sound, a low rumble punctuated by ascending gasps. Ice in ecstasy. "Daniel, it's the refrigerator!" But then, something else: a knock. "That? Is that...?"

"Shhh. Listen."

The sound continued. Not knocking, exactly. More like tapping. Tappity-tap, then tappity-tap-tap. Then a voice, low and indistinct. Male. Then silence. Even the tapping stopped. After a moment, I turned to face Daniel, but when I tried to speak, my throat felt tight. I had to force the words out. "What's wrong? What is it?"

He raised his finger to his lips, shushing me again. Humoring him, I held my breath and leaned closer...and just then the refrigerator fell silent. There it was: the creaking of bedsprings, the murmuring of two voices.

"Oh!" I pressed my ear against the wall and was rewarded at last with something distinct. A single urgent word: "Yet."

Then movement. Someone standing. The hollow sound of footsteps across a hardwood floor. Creaking again: weight settling on the edge of a bed. Conversation, insistent and intimate. My legs started to shake.

But nothing was happening. "They're just talking," I whispered, and Daniel nodded. I watched him breathing, his lips parted and motionless, his nostrils flaring with each soft breath. "Well, what did you hear?"

"Grunting."

"Grunting?" Yuck. Once I dated a guy who grunted during sex. I couldn't stand it. Rooting hog. I like men who moan, the rumble of a baritone quivering towards tenor. "He was grunting?"

"One grunt."

I leaned in closer to hear him. A strand of his hair touched my temple, then slid across my cheek to my lips. "Tickles," I said. "You gave me chills." Suddenly I wanted very much to hear the grunting.

Though half his face lay in shadow, I could see his smile. So lovely. His nose a sharp slope. Eyelashes the spokes of a wheel. Day's growth of beard deepest at his chin and by his ear.

Hollow of the ear, I thought, where the words enter.

My legs were trembling again. Each of us waiting for the other. Who would turn away first? Or would a sound from the other side of the wall refocus our attention?

"I thought something was happening," Daniel said. "I'm sorry I woke you." His body settling down for sleep.

But I wanted something more. Sound, or words. It was so quiet. No noise from the highway. No birds singing or toilets flushing or heaters coming on. Our refrigerator mercilessly silent.

I had to swallow three times just to whisper his name, just to force the tiny words over the blood in my ears. "Daniel. Tell me what they're doing." I wanted him to say...what? Something descriptive. Something hot. And all the while, so angry at myself, my legs shaking -- it shouldn't be like this, not after so long. We should be able to talk, to touch at night if we want each other, without it feeling like something unallowable.

But the thought of wanting him only made me angrier. It's no use, I told myself. It's dying. The joy of it is dying. All it does is make me lonelier.

"Fucking," he said at last in his normal voice, conspiratorial whispering no longer necessary. "I thought they were fucking."

I knew then that all I'd have to say was something simple. Something like, Daniel, I'm not tired anymore, or Daniel, now I'm all awake. A droplet of oil for what's left of the fire.

And I would have. I would have done it. I would have said it just to have something between us, because I was afraid the something between us would die if we didn't touch. Even just to fuck.

"Did you hear that?" I whispered, because I'd heard something. I really had.

"No."

"Listen."

There it was again. Something vague. Tremolo.

Licking my lips, even, might have distracted me from listening. The shaking in my right leg became violent. "I'm so cold," I said, not meaning that at all.

Daniel took me in his arms, but we were awkward together, both of us turned toward the wall. We heard something. A gasp? Daniel put his hand on my thigh, which only made my leg shake worse.

"What's wrong?" he asked, but I couldn't answer. Nerves, I wanted to say. Arousal. Such a coward.

Daniel began caressing my thigh, his fingers tracing elaborate curlicues between my hips and my right knee. I pushed him away, and when he sighed and began to turn back over, I knew what he was thinking: that I didn't want him, that I was cold, selfish. That sex disgusted me. And for the briefest instant, my anger flared.

But then, once more, that sighing sound. Someone on the other side of the wall...doing what? Receiving pleasure? Getting head? No, no. I didn't even have the words for it. "Daniel," I whispered. "What do you think they're doing?"

This time he must have heard in my voice a bit of what I wanted him to hear. My anger was gone, melting, dissolving in the space between my breasts, slipping over my heart. But sticky, too, catching on bone. Messy, hot. Daniel used to tell me I had sex in my voice. But how long ago was that?

"I've never seen them," he said.

When half a minute passed without a sound from the other side of the wall, I said, "Daniel, this is making me really hot."

But as soon as I said it I wished I hadn't. Daniel's hand found my thigh again, and though I didn't push him away, I wanted him to wait. It's too fast, I thought, but what did that mean? All he was doing was caressing my leg. What did I want from him?

The refrigerator began moaning again. Both of us had our ears against the wall, but all we could hear was an occasional hollow murmur. Daniel's hand stopped, and I sensed his mind wandering. It's late, he must have been thinking. Soon it would be time for work.

Outside, though, it was still dark. Maybe it wasn't so late after all. "Daniel." I shifted close to him, melting even closer when I felt his hand on my breast. Why should this be so difficult to say? Were we so stuck in our routines, destined to drift further and further apart until every touch felt forced?

But I really want this. If I don't say it now, if I don't pursue this now, nothing will ever change.

I could hardly breathe as I slid my hand behind his neck and pulled him close. Then, gathering all my courage, I whispered into his ear, "I want you to describe to me what they're doing."

His penis, pinioned under my leg, slapped upward, free of me. But he was still hesitant. Our love, though not at all soundless, was wordless. No talking dirty, no whispered urgings, hardly even the sound of a name or a God or a yes.

I'd have to lead him. I reached down, resting my thumb against the head of his penis, rubbing so slightly my wrist stayed still. "Tell me," I whispered. "Daniel, please, I want to hear you say it."

He tried. "Making love," he said. "Maybe she's going down on him. Maybe the creaking, that's her weight on the springs when she's sucking him." He stumbled over the words he wasn't used to saying, an awkwardness I found endearing, but it wasn't quite what I wanted.

So I tried something new.

I asked him questions, and each one he answered to my satisfaction, I stroked him, my thumb brushing the ridge of his penis, the tip of my index finger spreading the moisture leaking from him all over the head, so slippery and firm. "Where are her hands?" I asked, so nervous my voice was like barking. "How deep is she taking him?" I reached down with a second hand, sliding my fingers through his pubic hair, tugging until his breath turned shallow. "How close is he, Daniel?" Each word distinct, working myself into a frenzy, tasting my own breath. "Where's he going to come? On his belly? In her hands? Across her lips?"

I could have made him come right there -- how could I have stopped? -- but Daniel slipped out of my hands, adjusting his position, his weight on my hip, a trail of wetness following his penis along my outer thigh. He said something so softly I couldn't quite catch it, but the very tone of his voice sent the heat fluttering through my belly through my breasts through my throat.

"I want you, too," I gasped...and just then the refrigerator stopped, and from the other side of the wall came a sound I'd never heard.

Wherever Daniel's hand was, it paused, and against my leg, I felt him soften. But I...I could hear my heart it hurt it beat so strongly, every part of me pounding with fierce heat as I realized both our neighbors were men.

Daniel would have stopped. It's true; he would have stopped. It's getting late, he would have said. And turning over once and for all, we would have killed what we still had left.

I couldn't let that happen. I wrapped my legs around his thigh -- he jogs every day: I love his strong legs -- and raising my hips rubbed a slow stroke of my body against him. How wet I was against those muscles! But I needed more, needed the sound of my voice and the sound of his words, responding.

"I don't want to stop," I said. "It makes me even hotter, Daniel." I thought I'd faint, already starting to quiver, the words escaping me -- I couldn't possibly do a thing to stop them. "Describe it, lover. Tell me now."

And oh, how he wanted to resist. No matter how husky I made my voice, no matter how full of sex each throaty vowel, I was pushing him, and he didn't want to break that way.

So I tried to match my words to the rhythm I heard coming through the wall. "Tell me what they're doing, lover. Tell me what he's doing now." Whispering, guiding Daniel's hand over my hips, my thighs parting. "And the other one. What's he doing? Where are his hands?" I bit his earlobe. "Where are his lips?" My words nothing more than a gasp. "Can't you feel how wet this makes me?"

Someone on the other side of the wall was coming, a glissando moaning, and I couldn't help myself -- I started coming, too, clutching at Daniel for my life. I bit him, almost drawing blood, but didn't make a sound. Resting would have killed it. I ground into his thigh again and listening urged him to answer me. "Tell me! You have to tell me."

And he did, not knowing how to talk to me, but learning. The words themselves teaching him what to do, how to say it, where to take me.

I helped him along by trying something new. I kicked away the covers and swung my body away from him then spread my legs so he could see. "Tell me, Daniel. Your words the motor in my fingertips." I said that, your words the motor, and feeling -- my God, I was feeling it -- that my fingers were being driven by the vibrations in his throat.

"The one with the deeper voice," Daniel said. "He's on top."

I was distracting him, but he continued. "His lips, circling, a slow circle. The other's thighs -- he's lifting his legs, so close he feels his breath there." Daniel's own breath catching. "Heat, warmth on his balls. Steadying his cock with his tongue, sliding it between his lips, wrapping them over it, pulsing towards the back of his mouth."

Every so often we'd hear a sound from across the wall, indistinct or joyous, so hard to tell, but I was listening, listening. My rhythm was building again and I was holding myself open -- burrowing with both hands -- so Daniel could see.

"Swirling with his tongue, and the taste...both of them moaning now." It was true. We could hear them so easily.

Then Daniel's voice fell so low I couldn't hear him, so I urged him, "Tell me again, Daniel. Say that again for me."

"The salt I'm tasting right now," he said, and I sat up in surprise, my eyes wide, and seeing him with his finger in his mouth I came hard, so sudden I almost screamed.

We're going somewhere dangerous, Daniel.

I looked at him, really looked at him, for the first time in so long. His eyes, dark, flashing whenever lights from the highway roamed our bedroom. His hair, glistening across his forehead. If someone brought me a strand of it from across the globe, I'd know it by its texture, by its scent. It's cold in this room but Daniel is sweating. Trembling, too. His hands were shaking. Both of us were shaking, and I was thinking, He knows it's dangerous, too, but he's so aroused. He wants something he didn't expect. But what? Exactly what? I wanted to find out, and he wanted to go there with me. Nothing happening on the other side of the wall mattered any longer. Both of us must have known it.

Even so, we let it guide us. We kept our eyes closed, listening, whispering, touching, our words, our bodies, loosening themselves from what we were into something new.

"I like that it excites you, Daniel. I like the thought of it exciting you. Don't you wish we could watch them?"

"No, just listening. Listening."

"I like his moaning."

"Yes."

"And the thought of what they're doing. That one of them is you, Daniel. Can you imagine that?"

"Yesss."

"That it's you in there. Imagine it, my love. What would you be doing now? Tell me. Which would you be, the one moaning now?"

"The other one."

"Yes. The one with the deeper voice, like yours is. Kissing his belly. His legs over your shoulders like you're doing to me. Teasing with your tongue just like...that. Does that excite you, Daniel?"

"You know it does."

"Take it in your mouth, Daniel. Taste it, taste how it's salty for you, like you taste. Come, lover, give me your penis, give me your cock. Feel me like you're there with them. We'll taste each other."

"I really want that, Gina. Just like them."

"What would my tongue feel like? If I were one of them, what would it feel like?"

"Firmer, like that. Just like that. Unshaven."

"Rough little hairs scratching at your thighs. I hear something wet, Daniel, do you hear that?"

"He's going to come."

"Come with him, Daniel. Hurry, lover. Suck it for me, wet all over your cheeks, just like I'm, oh God, yes, just..."

"Just?"

"I didn't exactly know how to describe myself coming, the words I say. Maybe the ending needs work still."

"Is that the end?"

"No."

"Will you continue? I like listening to you read it."

"Do you like it? Does it turn you on?"

"It does, but that's not why I like it so much."

"Then why?"

"I like it because what it means to us."

"What does it mean to us?"

"You know."

"Tell me. Say it for me, lover."

"That we're still together. That what we had didn't die."

"Oh yes, Daniel. I like that, too."

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