by R. Gay
(1/24/01)

Andrew enjoys chopping onions and I enjoy watching. He has a ritual; fetching a well-rounded yellow onion from the vegetable drawer, slowly removing the dry husk of peel, holding the onion under cool water to lessen the sting before placing it on a wooden cutting board. There are his hands -- thick, veined, pale and strong -- and the knife in his hand as if it were simply another finger. He holds the onion between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand and carefully makes almost translucent slices of the onion. He is methodical, gently piercing the onion's flesh with the tip of the knife before bringing down the entire blade, working it through the onion, hitting the cutting board with a satisfying thunk, then sliding the fresh slice aside. Occasionally he eats a slice of onion, because Andrew also likes the taste.

When Andrew chops onions, he cries. I sit on the counter, absorbing his lean face, the faint scar that runs from his right eyebrow to just above his upper lip, his crooked nose. I see a thin stream of tears falling from his eyes, down his face, quivering on his chin before falling to his shirt or running down his throat, and I feel a stirring between my thighs, faint at first, growing as he cries harder, and harder. And I feel perverse, because when Andrew chops onions and when Andrew cries he looks beautiful and fuckable and vulnerable, and I am torn between wanting to see more and wanting him to close the short distance between us.

Andrew knows I enjoy watching him chop onions, so the ritual has become a point of seduction between us. As he slices, he will turn slightly toward me, watching me press my thighs together from the corner of his eye. He will flex the muscles of his forearm. He will talk to me, lowering his voice, speaking slowly, making me shiver as the baritone of his words tickles my ears. When he is done, he washes his hands under warm water, dries them with a dish towel, and arches an eyebrow. I sit perfectly still, unclench my thighs, smile, and inch forward, beckoning him towards me. Andrew will make me wait, leaning against the counter, one foot crossed over the other, his arms loosely at his side. He likes doing that, the making me wait. He'll stare until I'm uncomfortable, until I've memorized his gaze, until I'm forced to look away. And then he'll slowly walk towards me, and the kitchen feels strangely silent, save for the sound of his bare feet against the tiles, a slightly moist sound that turns the stirring between my thighs into a cruel, slow burn.

He will hold my face between his hands. Again I will notice how thick, veined, pale they are against my much darker skin. He will press his thumbs against my lips, then move them upwards, along the lines of my nose, softly across my eyelids, then back to my lips. All the while, I can smell the sting of onion on his skin. And then he is no longer gentle or silent. He will kiss me, hard, until my lips feel bruised and swollen. He will rub his face against mine and I will taste his tears and the onion on his breath. I will moan, hoarsely, though he hasn't really touched me, not yet; not the way I need him to. I will wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him closer, gnawing on his neck, kissing the hollow of his throat, tasting more tears. My hands will slide under his shirt, and I will desperately grab his chest, enjoying the way his skin feels beneath the palms of my hands. It's a peculiar sensation, he is not soft but sinewy and, with my eyes closed, I imagine I can feel his blood rushing, his lungs gasping, his heart beating. I will pinch his nipples between my fingers, and exhale loudly, because I am fascinated by his nipples, small, erect pink disks that interrupt the pale expanse of his chest.

He will open my bathrobe and, forcing his hands between my thighs, for they are again clenched together, he will spread my legs apart. He will spread them until they ache. But I enjoy the ache. It makes me wet. He will bite my shoulders, inhale my breasts into his mouth, pausing to trace my hardened, purple nipples with his tongue as if he is trying to trace every crease along them. My hands will slide down his torso to the waist of his jeans, and I will fumble with the button, crying in frustration if it catches, then quickly undo the zipper. He will stop, step out of them, move back between my thighs, and I will sigh with relief because for the one moment when he steps away, I feel empty and hungry. Andrew will pull me to the edge of the counter, the sharpness of it digging into my ass, which I will ignore. I will feel the tip of his cock against my navel, and I will wrap my hand around the shaft, feeling the warmth, the pulsing of the thick vein along the underside, the way it continues to swell.

There will be no more seduction. In one elegant movement, he will position his cock at the entrance of my cunt, and he will thrust forward, burying his head between my breasts. I will want to scream but instead, choke, my voice trapped in my throat. I will tighten my legs around his waist. I will rest my chin against the top of his head. I will clench the muscles of his back with my hands, leaving the deep crescent imprints of my fingernails. Our moans, harsh and low, will echo against the tiles and counters. I will tighten myself around his cock and he will press deeper. I will wish that we could enter each other's bodies. And when we come, we will both cry, and later, lying in the bathtub, scrubbing each other clean, we will say it was the sting of onions in the air.

There are other times; times when not even halfway through the onion, Andrew will push the cutting board away from him, grab me off the counter, turn me around, and swiftly remove my robe. I will feel the rough denim of his jeans brushing against my ass, shivering as he slowly unbuckles his belt, letting the leather strap slide across my skin. He won't even bother stepping out of his jeans, instead, he lets them wade around his ankles. There will be no time to waste. He will clasp the back of my neck with his right hand, holding my forehead to the counter, as he moves his left hand along my spine to my ass cheeks, squeezing them hard. He will take the open bottle of olive oil from the counter, slathering a thick layer around his cock, on the puckered opening of my ass. Carefully, but with determination, he will press himself into the tightest part of me, an inch at a time, until he can go no further. I will stop breathing, and become intimately aware of the sound of the sink's leaky faucet. It will hurt, but I like the hurt, welcome it.

I will wonder what I look like from this position; does he find it attractive? I will think that lying like this, ass in the air, legs trembling, I have become the kind of girl...no, woman, that our mothers warned us about in hushed and awkward tones. When he pulls back, leaving just the tip of his cock in my ass, I will gasp for air, having forgotten that I was holding my breath. Now, he will wait, watching me squirm and pant and push myself backwards, wanting him back inside of me. And then he will slide forward again, grinding his hips in short, punctuated thrusts. The pain will start flowering into pleasure, and I will feel myself loosening around him.

I will hear my voice, but it will sound strange to my ears. I will beg him to fuck me harder, deeper. I will beg him to call me his slut, whore, fuck toy; and when he does, my body will shudder, it will nearly throb. My back will arch and I will try to raise my head from the counter, but he will slam it back down. I will feel my clit wet, swollen, and pulsing, and I will beg him to please touch it. Touch what, he will ask. Touch me there, I will plead. Softly, too softly, he will slide his hand around my waist and down, pausing as he runs his fingers through my pubic hair, then moving lower. He will press two fingers against my clit and hold them there. I will buck my hips trying to trap his hand between my body and the cabinets below. But he is stronger. And this is all for him. He will lightly feather my clit with the pads of those two fingertips, and I will feel an indescribable sensation, keen, almost unbearable and it will crawl from my clit through every inch of my skin.

I will feel used. His thrusts will become harder, and in addition to the water dripping in the sink, I will hear his sweaty skin slapping against mine. When he comes, it will be fast, and violent. He will forget that I am a person. I am simply a tunnel that he is travelling through. My clit will feel like exploding. When I feel the hot, brief spurts of his cum shooting up my ass, I am the one who will cry. I will not come but I don't want to, because I like the unsatisfied edge I am left with. I will try to push myself away from the counter, but my damp skin will stick. My arms and legs will feel rubbery and just before I fall, he will take me in his arms, and I will suckle his fingers into my mouth. I will relish the taste of onions.

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