“Do you want to come for me, my filthy slut?” Donny whispers into my right ear, the back of his left forearm pressed against my throat, pinching my air supply.
The position torques my body uncomfortably upright. Balanced precariously on my knees, I can’t help but rest my weight on the arm that makes it hard to breath. His cock thrusts into me from behind, my right middle finger circles on my clit.
“Do you want to come, my slut? Do you?”
It’s cliché, yet we must acknowledge the inherent difficulty of the Holidays. It’s Back to the Future for me, when I go home again. I find myself sucked in some weird time warp, simultaneously embodying the adolescent I was twenty years ago and the adult I am today. At the end of the roast beef and the pecan shortbread, the tinsel and the menorah (we’re half and half, you see), the Christmas pudding and the latkes, the halt-gestured kisses and half-expressed emotions, I want to be fucked back into wholeness.
At the end of it all, I want my lover to remind me with the waft of the most physical Prousty Madeline that I am who I am and what I am is me. It’s the sex that reminds me of myself, perhaps because it is the sex that defines us as separate from our families. It’s one of the few things we do that we can define on our own pleasurable terms.
Or maybe it’s just the grunting, sweating, libidinal release of endorphins. Maybe it’s just the penetration, the swirling laser lightshow of pain and pleasure, of anticipation and release. Maybe it’s the union that we experience in the citadel of our own singular flesh.
Maybe it’s just the fucking.
I didn’t get it, not when I wanted it, this fucking back to myself. I returned from Vermont a bit flayed a bit shattered a bit fragmented and my Donny meets me at my door unshaven and hagridden. He wants to talk he says. He has issues he says. He feels angry he says.
He might want some space he says.
And at the end of the long tortuous and torturous talk, the details of which are simultaneously so banal and so painful I can’t recant them here, he leaves. We hug, we kiss, we hold each other with the clinging grip of the drowning, and we resolve nothing.
He leaves me shrouded in the enigma of the status of us, wrapped in the conundrum of what to do, and still tainted by the ghost of the homegirl Chelsea Girl. Does the frustration come through here? Do you, once more with clichéd feelings, feel my pain?
Suffice to say we resolved, suffice to say that more talks were had, that responsibility was taken, that clarity was gained, that insights were experienced. Suffice to say that we reconciled, in short.
That night we made love and we made sure that it was vanilla as custard. Smooth as cream, delicious as silk. It was beautiful and it was the kind of lovemaking that normal people do. It was the kind of sex that Dr. Ruth wants you to have.
And then we had sex again, and it was less ice-skatery, less Tai Babilonia and Randy Gardner romantic fluidity, and a bit more brutal, a bit more of Donny slamming his cock into my open and opening cunt.
A bit more of his guttural crooning, “Take it, take it,” as he fucked me.
The vanilla collides with the rocky road, the bed heaves with cracks and fissures, the bumps and the chunks, the pleasurable splits of unusual desire.
Then last night, the kaleidoscopic shifts of positions. My breasts in Donny’s face, nipples in Donny’s mouth and my pussy rubbing against his abdomen, each backward tilt splitting my ass on the head of his cock. On top of him, squatting, bouncing my pussy repeatedly on his cock. Beneath him, my left leg thrown up around his shoulder. Before him, my ass opened by his palms, my face in the bed.
He takes a fistful of my hair and pulls my body up from the bed. He holds me upright on my knees, still thrusting his cock in me. He wraps his forearm around my throat. He presses his chest against my back.
“Whose slut are you?” He whispers in my ear.
Yours, I say.
“Tell me.” He commands. His arm on my throat constricts the passage of my air. I can’t really breathe I can’t speak easily I find myself floating and I feel my orgasm pressing in on me like a cloud front I can see it in its cumulous glory rushing toward me
I’m your slut, Donny, I say as best I can the balance the breathing the pleasure the cock in and out my self rising and floating to meet the clouds
He presses harder on me in me. “Do you want to come for me, my filthy slut?”
Yes, yes please, the clouds and the coming, the pressure in and on me and the taut tension between the pleasure the pain and the inexorable force of it all I fear I will come before he gives me permission I fear it as I want
control is being lost. I am losing control the control is lost.
“Come for me, slut.” He says and I do the orgasm sliding in slow and low breaking rain on and in my body the self lost and breaking apart as I find myself shuddering sliding melting and becoming whole.