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Was there something in the lay of your arrangement that kept an edge honed that so often grows flat-dull in the "relationships"characterized as normal; those in which the couples accommodate, "learn to live" with each other—and the flaws that make them more human? No. But whenever she consented, whenever she jettisoned, suspended, waylaid, the latent condition which the rape had forced to its somatic source, she was ready; she was as— accommodating—as any woman who looked forward to sex (and, however decorous and unforthcoming, having shed their layers, verging on apparatus: the sweaters, skirts, shoes, bras, panty-hose, and socks), leaving panties on—for one reason, another, and another— as they crawled quickly between the sheets, so as to encourage further conversation that led us toward this quiet intimacy, as if no boy/man could withstand plunging in, if— —No, following her ablutions Laura simply got into her bed, and on those rare occasions when she wanted company, issued a summons like "you can come in with me if you want to" in a girlish slash angelic twang. The first few times she grew so wet and wide I thought we'd moved to another plane. The body doesn't lie. Not there. Not in that way. I couldn't read her face when my eyes and lips and tongue lifted from their delectable explore, while I moved, or was taken further and further in. Then, in the semi-meek timbres our ambivalence adopts when we don't want to incur the unpredictable wrath of someone whom we're about to disappoint, none more lethal than lovers, who can't turn back— not now—she'd ask if I could come. In the gushing forth, I gasped; and in oblivion's knell swallowed: deception. Center split. Treble division. |
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