a victoria p


10 September 2007

nearly christmas 2005

A couple of days before Christmas, I caught my boyfriend masturbating to pornography off his computer. See, the thing is, he thought I was asleep. We had been drinking wine earlier that evening while watching a documentary film about New York City. Anyway, I had left my seat early on while viewing the film, to pass out in his bedroom (or so he thought). Secretly I had set an alarm for forty-five minutes past the time I had left his side in viewing the film. I awoke promptly as my alarm went off, and kept myself up for fifteen more minutes until I heard the film had finished. I heard the entire ending of the film. Damn, my alarm didn’t even wake me—I had been up, drunk, the entire time I had supposedly been slumbering. He arrived in his bedroom about an hour after I had left the living room and I heard him beckon my name. “Amanda,” he said firmly; I heard him, but my only response was a short stirring and maybe a slight moan. He spoke again, and again I didn’t respond, as I was playing a sort of game with him and his sexuality. My small sleepless moans were calling him over to me—I wanted no more to have him in my arms and between my legs, but I was playing fox, and I needed a slight chase to break the monotony of our usual drink-drunk-slumber pattern. As I stirred in bed he played music and lit a cigarette. I resented that cigarette, as I wanted him much more than he could want that cigarette; still, I stirred and moaned patiently awaiting his arrival to my side. Still, nothing. The smoke drifted towards my nostrils and I buried my face into his quilt to avoid the temptation of wanting a cigarette myself—that of which reminds me. I lay there, stirring, with nothing exiting my mouth but a small timely squeak. He spoke my name once more before it happened but my sexual stubbornness stuttered my response once again; I moaned before his voice, clandestinely wanting him to comfort me with his body. I stared, through the blanket at the wall before me, gray and listless. My ears soon forced me to turn over, as I was ill with my secret game; and there he was, hand inside his pajama pants. At first I thought he was looking at an old nude photo of me. And then came the animation. Her breasts were small like my own and that was all I saw before I scolded his name. “Norman!” I uttered along with a statement that probably was something along the lines of, ‘what the hell are you doing’. His face dropped, and as I sat up I realized I was aroused, all against his bed sheets. I guess most girls would find this to be a downfall. As a matter of fact, I believe I’ve even told him before that when a man masturbates with his sleeping woman at his side, it is in fact the downfall of their relationship. Television had taught me that. At the least, something to be evaluated, you know. I, on the other hand, had nothing on my mind but him entering me, sharp thrusting, leaving my stomach red and rug-burned from rubbing along his mattress. I summoned him to my side but his embarrassment, nearly expected, drew him to the bathroom. In moment’s time he was back in the bedroom to find me wearing solely my undershirt and bra. We stood and held each other in silence, my lips lined up to his neck of that I kissed and continued to argue with him to come to sleep. I still had sex on my mind, as I am now convinced that I am some sort of nymph who won’t blink an eye after catching her partner pleasuring himself alone. I stripped down my minimal clothes and waited for him to come to my side and he did; with ease he removed his nightwear. We lay in bed together, entwined in the nude, and I reached down for his matured penis, which I found to be only semi-hard. He muttered his apology, that of which I responded, “can I play with him?” He told me I didn’t have to, and that I knew, but being myself I knew I wanted to. I rubbed him, with the same motion I wanted to be rubbed in, and he grew more apt to the subject on hand. I crept down from the pit of his arm, down his side and nested myself between his legs. And there I sat in a sort of indian-style way, playing. And I played until he came, which I wasn’t sure if he could do; with wine in my blood I felt clumsy and out-of-touch, and the wine in his wasn’t reassuring of my skill. After he came, I kissed his inner thighs, over and over, as he laid and held himself. I buried my way back up to his face and kissed his lips with my own cum absorbed ones and he bid me goodnight as I expected. And this is where I find myself now, sneaking out of bed to type a sexual encounter before I even knew what I was typing. Christmas is at hand and I refuse to leave Brooklyn without my lover. I can hear his deepened breaths as I sit here typing my now sexual refuge, but my mind is too ill to sleep. I sleep all day and spend nights with batting eyelids as my lover sleeps. I swear on this cigarette to help me stay up at night as my mother swears on her morning cups of coffee that get her through the day. I could look up the pornography and plug in my headphones as my lover sleeps, but I am no sort of hypocrite in this sense. Typing gets me off. Words get me off. Essays get me off. Earlier today, I read an essay written about the judgment day. It scared me out and off of my wits, as if I even had any wits to begin with. I hope my lover opens his eyelids, only for a moment, to view his woman bended nude over his desk, getting off to her prose. I hope he finds me sexy, sitting here smoking and scratching my head, but I know he is fast asleep, with only a new day of tedious work and many moments away from my side that awaits him.

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