First Time Every Time

First Time Every Time

It's dark and silent. Well, not silent. Quiet like a neighborhood- the rumble of a train a few miles away, the neighbor's wind chimes spinning lazily in wee hour breezes. My hand is between your thighs in what you call "knifing." The blade of my hand pressed into your butter. You are sleeping naked next to me and when I shift, your grip pulls me back again, your breast against the back of my arm. You laughed once when I wanted to spoon. Your idea was better. I knife you. I hear cats rutting a few streets away. That was us three hours ago, rutting, a pillowcase between your teeth I was pounding into you, coming for the second time.

It's quiet now, the sweat dried from our bodies. I can feel your dream in my fingers, the tendons of your thighs twitching slightly, your pussy rubbing against the fleshy side of my hand. I can feel your pulse. Sometimes it matches mine and I smile into the dark. Once I asked if you had come yet and you scratched my chest. "Don't you dare count my climaxes," you said. Then you pulled my beard so my lips were almost touching yours. "Every orgasm is the first orgasm. Do you understand?" Baby. I understand.

I love how you describe our fucking. Always oblique, unexpected. You never do the same thing twice. You never call anything by the same names as anyone else. We were in a tea shop once and you whispered that you wanted me to bloom you. Your eyes told me not to ask. That evening I spread you open and blew on you, licked you, watched you seep and squirm. I told your pussy to bloom. "Bloom, baby," I said, between licks and kisses, "baby, bloom" and you did. I watched you open and close. You bloomed. You told me later that you had no idea what it meant, you just wanted to see what I would do, and that you loved it.

My cock is coming alive slowly. It's a little sticky from before, soft and sleepy. I have made you bloom many times. Always for the first time. I roll toward you, run my beard soft over your breast and you sigh. Only half asleep. I touch my nose to your nipple, wrinkle you. You throw an arm over my back.

I feel your fingernail on my skin, tracing a curve, a loose spiral, a circle, another circle. Sixty eight. We were driving home in the rain once when you told me that talking ruins sleep but writing doesn't. "Sixty eight is not quite sixty nine, which is an overrated position. I want your mind focused when you shuffle on me," you said, "and nothing distracts you more than my lips."

This is true, and not just when they're wrapped around my cock. I love watching you talk, watching you chew a piece of steak stolen from my plate. "Stolen meat is a universal metaphor for fellatio," you said once while you were still chewing a chunk of my ribeye. "It is not," I said, I went to college. I studied metaphors.

"Well, it is now," you said, and now I watch your lips even when you steal a french fry, a spoonful of ice cream, an olive. College doesn't know shit about fellatio. I'm watching your lips now, a slight grin twitching at the corners of your mouth. Your eyes are still closed. You just wrote sixty-eight on my back with your fingernail and now you release my hand from knifing. I turn so my feet are on my pillow and my head is on your thigh. I smell the fragrance of two hours of our lovemaking and it makes my mouth water. You lay your head on my thigh too and maybe it's my imagination or maybe I actually can feel the sleepy smile on your lips as your fingernails graze my balls. My cock swells a bit and rolls lazily. You're not going to put it in your mouth right now. You're going to relax and spread for me.

I don't talk. Instead I nose your clit like I wrinkled your nipple. Just a friendly bump before settling into a slow, comfortable pussy licking. Your folds feel like warm, wet tongues next to my tongue. I swirl and dig, and a deep groan escapes your throat.

"Moans do not count as talking," you told me once. We were eating apples, walking through a farmer's market and you were telling me not to wake you up too much. There were hundreds of people all around us and you were giving me very explicit pussy licking instructions. "Ruffle me," you said, "squeak me and make your tongue shuffle. And if I moan that doesn't mean I'm awake. Not awake enough to talk anyway. You just keep ruffling, okay?"

Later that same day you told me that sixty-nine was a transactional position. "Tit for tat," you said, "although tits are only fractionally involved. I'm not interested in transactions." You had a bag of blueberries and you bumped it against your thigh. I've always been jealous of those blueberries. Even now, with my head bouncing on your thigh, my tongue shuffling wetly, happily, through your deck of petals. Lucky blueberries. Lucky me.

And lucky you too, because you squeal when I slurp your clit into my mouth and pull on you. The lights from a car on the street outside travel the room left to right, squeaking through little gaps in the curtain. I growl into you, as low as I can. If this counts as talking, I'm sure you'll never tell me. "My pussy loves a man's voice," you said once. We were in the back seat of the shuttle after the wine tasting. I had a finger two knuckles deep in your pussy and I was tapping your patch along with the regular thumps in the concrete pavement. You were breathless, tipsy, fresh in that minty sundress. I wondered why you would bring up my voice in a moment when I couldn't do anything about it. Now I know that's why you did it. To worry me, to get me dreaming, to think about what story to tell your pussy when the time came. And the time did come.

I hum low into you and you arch and shudder, your breath puffing the hairs on my thigh. You clutch my hair in your fist and your legs close around my ears for a shivering squeeze and the wind chimes are shut out, the distant trucks on the highway disappear. I can only hear your leg muffled scream when you finish. Your pussy pours into my mouth. I have learned to hold my breath in these underwater moments, these weightless seconds of your orgasms. It is the first time for us again. When you open your legs shakily, I hum against you again, softly, after a big breath. I know you love to be sung down, you will transit the stages of consciousness wordlessly, and fall, perhaps all the way back into sleeping, my chin knifed into your butter for a few moments. Maybe your finger will write some sort of thank you into my stomach, maybe not.

I will slide into a half-wakefulness in a couple of hours before dawn with my cock growing into your wordless mouth. "Planting itself," you called it once, right before you made me forget my name.