Page 43 of Hurts So Good
After she fucks me for a while and I get that my-girlfriend-fucked-the-hell-out-of-me glow, I go down on her some more. She slips her underwear off and puts her dress back on and then hikes it up, lowering her ass onto my face. I’m surrounded by her magnificent ass. With her dress over me her pussy and ass are my entire world. I’m eating her out, her legs pinning my arms. I’m ravenous for her. I love the way she tastes. I didn’t used to like the way a woman tastes but my girlfriend cured me of that. I want to get my tongue deep inside of her. I want to lick her heart. I go down on her for so long that the next day my neck hurts.
So there it is. I thought I was so kinky, so alternative. But really I’m just a guy who appreciates sexy clothes, likes something in his ass, and loves going down on his girlfriend. After sex I like a big meal. Normal.
There was one thing. Since she was leaving for a while she carved POSSESSION in my side with the knife she keeps by my bed. She says she needs to sharpen it. She’s been using it too much and it’s getting dull. But she wanted me to be able to look in the mirror and think of her while she’s gone. Also, in case I met another woman, that other woman would know there was already someone in my life when she saw POSSESSION recently cut into my skin. It’s like those stickers on aspirin bottles that let you know this product was packaged for Walgreens and if you’re buying it anywhere else you’re taking part in some sort of crime. Labeling. I admit it, a lot of people aren’t comfortable with cutting. Cutting is still “kinky.” I have all these marks all over me from where she’s cut me. But really, it’s a small thing. I spend much more time with my face between her legs than I do getting cut. You have to look at the percentages. More and more I feel like I’m joining mainstream America.
ROCK PAPER SCISSORS
Shanna Germain
Rock, paper, scissors. That’s what I’ve always called it.
Shim-sham-bo. His name for the game. Maybe he made it up, maybe he didn’t.
Whatever we call it, it’s how we play.
“Shim,” he says, and our closed fists slap into our open palms. I watch his hands. Not because they might help me win but because I like to watch his hands. I know where they’ve been, where they will be. I know the short nails, cut to the quick for Sunday mornings on the guitar. I know the blue veins that pulse from arm to wrist to fingers, the half-moon scar that outlines his knuckle.
“Sham.” The ring he always wears—wide silver circle on his ring finger—flashes when he brings his fist down. Beneath that band of silver, the word that I know is traced into his flesh. Red ink. Blood ink. A name. Mine.
“Bo,” he says.
Our hands go out at the same time. I throw paper first. I always do. So does he. You can look it up online, what it says about your personality if you throw paper more than rock or scissors. Quietly powerful. Strongly submissive. Topping from the bottom.
We keep our hands out, flat hands with the palms down. He has the best hands. Spanking hands. But it’s a tie. We play best out of three, and ties don’t count.
“Again,” he says.
“Shim-sham-bo,” he says, faster, and he throws a rock. The fist. Loose enough that it could unfurl into something else. Tight enough that it is all power.
I throw paper again. I’m sending mixed signals. My hand in the spanking form, when really, it’s his hand that I want, spanking.
“Your win,” he says, sliding his rock hand under my paper hand. Paper covers rock. Curve of ass beneath flat of palm.
“Damn,” I say. Neither of us wants to win this game. I’m a sub. So is he. Two subs in a relationship. This game is how we make it work. Loser takes all. Winner is the one who must wield the power. We could alternate, I guess, be fair. But that’s not our style. It’s not nearly as much fun.
“Go,” he says, impatient. I grin and flash my eyes to the crotch of his jeans. Already the wide outline of his cock is visible through the fabric. I want to rub myself up against it like a cat, sniff it like a dog.
“Rock,” I say. Our fists make small noises against our palms. I inhale the sound, imagine it’s his hand against my skin instead of his own.
“Paper.” Somewhere, in my mind, I am already bent over, beneath his hand. I am already feeling the slide of my panties down my ass, across my thighs. In my mind, the small calluses in his palm scrape my skin…
“Scissors,” I say.
And that’s what he throws. Two fingers out, two fingers that will enter me if I can find a way to lose. Two fingers that will tweak my nipples. That will slap my clit with the same precision with which he slaps his guitar. The thump of rhythm. The heat-strum.
Me, I fall back on paper. I can see by his eyes that he didn’t expect it. Three anythings in a row is risky, paper especially so. Chances are good I won’t throw it again—it’s human nature to mix things up, to tweak a pattern if we can. I’ve just given him an advantage. Maybe.
“Your win,” I say.
“Fuck.” He shakes his hands out, cracks his knuckles. That sound alone sends small shivers through me. He always pops his knuckles before he spanks me. He likes to make me wait, bent over at his feet, while he cracks each finger, so slowly I can feel the snap inside my body. So slowly that I count as he goes. One, two…it takes him forever to get to ten.
“Shim,” he says. I watch his hands. Because I like to watch his hands, but also now because it might help me win. Lose. People think this is a game of chance, but no. How badly do I want to win? How badly does he? What is our fallback throw? He throws rock when he’s confident. Scissors when he’s nervous.
“Sham.” His half-moon scar shines white. The ring flashes its promise of cool pressure against my skin. Beneath it, the top of a word written in red ink slides in and out of view. He clears his throat, and suddenly, I know what to throw.
“Bo,” he says, and his scar and ring and scissors flash.
My hand, my winning-losing throw of paper, settles into the current of air and hangs between us.