do for him is to smell like something other than anxious armpit sweat.
I emerge from the steamy shower still shaky, but it’s not so bad that I can’t control it. I’m wrapped in an orange towel when the doorbell rings. I peer out the side window and see Jason. He holds a bag of sandwiches from Vinnie’s Italian Deli. Sometimes, if time allows, I let him stay for lunch and we have adult-themed conversations. You know, the lawyering gig, what movies we’ve seen, the housing prices in Billsford. Safe topics. Neutral topics.
But as I swing open the door, I’m almost overcome by the urge to tell him what a strange morning it has been. I’d start with the witch and head right on into the beautiful, crazy man in Target. But I stop myself short. We don’t do that kind of conversation. We have sex and talk about the weather.
“Nice towel,” Jason says with a smirk. These last months, Jason has gotten bold. He tells me he’s dating. I lie and tell him I am too. Soon he will announce he has a girlfriend and our Friday mornings will be finished. I have yet to spend any time thinking about what that will mean for me. Or to me.
“I’m running late,” I say.
Jason puts the sandwiches on a side table and yanks the towel. It falls to the floor.
“You have the best boobs,” he says. “Handfuls.”
“Gee, thanks,” I say. “Upstairs?”
“You go first. I want to watch your naked ass walk up the stairs.”
Jesus. I’ve created a monster.
A few months ago, Jason finally got around to asking me for the title of one of my books. Instead of explaining what kinds of books I write, I handed him the hardcover version of my latest K. T. Briggs effort.
“Bodice rippers?” he asked. He examined the cover, which featured a hot guy with long, flowing blond hair. His shirt was unbuttoned to expose a rippling six-pack, and he held a woman in his arms. She had the same flowing blond hair, but her eyelet dress was strategically torn to show creamy white thighs attached to long legs. There was a stallion in the background.
“In a way,” I said.
“Can’t wait to read it,” he said. And boy, was he surprised when he did.
“You describe a nipple as an acorn!” he screamed at me the next week. “And a cock as a hard shaft of love!”
I shrugged. “So?”
“It gave me a hard-on, that’s what. On the train. Embarrassing.”
“You read it in public?”
“Well, I kind of wrapped it up in the Wall Street Journal .”
“You need an e-reader.”
“I guess. But I loved it. It was quite a read. I almost missed my stop.”
“Thanks,” I said. “That’s nice.”
“So do you, you know, do these things?” he asked.
I knew this question was coming, and I had my answer all prepared. Just because I write about something is not to say I practice it. I mean, I could write a biography of Abraham Lincoln never having met the man. Or a thriller about a serial killer without actually committing a murder. So why can’t I write about leather boot fetishes without fondling my own footwear in a dark closet each night after sundown?
“No,” I said, giving him the short version of an answer.
Jason caught himself just before his face registered disappointment.
“Well, maybe K. T. Briggs does them?” he asked.
I scowled at him for a moment. “She doesn’t either. But it’s nice you liked the book.”
Jason came in less than a minute that morning. I’m sure he was thinking of me, or probably K. T. Briggs, shackled to the headboard, legs spread wide.
I walk up the stairs trying to keep my ass from jiggling, but it wobbles around back there like it’s creating its own gravitational force. This idea makes me giggle. The earth and the moon and my ass.
The butt jiggle gets to Jason. We do it against the wall at the top of the stairs. He pins my hands above my head. It’s awkward. Jason is probably five ten, but the height difference is enough that when he thrusts, he literally has to pick me up off the floor to get
I emerge from the steamy shower still shaky, but it’s not so bad that I can’t control it. I’m wrapped in an orange towel when the doorbell rings. I peer out the side window and see Jason. He holds a bag of sandwiches from Vinnie’s Italian Deli. Sometimes, if time allows, I let him stay for lunch and we have adult-themed conversations. You know, the lawyering gig, what movies we’ve seen, the housing prices in Billsford. Safe topics. Neutral topics.
But as I swing open the door, I’m almost overcome by the urge to tell him what a strange morning it has been. I’d start with the witch and head right on into the beautiful, crazy man in Target. But I stop myself short. We don’t do that kind of conversation. We have sex and talk about the weather.
“Nice towel,” Jason says with a smirk. These last months, Jason has gotten bold. He tells me he’s dating. I lie and tell him I am too. Soon he will announce he has a girlfriend and our Friday mornings will be finished. I have yet to spend any time thinking about what that will mean for me. Or to me.
“I’m running late,” I say.
Jason puts the sandwiches on a side table and yanks the towel. It falls to the floor.
“You have the best boobs,” he says. “Handfuls.”
“Gee, thanks,” I say. “Upstairs?”
“You go first. I want to watch your naked ass walk up the stairs.”
Jesus. I’ve created a monster.
A few months ago, Jason finally got around to asking me for the title of one of my books. Instead of explaining what kinds of books I write, I handed him the hardcover version of my latest K. T. Briggs effort.
“Bodice rippers?” he asked. He examined the cover, which featured a hot guy with long, flowing blond hair. His shirt was unbuttoned to expose a rippling six-pack, and he held a woman in his arms. She had the same flowing blond hair, but her eyelet dress was strategically torn to show creamy white thighs attached to long legs. There was a stallion in the background.
“In a way,” I said.
“Can’t wait to read it,” he said. And boy, was he surprised when he did.
“You describe a nipple as an acorn!” he screamed at me the next week. “And a cock as a hard shaft of love!”
I shrugged. “So?”
“It gave me a hard-on, that’s what. On the train. Embarrassing.”
“You read it in public?”
“Well, I kind of wrapped it up in the Wall Street Journal .”
“You need an e-reader.”
“I guess. But I loved it. It was quite a read. I almost missed my stop.”
“Thanks,” I said. “That’s nice.”
“So do you, you know, do these things?” he asked.
I knew this question was coming, and I had my answer all prepared. Just because I write about something is not to say I practice it. I mean, I could write a biography of Abraham Lincoln never having met the man. Or a thriller about a serial killer without actually committing a murder. So why can’t I write about leather boot fetishes without fondling my own footwear in a dark closet each night after sundown?
“No,” I said, giving him the short version of an answer.
Jason caught himself just before his face registered disappointment.
“Well, maybe K. T. Briggs does them?” he asked.
I scowled at him for a moment. “She doesn’t either. But it’s nice you liked the book.”
Jason came in less than a minute that morning. I’m sure he was thinking of me, or probably K. T. Briggs, shackled to the headboard, legs spread wide.
I walk up the stairs trying to keep my ass from jiggling, but it wobbles around back there like it’s creating its own gravitational force. This idea makes me giggle. The earth and the moon and my ass.
The butt jiggle gets to Jason. We do it against the wall at the top of the stairs. He pins my hands above my head. It’s awkward. Jason is probably five ten, but the height difference is enough that when he thrusts, he literally has to pick me up off the floor to get
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