When i was nine, Casey Vandenberg told me that sex happened when a girl and a boy rubbed their bellies together and panted a lot.
Now, many years later and staring into a gaping, wet vagina (this particular one tasting like the back of an old stamp that's been sitting in the far end of a desk drawer for too long), I wish it were that easy.
I'd met Sarah three hours earlier in a bar where desperation and hormones dripped from the walls and into your drink. I bought her a Long Island iced tea and she told me she liked how soft my sweater was. She patted me a lot and slurred her words while I tried not to concentrate on the fact that she had two mouths, two noses and four eyes. I found out that she was from Long Island (what a coincidence!) and that she'd graduated from Brown University with honours. I told her I thought transcendentalism was an underappreciated philosophical movement. She laughed and said I was so funny. I laughed, too, but wasn't sure why.
When we got back to my apartment, I tripped in through the doorway and was embarrassed, but it didn't matter. Sarah was too busy struggling to remove her pullover from around her head. It was stuck on her necklace and one of her dangling earrings.
I helped her take it off, and as soon as her lips were free I kissed her. Tongues, lips and hands were everywhere. My mouth enveloped her chin far too often, and the bottom row of her teeth kept on banging up against my nose. Once I went in for her neck but found her shoulder blade and a mouthful of cottony blouse instead. Chewing on the top of my ear, she whispered that I was a "spicy little hot ball" and I responded that she "tasted like butter."
We both moaned.
Groping and licking each other, we stumbled into my bedroom, bumping into walls and stepping on each other's toes. She kicked off her heavy platform shoes and knocked over my CD stand. I unbuttoned the front of her shirt and accidentally popped off one of the small white buttons. It rattled off into some dark recess, probably to be found with wry amusement on a future moving day.
Her shirt hanging open, I squeezed her breasts through her bra until two protruding nipples made an appearance. One of them pointed up and to the left like a lazy eye. She slipped out of her shirt and worked on undoing my button-fly jeans and thick leather belt. I managed to unfasten one of the two clasps on her bra but was struggling with the second. What seemed like much later, we finally stepped away from each other, red-faced and flustered, and took off our own clothes.
Now, on all fours, with her legs splayed before me, I suddenly feel" different. And more sober. One of my socks is still on an ex-girlfriend gave it to me for Christmas, the Christmas before we broke up. Sarah's underwear, pink and frilly, is dangling from her left ankle.
I look up at her body and notice the curve in the hips and shoulders that I like so much in girls. I almost laugh, though, picturing drawing a nose beneath her breasts to make them look like eyes. Her belly button, small and oval, mouths the word "Oh."
I sit up and look at her face, of which I could see nothing but a chin from my earlier vantage point. She's passed out cold, and I wonder how long I've been thinking and staring into her vagina. A small drop of drool has already begun to form at the side of her open mouth. I grab my T-shirt from the bottom of the bed and wipe it gently away. She mumbles, "Yeah, baby," and turns her head to the side.
I brush her hair out of her face and kiss her softly on the cheek. I notice how the hard stubble on my face has left red marks around her lips, which are chapped and a pale red. I back carefully off the bed and find the blanket on the floor. I wrap it over her narrow shoulders and down to her feet, tucking it beneath her thighs.
Her breathing's loud and laboured, but not quite snoring. She might be getting a cold.
I right my CD stand and pick her clothes up off the floor. Folding them neatly, I place them on the chair in front of my desk. I find her two platform shoes and place them, side by side, next to the bedroom doorway. Feeling slightly exposed, I slip on a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt.
I head into the kitchen and sit down at the table. The ceiling light glares down at me, the unset clock on the stove winks continuously in my direction, and as I turn the salt shaker over in my hands, I wonder what we will talk about in the morning.