(no subject)
She was sitting outside on the stoop, smoking a cigarette. Inhale, pause, exhale, flick. Her mind was elsewhere, so her movements became repetitive. Inhale, pause, exhale, flick. She would occasionally break the cycle to scratch at the inside of her forearm, her blank expression changing ever so slightly as she did this. She would catch herself scratching and her attention would return to the cigarette. Inhale, pause, exhale, flick.
He tried to walk up as casually as he could. He was sort of wondering if she was actually upset or just distracted in her own thoughts. He wondered if she would even say anything to him as he passed her by. They usually didn't have to make eye contact. She was often sat on the other side of the building, or he would be able to slide past her through another set of doors. Her positioning seemed intentional, but he was sure this was just nerves that he would have to confront her finally. Be one on one with her, take the conversation into his own hands.
"Hey," he said lightly, fishing for his key in his pocket.
She glanced up at him, her gaze locking onto his own. That's when he knew this time would be different. She had sat there intentionally.
"Hi." Her voice was slightly more than a whisper, choked and heavy. He was speechless for a moment.
"What happened?" He finally managed to squeak out while his eyes surveyed the damage that had been done to her face.
She tried to muster a little cynical smile, but it just came off as a grimace. "Life...," was her sarcastic answer. He didn't know what else he should expect from her. She was a sarcastic little thing, always sassing her friends and constantly letting her attitude get her into trouble. No doubt this was another example of how she had let her mouth run wild.
He wanted to reach out though, and run his thumb across the swollen lip, the corner of her mouth dark and wet where the skin had broken. The soft tissue just under her right eye was bruised and still blackish-blue. Her eyebrow piercing, her pride and joy, had been ripped out, leaving a narrow vertical gash on the left side of her face. She looked like she'd had some time to clean up and get herself together, but the medical attention had done nothing to take the edge off the hurt, angry look radiating from her dark, brooding eyes. The eyes that were blinking back hot tears, even though she didn't look like she was about to cry.
"Life is tough but I think something else happened to you." His words came off sounding a lot cheesier than he had intended, but it got her to let out a dry laugh.
"Well, I got a special variety of life last night. Came in a glass bottle attached to a dumb bitch named Leslie."
"Ah," was his only response. He very badly wanted to invite her in and get her some ice for her lip. It was so swollen, it should have been very painful for her to talk, or even to smoke, but she put out the one cigarette and reached beside her on the step for another. He spoke before he could think.
"Do you want to come in? I could get you some ice," he suggested, pulling his keys out of his pocket. She looked away quickly, her hand still on the box of cigarettes. She was clearly contemplating whether her misery was worth another nicotine toke or if her pain would get the best of her. She must have decided she'd had enough of the smoke because she pulled herself up, refusing his offered arm, and turned towards the entry door.
"Yeah, I'll come up. Thanks," she muttered, staring into the bottom of the glass door. He reached past her to put the key into the lock, and then held the door open for her to cross the threshold. Together, in silence, they climbed the two flights of stairs to his tiny, cramped apartment, where he again held the door for her as she preceded him into the room.
"Wow, this is a shithole," she immediately commented once he had shut the door and set his book bag aside. "My apartment is twice this clean and I'm a dyke. Aren't gay men supposed to be obsessively clean?"
He gave her a dirty look as he crossed the open living room to the kitchen. "No, that's a stereotype. There are plenty of gay men too busy to redecorate and organize every five minutes," he retorted as he searched for a clean dishrag to place the ice in.
"Oh sure, you've got enough time to fuck but not enough to clean up afterwards... kinky," her voice echoed from the back of the apartment.
He found a dishrag in the back of a drawer that looked and smelled okay, quickly filled it with ice, and walked back towards the living room where he had left her. She had moved towards his bedroom door, standing just outside the room, gazing in as if not sure she should intrude. Hearing him behind her, she quickly turn around and gave a flinching smile.
"Oh hey. Sorry, the door was open."
"It's fine," he said, handing her the ice with one hand and reaching past her to pull the door shut with the other. "No worries."
She stood there silent for a moment, the ice pack just barely gripped in her hand. Her eyes didn't quite meet his, and it looked like she was tearing up ever so slightly again. Then she blinked and the vulnerability was gone. She pressed the dishtowel to her mouth, wincing as the fibers scraped her open sore.She tried to speak then, but the ice pack effectively muffled her speech.
I'm sorry, what?" he politely asked, folding his hands behind his back. "Repeat that please?"
She pulled the cloth away from her mouth long enough to ask, "Okay, so what's back there?"
He didn't immediately respond, but eventually just answered, "my bedroom," with a certain finality in his tone. She looked at him, skeptical, and then reached for the doorknob. As her fingers brushed the cool metal, his hand lashed out and latched onto her wrist to stop her.
"No!" he admonished.
"Why not?!"
"Because I said so!" They both paused, realizing together how juvenile that exchange had been. She giggled a bit behind the compress again pressed to her face. He chuckled a little to himself. And then her her wrist jerked beneath his grip and she pushed against him, falling into the bedroom.
"Whoops!" She shrieked, the compress flying out of her other hand and flying back towards the living room. "Could you grab that?" She dove for the bed at the center of the room, her words impishly flying out behind her. He stood in the doorway, shocked by her bold behavior, but turned and went to retrieve the ice from it's landing place a few feet away.
As he stepped back into the bedroom, she was making herself comfortable in the middle of the bed. "This room is a lot nicer than the way you keep out there," she said with a nod towards the living room. He didn't say anything, just handed her the ice pack. "What's wrong?" she asked quietly, sitting up a little bit. "Have I really upset you?"
"No...it's just that this is my personal space. You know, it's sort of off limits."
"Oh. Well I can go." She turned away quickly but her eyes were lit with tears. He let out a small sigh; this was not how the day was supposed to go. He put a hand up to stop her from completely climbing out of bed.
"No, it's fine. You're already in here." She gave a shy giggle and settled herself back in between the pillows.
"Okay, as long as you're alright with it." She looked around for a moment, "no TV?"
"No TV in the bedroom. It's in the living room."
"Ah. Well perhaps that's where I'd like to be instead." She picked herself up out of the bed and walked around to stand before him in the doorway. He started to move aside, but without warning her fingers snaked tightly around his right wrist. Her face was suddenly pressed against his, cheek to cheek, her lips just barely brushing the lobe of his ear. "Thank you," was her all but inaudible whisper. The pressure on his wrist relaxed but before he could even step backwards her lips were crushed against his; hot, rough, and fierce. She hands were clasped over each of his ears, drowning out the ambient noises so that all he could hear while she was pressed against him was the loud rushing of internal silence. His mind raged; 'What is going on?' it cried, reeling from the situation. But another part of him, a more carnal influence, was forcing his hands onto either side of her waist, was compelling him to bring her firm body closer to his own, was working his mouth against her bruised lips with such a harsh passion that after a few moments she had to pull away.
Her eyes said it. The shock. The apology that she didn't mean what she had so unexpectedly just done. That she hadn't expected him to kiss back, that she hadn't meant for him to grab her and want her just as badly as her mouth said she wanted him.
She was surprised by his willingness.
"But I'm gay..." he said for her, his eyes staying on her face. Memorizing the bruises, the swelling, the tiny drop of blood that had formed where her lip was still raw.
"But we're gay." She whispered. The tears fell then, and he did the only thing could think to do. He gently placed his lips on her cheek, letting her frustration slide down his lips. Her fingers dug for his clothes, pulling him towards her once again, bringing him as far into her as their bodies could permit at that time. She began to cry harder as he slipped his arms around her waist and drew her into a hug. He could feel her fingernails just barely make contact with his form through his clothes. She was clinging so desperately to her as she sobbed, shaking now, pouring her anger and fear out onto his face. And then he felt something hot and wet, but not like tears, run down onto his lips. She gasped as he pulled away; she pressed a finger briefly to his face and another to her own. Both hands came away with dark blood. She had cried so hard that she had given herself a nosebleed. Her eyes widened in embarrassment, but he only wiped the blood off his face and reluctantly let go of her to get some tissues. He helped her clean up, and while she apologized profusely through her tears he only shook his head and tried to tell her that it was okay. Her nose stopped bleeding, and she slowly stopped crying. They stood in the doorway to his bedroom, she pressing a tissue to her nose, he wiping the stray drops from her eyes.
"I'm sorry," she said one final time, as he wadded up the tissue and dropped it on the floor.
"It's fine." He took the other tissue out of her hand and let it fall too. He met her gaze full on, taking her hands into her own and stepping lip-to-lip with her.
"Back into the bedroom. It's okay now." He said, stepping towards the door, pulling her along with him. She smiled, wincing briefly from her busted lip, but her eyes stayed focused on his face. He sat down on the edge of the bed and she climbed into his lap, tilted his head back to face her own and giggled once again. He slid his hands up under the first lay of clothing--a thin white shirt--and managed to pull it off without her help. The next layer--a black tank top--got caught in her hair, and the final layer he gave up on altogether because he had had no practice with bras since high school. She sat in his lap with only her jeans on now, her waist-length black hair falling around her dark shoulders. The didn't speak; they just sat there, staring at each other until her hands found their way to the buttons on his shirt. She started from the bottom and moved quickly up, but she didn't pull the fabric off yet. Her hands slid across his chest and down his shoulders, feeling the tension in his body. She didn't have to ask his permission, but she was waiting for it. Finally, after just a few seconds for her and an eternity for him, his muscles began to relax and she helped him pull the shirt off. He was wearing a dark undershirt beneath it, which she kisses the collar of before pulling it up over his head. Then he was leaning backwards, and she was falling on top of him, laughing now, pressing her bare skin onto his. It wasn't about their bodies, it was about their skin tingling and firing shot after shot of electric stimulation deep into their bellies. She stayed above him, straddling his thighs, her fingers running up and down his arms and shoulders while his hands explored her back, un-knotting muscles and kneading soft flesh. He found the scars from her childhood and ran his fingers over them again and again to map their strange contours.
It wasn't about their bodies, though. It wasn't male and female fitting one into the other, dominating and controlling, a push and follow-through. It was about the imperfections of the flesh that suddenly became unique in this unknown territory. It was about exploring, finding, learning and moving on; pressing and rolling and kneading this extension of one's self found in another. And they kissed, their mouths working as hard as their hands and their hips, exploring further this area not yet familiar.
She pulled herself off him only long enough to free him from his pants and throw her own off one side of the bed. She undressed them both fully, and they glorified in this heightened sensation, their wonton nakedness. As they tossed and turned in the bed, fondling, kissing, pressing and stroking, they felt like some strange prehistoric lovers finding each other for the first time. They seemed to fit together, but not as man and woman, just two people understanding themeelves a little better all of a sudden. They were aroused by their own sexuality. They were experiencing their bodies in a way like never before. But they did not fully engage in the act. They toyed around it, side stepped it, but never made it complete. They were, after all, both gay.
...but there are, of course, many versions of the story...