LJ Idol Season 10, Week 12: Salty
Just a little note -- the Wife in this piece is transgender, in the midst of her transition from male to female. Relevant, because there's mention of genitals/sexual acts.
Yes, this is nonfiction.
You’re not sure what’s changed between today and yesterday. Instead of wanting to leave the house and never come back, you’re laughing and smiling, enjoying yourself as you watch your wife parade around in her new shoes -- her first pair of heels. Part of you is a little envious; she’s walking better in them than you ever would in yours.
She draws your attention to her chest, which is larger than it had been a month ago, you’re almost sure of it. She seems to have noticed her budding breasts’ new size as well, certainly unashamed to flaunt them.
Hormone Replacement Therapy -- it’s certainly doing its damn job, that’s for sure.
Your roommate stands off to the side, laughing with you, his eyes following you and not her, trying to gauge the situation at hand. You want to tell him it’s okay, that you’re enjoying this moment of pleasantness between you and her. He seems to understand, though, sitting back and retreating to his room after a bit.
The two of you are alone for the first time since she’d returned from her month-long job out in Wisconsin. It’s been more than a month since she told you she wanted to end the marriage. And right now, she’s acting as though the two of you have never had that conversation.
You welcome it for what it is -- a return to the way things used to be, as brief as you know it will be. Years down the line, you’ll come to recognize the pattern, but here in the moment, all you see is her almost shy smile; the flirty flip of her shoulder-length hair.
It’s not long before you follow her into her bedroom -- and it is hers, because you refuse to sleep in it with things so precarious. You may have slept on the bed while she was away, but it never felt like it was yours. Not even now as you push her down onto it and tower over her, one hand planted beside her head and the other sliding up her side over her black t-shirt.
The light’s off. The two of you almost never turn it on, as there’s enough ambient light coming in from outside that it doesn’t matter; your eyes will adjust. But you don’t really want to see her, either, so you close your eyes as you settle on top of her, her lips soft under your own. Her mouth yields to yours, and you almost hesitate.
Do you even want this?
Your body certain does; it craves the salt of her skin and the feel of her inside you, though you know now that particular part of the act sometimes bothers her; triggers her dysphoria.
Your heart pounds and your breath quickens as she squirms underneath you; as she throws her head back against the pillows as your lips move to her neck. As long as you’re in control -- as long as you take your time, as long as you savor this, you want it. You want her. Hers is the only body you’ve known so intimately; is the only skin you’ve ever tasted.
You know you aren’t the only person she’s done this with. You don’t know if she’s already entertaining the idea of sleeping with others -- it’s not something you’ve discussed. And right now, you don’t care. All you care about is getting her to arch her back like that again -- to make her gasp like that as you take her nipple into her mouth. Her breasts have gotten more sensitive; more receptive to lighter, teasing touches.
You catalogue every sigh and moan. You memorize the way she feels and moves under your hands. You know, deep down, without a doubt, that this is the last time you’ll allow yourself to have this. That this is the last time you’ll even want it, no matter how much you love her.
As your lips find their way to her arousal, you try not to think about all the times she’d snapped at you, because your jaw had grown tired, or because you weren’t careful to cover your teeth, or because you weren’t listening. But even as you block those memories from your mind, your breath is hitching in your throat as you move to go down on her; your eyes filling with tears.
She stops you; takes your shaking hands in hers and nudges you to look up before you could lower your mouth the rest of the way. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” she says, keeping her voice low. It hasn’t changed much yet, you think. It’s still fairly deep.
There’s a flare, hot and deep in your chest at her words, but you ignore it. Instead you nod, smile, reassure her. “I want to,” you whisper, and you tease her with your tongue, swallow her whole. You won’t do it for long, you tell yourself. You never do it for long, anymore.
You focus on the slight shift of her hips; try not to gag when she inevitably thrusts into your mouth. There’s a part of you that’s transported back to a few weeks ago, where you kept repeatedly telling her you didn’t want to do anything with her, not if she didn’t know she wanted to stay with you romantically. How she pushed. How she kept touching you, even when you told her to stop.
How she never listened.
Slowly, you lift your face from her lap and smile up at her. Slide up the length of her body, teasing new hot spots and old, familiar ones. You expect for this to be it -- for her to want you to direct her inside, like always. And part of you wants to be mad about that -- she’d complained about predictability in the bedroom just months ago, yet she never wanted to take initiative. But part of you knows that everything has to come to an end, and you’d rather be in control of when this does.
Otherwise, you’d be at the mercy of her moods. Her wants. Her desires. And as you lower yourself along the length of her, the thought chills you and turns your heated blood to ice.
You never want to be at the mercy of her moods, ever again.
Yes, this is nonfiction.
You’re not sure what’s changed between today and yesterday. Instead of wanting to leave the house and never come back, you’re laughing and smiling, enjoying yourself as you watch your wife parade around in her new shoes -- her first pair of heels. Part of you is a little envious; she’s walking better in them than you ever would in yours.
She draws your attention to her chest, which is larger than it had been a month ago, you’re almost sure of it. She seems to have noticed her budding breasts’ new size as well, certainly unashamed to flaunt them.
Hormone Replacement Therapy -- it’s certainly doing its damn job, that’s for sure.
Your roommate stands off to the side, laughing with you, his eyes following you and not her, trying to gauge the situation at hand. You want to tell him it’s okay, that you’re enjoying this moment of pleasantness between you and her. He seems to understand, though, sitting back and retreating to his room after a bit.
The two of you are alone for the first time since she’d returned from her month-long job out in Wisconsin. It’s been more than a month since she told you she wanted to end the marriage. And right now, she’s acting as though the two of you have never had that conversation.
You welcome it for what it is -- a return to the way things used to be, as brief as you know it will be. Years down the line, you’ll come to recognize the pattern, but here in the moment, all you see is her almost shy smile; the flirty flip of her shoulder-length hair.
It’s not long before you follow her into her bedroom -- and it is hers, because you refuse to sleep in it with things so precarious. You may have slept on the bed while she was away, but it never felt like it was yours. Not even now as you push her down onto it and tower over her, one hand planted beside her head and the other sliding up her side over her black t-shirt.
The light’s off. The two of you almost never turn it on, as there’s enough ambient light coming in from outside that it doesn’t matter; your eyes will adjust. But you don’t really want to see her, either, so you close your eyes as you settle on top of her, her lips soft under your own. Her mouth yields to yours, and you almost hesitate.
Do you even want this?
Your body certain does; it craves the salt of her skin and the feel of her inside you, though you know now that particular part of the act sometimes bothers her; triggers her dysphoria.
Your heart pounds and your breath quickens as she squirms underneath you; as she throws her head back against the pillows as your lips move to her neck. As long as you’re in control -- as long as you take your time, as long as you savor this, you want it. You want her. Hers is the only body you’ve known so intimately; is the only skin you’ve ever tasted.
You know you aren’t the only person she’s done this with. You don’t know if she’s already entertaining the idea of sleeping with others -- it’s not something you’ve discussed. And right now, you don’t care. All you care about is getting her to arch her back like that again -- to make her gasp like that as you take her nipple into her mouth. Her breasts have gotten more sensitive; more receptive to lighter, teasing touches.
You catalogue every sigh and moan. You memorize the way she feels and moves under your hands. You know, deep down, without a doubt, that this is the last time you’ll allow yourself to have this. That this is the last time you’ll even want it, no matter how much you love her.
As your lips find their way to her arousal, you try not to think about all the times she’d snapped at you, because your jaw had grown tired, or because you weren’t careful to cover your teeth, or because you weren’t listening. But even as you block those memories from your mind, your breath is hitching in your throat as you move to go down on her; your eyes filling with tears.
She stops you; takes your shaking hands in hers and nudges you to look up before you could lower your mouth the rest of the way. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” she says, keeping her voice low. It hasn’t changed much yet, you think. It’s still fairly deep.
There’s a flare, hot and deep in your chest at her words, but you ignore it. Instead you nod, smile, reassure her. “I want to,” you whisper, and you tease her with your tongue, swallow her whole. You won’t do it for long, you tell yourself. You never do it for long, anymore.
You focus on the slight shift of her hips; try not to gag when she inevitably thrusts into your mouth. There’s a part of you that’s transported back to a few weeks ago, where you kept repeatedly telling her you didn’t want to do anything with her, not if she didn’t know she wanted to stay with you romantically. How she pushed. How she kept touching you, even when you told her to stop.
How she never listened.
Slowly, you lift your face from her lap and smile up at her. Slide up the length of her body, teasing new hot spots and old, familiar ones. You expect for this to be it -- for her to want you to direct her inside, like always. And part of you wants to be mad about that -- she’d complained about predictability in the bedroom just months ago, yet she never wanted to take initiative. But part of you knows that everything has to come to an end, and you’d rather be in control of when this does.
Otherwise, you’d be at the mercy of her moods. Her wants. Her desires. And as you lower yourself along the length of her, the thought chills you and turns your heated blood to ice.
You never want to be at the mercy of her moods, ever again.