Shara – Moonless River – Part 2

Fair warning, it’s slightly NSFW

Upon arriving to her shared bungalow I followed her inside, watched her get a couple of beers from the fridge, and then continued out to the back porch to sit and drink and talk some more. Her skinny dachshund joined us and I did my best to accommodate his restless curiosity. It was there that we finally managed to have a real conversation, though my buzzing senses told me that it was largely perfunctory. I was in no state to be as thoughtful or funny as I can be on my best days, and so we mostly talked about her neighbors, my work, her school, and how we both ended up in Philly. She had moved from Texas less than six weeks earlier and was studying to take the bar exam. She said that Philly was everything that Houston wasn’t, though the fact that she’d moved to Philly sight unseen made me wonder how she’d determined that in advance.

As the summer sky cycled through a darkening palette of blue, a silent shift occurred and our conversation ceased. I spent a long moment peering out over the yard before turning to her and drawing close. We kissed. We kissed again, and again, and she eventually ended up seated on my lap, her arms around my shoulders and my arms around her waist, the first stage of weaving in which bodies can engage.

I felt good. I wanted this to be happening. I wanted to meet a young, clever girl in a bar, have a few drinks, talk, and then go to bed with her. It didn’t have to be complicated and it didn’t have to last longer than a night. It was just what I needed. After a few minutes she grabbed my hand and pulled me into the house. Had she turned toward me at any point while we descended the stairs leading to her basement bedroom she would’ve glimpsed the stupid grin that I was wearing in her wake.

I’d like to claim that things improved from there, but two factors worked in concert to make the next several hours more of a psychosexual endurance test than anything else. One: I was still really, really drunk. Two: I had grown surprisingly intimidated by the aggressive, exotic woman sitting astride me, which affected my ability to keep it up. Initially everything went just fine, but as time went on I found myself managing an ever increasing pendulum sweep of hot sex and performance anxiety. The slats of her Ikea daybed squeaked noisily and shifted with our movements, and fearful of her housemate’s moral judgement she pulled us both down to the clothes covered concrete floor for more.

Going down on her temporarily renewed me, but her almost belligerent approach combined with the men’s magazine spread of her lithe, strong body continued to daunt and distract me from the unspoken but obvious goal of getting both of us off. Sexual ineptitude was a wholly novel experience for me, and I am being honest when I say that she was, and remains, the only woman who has ever provoked it.

Back in bed, partly sated and completely exhausted, we continued to caress each other’s bodies. I rolled on top of her and nibbled her neck while running my hands through the moonless river of her hair. I liked the way her compact frame was boxed by my knees and elbows, my back and hips forming a tabletop above her. My mouth moved to her breasts, first left, then right, and there I discovered a stainless steel barbell piercing a small, dark nipple. Now, it is true that I’d never been with anyone with a nipple piercing before, but that doesn’t mean that what happened next was completely my fault. It might have been, but that shit was steel and my teeth are not.

Soon after my discovery, the ministrations of my mouth managed to break one of the balls off the shaft of the piercing, which then slid free of its years-old home. She recognized what had happened immediately and within an instant the lights were on and she was angrily assessing the damage done. Drunk, tired, bleary-eyed, and naked, we both peered at her nipple like inept scientists. I made the mistake of trying to gently squeeze it to determine where the piercing had been, after which she yelped, slapped my hand away, and disappeared upstairs with the broken barbell in one hand and her throbbing breast in the other.

She was up there for a long time. I fell asleep for a while. She later told me that she’d attempted to shove the shaft back in and nearly passed out from the pain. When that didn’t work, she resigned herself to returning to bed and dealing with it in the morning. I laid down beside her, flummoxed by and apologetic for what had happened. I glanced at the clock and saw that it was nearly four in the morning. As much as I needed to sleep, I recalled with a sigh that I’d made plans to go to the farmer’s market with a friend early that morning, which somewhat incredibly had now arrived.

I allowed myself to rest fitfully for an hour before blindly collecting my things and padding upstairs. I don’t remember if I gave my partner in the previous night’s fiasco a kiss goodbye, but I’d like to think that I did. I also asked her to call me later about getting her nipple fixed up.

Like a gentleman.

As I walked to the street and I realized in a thrilling moment of disorientation that I had no idea where in the city I was. I chose a direction and began to walk, and after noticing the increasing house numbers, turned around and walked back the other way. By the time I determined my location I was still over a few miles from my apartment. It was a beautiful morning, bright and clear, and as I followed the river south I laughed aloud at the last twelve hours. My city was still slumbering, and I was welcoming the day.


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