Since You Came Back to the City, I Can't Stop Imagining You

We’re two addicts, and I couldn’t say which one of us is worse. When we sleep together, what we have is a kind of concert without a language, all moans and shamelessness. We have our own private feats whose memory still feeds me when I’m alone, years after all that.

To this day I don’t think we’ve ever managed to see each other without ending up tangled together. Except that one time when I decided, half as a game and half as a challenge, that we weren’t going to touch each other. I only whispered filthy things to you while each of us took care of our own. It was so damn good to watch you react to what I was saying, slowly building toward the finish, the two glasses of “wine among friends” trembling on the table.

The height of our talent came when you licked from your own hand what had just burst forth, and I, staring you straight in the eyes, asked you, “Are you inviting me?” What followed was the dirtiest kiss of my life, tongues mingled with everything else. No one had taught us to be like that. We learned it on our own.

***

We share a secret that doesn’t fit anywhere. No one but you knows the slut hiding behind the mother of two and respectable art restorer that I am. And I’m the only one who knows the insatiable voyeur, the shameless kisser you hide beneath your manners as a serious man, an upstanding family father. You honor me, darling, you truly honor me.

So imagine my happiness when you wrote to tell me that you’d moved back to the city after that long, gray year we spent apart. And now imagine how badly I want you, how obsessive that desire became when I found out that, by an absurd coincidence, you’d settled just a few blocks from my new apartment.

I even calculated that you’re a little over four hundred meters from me. Four hundred meters. It’s outrageous. Some nights I go out onto the balcony just to look toward your street and know you’re sleeping there, so close, with no one suspecting a thing.

***

Because of you, I touch myself two or three times a day. In the bathroom, in the kitchen, in any corner where I can be guaranteed ten minutes alone. And I always think about the same thing: about us, about what we were capable of doing and what we could still do.

I’m going to tell you exactly what I think about when I spread my legs and press my fingers against myself, kneeling on the kitchen floor, soaking myself without a trace of shame over the tile I just mopped. I won’t spare you anything. I want you to read it and then be unable to stop imagining it.

I think, for example, that we could do it standing right here in this kitchen. Like that morning when I was making eggs for breakfast, back when we lived together. You remember, of course you remember. You knelt behind me, pressed against my ass, and pulled my legs apart with your hands.

Since I was only wearing a thin nightgown, it was easy for you to hide your head under the fabric and stick out your tongue. When I felt it move from my sex to a more forbidden place, I let the pan go and asked you to keep going. You did it eagerly, reminding me, meanwhile, to salt the eggs while you squeezed my breasts.

We ended up doing it standing on the tiny balcony, in full view of the building across from us and the cars passing on the avenue below. I loved feeling your hips slam against me, the heat of your body fitting entirely into mine. I held on to the cold iron railing and watched the lit-up windows across the way, wondering how many of those strangers were watching us without our caring. The moment I remember it, I start getting wet again.

The eggs burned, by the way. They stuck to the pan while we kept on with our thing, and afterward we laughed at the smell of ruined food that filled the whole kitchen. We had to open the windows. We ate toast with jam, still naked, looking at each other like two accomplices who’d just gotten away with it.

***

But today I want to tell you something else. Something that hasn’t happened yet, but will. I’ll set the whole scene for you, so you can see it the way I do.

By one of those miracles we deserve, this weekend our partners took the kids to visit the grandparents. You invite me over to your place for our traditional wine among friends. We drink, smoke a cigarette on the terrace, and get each other all worked up for a good while on the sofa in the living room. But without touching. Just telling each other the latest mischief, sizing each other up with our eyes, the way we always did before we gave in.

We end up kissing, me straddling you. I feel your erection against me and hurry to loosen your belt. When my hand finds you again, we both sigh at once. I’m fascinated by that soft, fine skin covering something so taut, so alive, throbbing under my fingers as if it had never stopped.

We tear our clothes off in a rush. And though I know you like us completely naked, you stop me just as I’m about to take off my black silk thong.

“Leave it on,” you tell me. “It looks gorgeous on you.”

You stay seated on the sofa. I obey, standing in front of you. I adjust it, pull it up a little so it fits snugly between my ass cheeks and presses where you know. You can’t hold back. You watch the fabric mold itself to me, tracing that line that drives you so wild, and your tongue starts moving over every inch of the still-covered surface.

You lick the damp silk with a greed you don’t even try to hide, savoring the taste of my desire through the fabric. I feel your tongue insist, trapped by the cloth, right at the entrance. I grip your shoulders hard.

“I want to taste you too,” I tell you.

***

You stand up and carry me to the bedroom almost in your arms. We fall onto the bed kissing, never stopping our search with our hands. As my hand begins a firm back-and-forth on you, yours works its way between my legs and kneads me whole. You push the soaked thong aside with one finger and I feel your hand slide between my wet lips. It drives you crazy to find me like that, ready before you’ve even started.

I ask you to lie on your back. I settle beside you, on all fours, my ass toward you, at the mercy of your hands and your obsession with my underwear. I start sucking you slowly, from the base to the tip, and I use my hand again to take you in and out of my mouth, while my other hand strokes you carefully.

You’re harder than ever. And you, meanwhile, play with the thong, tug it so it passes between my lips, pressing and awakening everything that’s already swollen with need. I writhe, moaning against you, unable to stay still. You’re fascinated by that piece of silk that you’ve made your own, the one that could make me come with almost no effort.

But your kink is always stronger. You move your head between my legs and lick me without mercy. You eat me, literally, mouth open to take in as much as possible, with a bold tongue plunging wherever it wants. I can barely keep up, my mouth full of you, my eyes closed, the world reduced to this room and the two of us.

***

We both moan at once when you sink to the back of my throat. I play at wrapping you with my tongue while I feel yours working on me. You have that gift for doing both things to me at the same time, for having me entirely at your mercy without my wanting to escape.

With slow hip movements you start moving in my mouth. How good it feels to sense you sliding while I have yours inside me. One of your fingers begins drawing wet circles on my most intimate place, while you give me broad, patient licks. In my mouth I feel the spasms that betray you: you’re close, very close.

I let you go and lift my head so you can hold out a few seconds longer. You sigh out of pure frustration. Saliva drips down my chin and I’m on the edge too, trembling, not wanting it to end yet. Your finger slips all the way in. I arch with a rough moan when another joins it.

I go back to seeking you out with my mouth and stroking you at the same time. Our muffled gasps can be heard, one on top of the other, like that wordless concert from the beginning. I’m on the edge and I know we’re going to finish together. I clamp my mouth around you, suck you with everything I’ve got, grind myself all over your face while your fingers stay where they are.

And I come like that, with you in my mouth, without stopping moving. At the very same instant, you let go too, and I feel all of you filling me in one sudden rush.

***

I collapse onto my side, breathless, my body still trembling from the aftershocks. You come closer and stroke my waist slowly, with that slow tenderness you have afterward, the only tenderness we allow ourselves.

Then, between a smile and a look I already know by heart, you bring your lips to mine and, knowing perfectly well what you’re doing, ask me:

“Are you inviting me?”

And I, darling, always invite you. You live four hundred meters away and you still haven’t touched me. But I already know how this is going to end. I knew it from the moment you wrote me. The only thing left is for you to open the door.