Diane Terrana’s First Date

Feb 8, 2016 by

Diane Terrana’s First Date

Erotic Valentine:

Excerpted from EPIPHANY, a novel about Dionysus and Ariadne: as they were then, and as they are now.

 

I step out of my sandals and try to see my house through his eyes. The white walls; stripped wood floors; dark photos of the night sky running up the stairs.

“It’s so plain,” he says, turning in a slow circle. “White and black. No colour.”

His eyes come back to me. “But you…”

He eases my knapsack over my arms and tosses it to the side. “…You are gold and honey and your eyes are so fucking blue.”

“Like yours.” His are lapis lazulis: bold blue with gold flecks.

“Maybe we’re long-lost cousins.” He smiles, squinting sideways as though looking at me directly will burn his retinas. He pulls my sweater up over my head and folds it neatly, before laying it on a bench in the hall. With one sharp tug, he rips off my camisole.

“Fuck!” he says, sinking to his knees and burying his face in my breasts, freezing a moment, arrested by my moonstone pendant. I lay my cheek on his head as he unzips my jeans and pushes them down to my ankles. He plays with my thong: snapping it, running his fingers under the elastic. Caressing me with one finger through the cotton triangle.

“You’re soaking wet.”

“I know.”

He runs a finger—briefly—under the cotton. I moan when he stops.

“Suck my finger,” he says, pushing it in my mouth. “Suck your juice.”

I do, until he pushes it too far down my throat. Then I bite. He laughs.

“Look at you,” he whispers. “You’re so beautiful.”

“You too,” I say.

He lifts one foot out of my jeans and runs his tongue across the instep. I lean against the wall as he lifts the other foot, licking the instep and kissing the arch. When he stands, I run my hands up under his sweater. His skin is silk and his body hard. I lift his sweater to see his narrow, boyish chest with flat, dark brown nipples. I kiss them and nuzzle against a hollow in his chest.

*

When I first saw him, three days ago, he was leaning against the battered trunk of a rusted Mercedes that I parked behind. A purple and yellow bandana held back his wild hair. It looked like a girl’s headband: tight, an inch back from his forehead, down behind the ears and across the nape of his neck. He was smoking a cigarette, but holding it like a joint.

He wouldn’t tell me his name.

“You don’t know?” he asked.

“How would I?” I stared hard to see if he was serious. He was.

“Then guess,” he said.

“Chaos.”

“What?” he asked.

“Chaos. The formless void, teeming with energy and creativity and…disaster.”

“Ah! Chaos. I know of him, of course, but he was before my time.” He blew smoke over my head. “Still, it is a good name. I like it.”

*

“Chaos,” I murmur.

“Yes, Sweetheart?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” he asks.

“I’m just trying out your name.”

“How does it feel in your mouth?”

“Good.”

“Good? Only good? Well, how does this feel?” he asks, pushing me down on my knees, undoing his zipper and lifting the head of his cock to my lips.

“Like velvet,” I say, circling the tip with my tongue.

“And what does it taste like?”

“Ambrosia.”

“You do know who I am! Yes. I’m glad you realize.” He laughs. “And how does it taste now? How is this?” he asks, but I can’t answer. I am gagging from the thrusts at the back of my throat.

*

When I wake, we are still on the hall floor, my head on his chest.

“Is this how all your first dates end?” he asks, rolling me over to kiss my face. “Are you always this shameless? Look at you!” he says, tracing circles down my neck, between my breasts, around my breasts.

“You’re blushing: you’re embarrassed.”

“I’m not embarrassed.”

“You’re lying.” His finger moves down below my belly.

“Here too,” he says, parting my lips, circling my clit. “And here.”

I draw up my knees, arching my back. His finger goes deep inside.

“Even here, you’re blushing. You’re embarrassed here,” he says forcing his hand up me, his thumb on my pubic bone.

“You know what I’m feeling there?”

“Always,” he says, lifting me up with him. “Sweetheart, take me to your bed, and we can watch the sunset through your skylight.”

I hug him, kiss his chest and wrap my legs around his hips.

“How do you know I have a skylight?” I ask.

“I’ve been stalking you. Obviously. I’ve made no secret of it.”

“Ahh! Yes. That’s true: you have.” I think about that, as I kiss his sharp collar-bone.

“Now show me the bathroom. I need to piss.”

“It’s up there,” I say, and I clench him in my thighs as he walks up the stairs. “Shouldn’t that bother me?”

“That I have to piss?”

“That you’ve been stalking me.”

“I don’t know. Should it?” he asks.

He stops on the step and backs me against the wall. His eyes turn dark; his mouth looks vulnerable. I run my finger around his lips. Touch his teeth. Rock slowly against him.

“Did it bother you?” he asks.

“Sometimes,” I say.

“When?”

“When you weren’t there.”

“I love you,” I think I hear him say as he brings his mouth down on mine.

*

I don’t go to work Tuesday.

We only leave the bed to rummage in the kitchen. We find Smart Food popcorn and Pinot Noir, which we take back upstairs. I can’t find a corkscrew, so he bangs the bottom several times against the wall until the cork eases out. I look at him, surprised. He smiles, and his gums show.

He sits propped against pillows, and I straddle him, leaning back against his raised knees. We drink wine from the bottle and eat the popcorn out of the bag.

“Very elegant,” he says after a long swallow.

“Thank you.” I lick the cheese off my fingers.

“Do you entertain often?”

I laugh. We touch noses, then foreheads. I put my hand to his cheek; it is white against his dark skin. But his skin, not mine, holds light. It glows caramel in the afternoon light. I touch his wild hair. Just my fingertips at the edges. The I run my palm lightly over the curls.

“I don’t know anything about you, do I?” I ask.

“No?” His face hardens.

“No.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

The gold flecks in his eyes go out, and they are just deep, brilliant blue. “I’ll give you one question,” he says, letting his lids fall lazily. One—for now. ”

“But—”

“No. Listen to me.”

I search his face. He is serious, intense. Maybe even angry. I can’t tell.

“Okay,” I say slowly, thinking hard.

“So?”

“I have to take more time,” I said, finally. “It has to be good.”

“Okay, you think and I’ll play.”

He tilts my head back and trickles wine into the hollow of my throat. It runs down between my breasts and pools on his hard stomach. He licks my throat; smacks his lips.

“Mmm. Delicious. You improve the wine,” he says. “I want to drink it from your pussy. Don’t mind me—you just keep thinking.”

He opens his knees, and I fall back between them. He doubles me over, my knees beside my ears, my hands holding my ankles. He upturns the bottle, and the wine splashes over me, into me. As he brings his mouth down, as he closes his dark, laughing eyes and caresses me with his falling hair, I forget about everything except how wide open I am and how he fills me up.

*

He smokes a joint and I lay on my stomach with the damp, dirty sheets bunched against my nose. Cigarettes, pot, wine, sex. And him. I am high on the smell. I sleep then, in the crook of his arm. When I wake at dawn, I feel I’ve never really slept before.

He wakes right after me, and his eyes fasten on my moonstone, gleaming from the bed table.

“You took it off.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“The chain bothers me at night.”

He looks offended. “But you like to keep it close, don’t you?”

“Yes. I need to. I lose things too easily.”

“Then you must not love them enough,” he says.

I smile, though his tone is surprisingly harsh.

“What is funny?”

“Love. It’s a strong word.”

“The strongest,” he nods.

*

I call in sick Wednesday, too.

I pull on underwear, jeans and a tank-top. I comb my hair and rub lotion into my throat and face, smoothing it gently over the bruises on my arms. I gather the sheets, his boxers and his T-shirt—burying my nose in them before I throw them in the wash. I change my mind and remake the bed with the dirty sheets, then fold his clothes. He is bustling around the kitchen: opening doors, shutting doors, rattling cutlery.

I stop in the hall, just outside the kitchen doorway, listening. The noises are alien—sounds that wrap around my heart and squeeze until it hurts: the pop of wine uncorked, Jeff Buckley singing “Hallelujah,” water running, chopping, a sizzle, a lighter click. I smell pot and sautéing garlic, here, leaning against the wall, hugging myself.

He stands at the counter dicing an onion; his jeans hang loosely on his narrow hips. His dark skin glows under the pink halogen lights. His wet hair curls down his back. I stand behind, watching the muscles that move in his shoulders.

He adds more olive oil to the frying pan. “Sweetheart, can you wipe my eyes? They’re running.”

I pull off a sheet of paper towel and come up behind him, blotting his tears. I press my breasts against his back.

“It’s eggs: there’s nothing else in your fridge.” He keeps dicing until the onion is a thin, small wedge. He moves the pile to the side with the knife and moulds it until he’s happy with the shape. He has already cored and diced red peppers, and they’re mounded on the block like tiny pyramids.

*

Later, he moves his cheek next to mine and both of us have our foreheads pressed into the hard cold floor. He turns towards me and touches my tears with his tongue, then forces my face toward him, kissing me, devouring my mouth.

“You cried again,” he whispers. “I love it when you do that. I fucking love it so much.”

“I wasn’t ready,” I say. “You hurt me.”

“What did you think? That it would always be sweet? Sweet and nice?” His tongue reaches into my mouth. I turn my head.

“Are you mad?” he asks, laughing. He grabs the hair at the nape of my neck and twists my head towards him. “I don’t like this tantrum. I don’t want it.”

“This is a tantrum?”

“It’s sulking. I don’t want sulking. You should love everything about me, like I love everything about you.”

“You don’t love my sulking,” I say.

“No, I don’t. That’s true. It pisses me off.”

“Well, you said things can’t always be sweet and good.”

“Sweet and nice.” He snorts. “I said sweet and nice.” He laughs, turns me on my back and lowers himself on me. “You drive me fucking crazy. I’m ready to fuck you again.”

“Am I safe with you?” I ask.

“What?”

“That’s my question.”

“Are you safe with me?” he says softly. “Very clever.”

I wait, eyes squeezed shut, but hear only his slow breaths.

“Look at me,” he says.

I shake my head. “What’s your answer? You promised me one.”

“Sweetheart, Sweetheart, Sweetheart. What are you asking me?”

“If I’m safe with you?” I whisper.

He cradles my head, kisses me, bites my lip. I stay still and keep my eyes closed, afraid to look at him, afraid of what I’ll see in his face.

“Do you care?” he asks, letting go.

“What?”

“Look at me and tell me if you really care.”

“Care that I’m not safe?”

“Yes.”

I open my eyes and am dazzled by the light in his.

“Do you?” His voice tender now.

And I’m not really sure.

 

Diane Terrana—writer, editor and teacher—has an overactive imagination and a love of classical literature.

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