Faded Pink

image credit: darla deleon

I remember her nails; they were the most distinct feature about her. You couldn’t have guessed they were acrylic because they sat on the tips of her fingers as if they belonged there. As if they were designed for those very fingers. I liked how they changed colour. When it was cold they were red, when it got warm they turned purple and when it was hot they became a faded pink. I liked them because they always gave me a hint of how I was making her feel.

Women’s nails fascinated me. Some designs were eccentric with rubies and pearls on them. Others had miniature butterflies. Yet some preferred theirs plain. You could always tell a woman’s hygiene by looking at her nails. You wanted to stay away from the women who had dirt under their fingernails, that’s how you came home to splotches of porridge on the television screen.

Sex was always awkward because we did it with a rubber. A condom always made my penis feel lumpy. It made it feel odd, as if it didn’t belong to me. And it was in that way that I would have a hard time finding her opening. I would fiddle on top of her and fail again and again. To get me motivated she would say that she was so turned on, as if saying the words would make it true but when I looked at her nails they were a crimson red.

On the occasion that I managed to get it in, her pupils would roll to the back of her head and a moan would escape her mouth, ‘Don’t stop, don’t stop.’ She would pant, beads of sweat dotting her forehead. This time I did not need to look at her nails because her thighs were rippling. When we were done she asked me if I was single. I said yes. I don’t know why I did. But she had a certain appeal about her. Was it her nails? They were peeking under the covers, a shade of faded pink streaking across them.

I got on top again. It didn’t go in this time. She said I had tired her on the first round. Do you know how awkward it is to be naked on top of another human being unable to do something that should be as natural as breathing? It was the damn rubber that was making me feel as if I had two left feet. That and my naked body. It felt clumsy because I rarely looked at myself in the mirror undressed. I wanted a distraction badly, something that didn’t make me look at my stomach and think it was too flabby or my legs and think they were too clunky.

My distraction came in the form of natural urges. I needed to pee and since I was not R-Kelly, I needed to find a bathroom. While at the bathroom I thought she had started loving my fingers a bit too much, I didn’t know if it was their harmless or skilful nature. Sometimes I felt as if she loved them more than she did my penis. We had a thing going, whenever I slipped my fingers out of her I would tease them on the entrance of her mouth and she would jump to suck them and then, without notice she would move her mouth searching for my lips as if saying, I have tasted myself now it’s your turn to taste me.

When I came back I didn’t have the rubber on me. I cuddled her from behind and she could feel me growing. Bigger and bigger. Nobody needed to tell me where she was. I could feel the heat emanating from her opening like fire from a furnace.

She stopped me.

“Do you want to get me pregnant?”

I did not answer.

“Are you ready for a baby?”

“If the baby comes, we’ll take care of it.”

She smiled and got back to the foetal position she was in. She could feel there was no assurance in my voice. We would take care of the baby but what about her? What about us?

I told her that I would just park it without thrusting. I was ravenously lustful and I was getting desperate. I even wanted to throw in the good old line of putting in just the tip. I didn’t know why I loved sex. Penetration was a small part of it. I liked fiddling with a woman’s belt. I loved the thrill of not knowing whether she would allow or deny me. I liked how she would move her hands to make it easier for me to gain access or how she would lift her hips so her panties could roll down easily. Now the appeal was in the lack of rubber.

There is a scene in Breaking Bad where Walter White is touching his wife, Skyler, in public and later they have stormy, unrestrained sex. She asks why that felt so good and Walt replies with, ‘Because it was illegal.’ Maybe that illegality is what got me excited. The idea that we shouldn’t only made me want to even more.

She let me park it in the space between her thighs for a while. It didn’t work. She decided to put on her panties. Pink and lacy. She allowed my fingers to wander. She was soaking and her thighs rippled again. It’s something I have never understood about women. How they deny themselves something they badly want. Something that their body is begging for. But maybe the discipline comes from the ramifications. I won’t be the one taking the morning after pill and dealing with the side effects. My body won’t bend out of shape for nine months and I won’t have to deal with a deadbeat afterwards.

I resigned to fate after I realised it was a lost cause. We basked in the aura of our fornication and talked. She said I might be coming down with a cold. I always jumped to tell people I was asthmatic but I didn’t this time. I didn’t want to worry her. A sign that I was getting attached. I diverged and asked her if she liked being choked. She said she didn’t know. But she was sure she liked receiving. That was great because I loved giving.

When she got home, she texted me to tell me she was safe.

“That was some exercise,” I replied.

“Yeah, I feel as if everyone here knows what I have been up to.”

I told her to doll up next time so they can be completely sure what she was up to. She laughed and said she’ll probably be sore the whole week.

I asked her what colour her nails were.

She said pink. A faded pink.

I told her goodnight and slept with a smile.

 

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