(Another piece of writing from a year or two back…)
I’m watching him.
His eyelids are lowered, concentrating as he lifts one of my legs up onto his shoulder, then the other. He nudges himself in between, aligning himself as the backs of my thighs press against his chest.
I understand now why it’s called “naked.”
There’s no hiding here. No cleverly cut dresses or slimming colors, no angles to dodge or lighting to avoid. I’m bare, bared to him. Rolls of untoned flesh; small, eggplant bruises above my knee; the hair surrounding my sex. He can see them all.
This is how I felt all the time in high school, I think to myself. Only without the legs-in-the-air part.
My breath hitches as he slides inside, filling me. He is panting with the effort of holding on, of giving me all that he can, of making this last.
I watch my stomach jiggle just slightly as he begins to move, and gaze down at the place where our bodies meet. He is moving faster now, grunting, one hand grasping the crook of my knee to hold me tightly.
I have let him in. The many intricate barriers I put up—barriers of fabric, of skin, light, and shadow—have fallen, and he is seeing me. All of me.
I half-expected him to run away when he did, I’ll have you know.
But I didn’t expect this. Clinging, biting, kissing, licking. Savoring the taste of me on his tongue, and so eager to devour more.
At first, I cross my arms over my body, still trying to hide. He pushes them away, staring down at me with piercing authority.
Don’t you dare do that again. You have no reason to hide.
I trace the pattern of freckles on his chest with my eyes, down to the mole below one of his nipples and a small scar on his stomach.
I can see all of him, too… it suddenly occurs to me, and I am no longer one, but two. We are “we” here, and he wants to see me like this as much as I want to see him. Flushed. Writhing. Moles and bruises and sweat. Holding on while letting go.