I tried very hard to think something about all of the chickens.
“Euhn.” I gave the sort of non-committal/impressed/man-I’m-thinking-so-deep-right-now grunt that people give at poetry readings when someone says a word louder than other words.
I don’t know. It looked like a bunch of fucking chickens to me, but I was really trying hard. The painting is, apparently, one of the highest regarded of the collection. The museum has placed a special bench in front of it. On that bench, people ponder the chickens, the thousands and thousands of chickens, painted in tight cages and stretching back into an implied infinity. I tried very hard to care at all about chickens. I’m a vegetarian even, so I thought about being a vegetarian and the lives of factory chickens, but that did nothing, really. “Wow, it...” and I knew before I really said anything that I was going to say just enough to prove I had no idea what I’m talking about, “it feels like a city, all of them living so close to each other and so completely alone.” And christ, no it didn’t. It felt like a bunch of chickens in a pile.
She looked resigned to the bullshit of my answer and her “yeah” was a lot less than half-hearted. I failed the chickens test, and things only got worse from there.
As we moved together through different eras of paintings, and messages became more abstract, more statements of emotion of how colors interacted with and over each other, my reactions became more distant, more confused (I did say one, “felt Russian” to me, and found that the painter was born in Nebraska), until I settled on the same little-kid responses of “that’s a neat one,” and “I like how big that one is” that felt a lot like I was filling out a worksheet on a field trip. I waited for the moment when things would turn between us, when our eccentricities evolved from endearing to infuriating.
This time though, my stubborn reluctance at having one single intelligent thought about anything I saw slowly began to turn things more in my favor. Since there wasn’t a single foothold to anchor our conversation about where we were, we started talking about nearly everything in the world that wasn’t in an art museum. This gave us a chance to learn about each other, and gave me a chance that I wasn’t a complete moron, which is all that can be really asked of any first date.
Which isn’t to say that Lindsay and I didn’t know each other. In fact, the argument could be made that the main thing keeping us from real and full attraction was that we knew too much about each other. See, when people meet at their ugliest, their worst, they share that thing forever. Like soldiers at the end of war, they can look back at their time spent and say, “we will always be family, we will always have this.” So it is with Lindsay, who was my very best friend when I was a sophomore in high school and wore corduroys most days that had a patch in the crotch and when I cut my hair like I was a gay German baker from 1923. Lindsay wore nautical shirts and a jew-fro (she isn’t jewish, but there’s only two kinds of fro’s, and white people can only have one of them).
We went to college together, planning to be the sort of friends who act as aunt and uncle to each other’s children and ended up the sort of friends that never see each other’s apartments. As sophomores we went to a party together. There were plastic cups, bad beer, no food, and about two guys for every girl. We had a fun walk over, drinking off-brand whiskey and off-brand coke from a nalgene bottle. We took turns pretending to be each other six years before and yelling our current selves for our premeditated mistakes. We bounced down the sidewalks together in the safety of our last year as teens. We acted inseparable, but were careful not to touch.
At the party we made the immediate friends of 19 years old and sat around on couches discussing how everyone in the world wasn’t as smart as we were. When I talked about a generation of revolution, I spoke directly to a girl with messy hair and hemp jewelry that I had decided was the most beautiful girl in the world for the evening. Lindsay reminded me loudly of when I was a republican for four months when I was 14 (also because of a girl). From there, it was on, and neither one of us could get anything said without the other finding a way to make it funny, embarassing, or dismissing it offhand. It started playful, like teenagers teasing, and ended up angry, like teenagers teasing. Lindsay left with the first group heading back her way and didn’t stop to say goodbye. I brooded on the front steps about being ditched before I could ditch her first.
Our friendship was never easy, especially as we hung out less and less. After the night of the party, we took a break of a few months before contacting, then acted like nothing happened. We stopped inviting each other when we went out with friends, and only got together when we could be alone.
In nearly a decade, we have never learned to synch which of us is reaching for more and which is pushing for space. It felt impossible that she wasn’t constantly avoiding me, or me her. Sometimes I was. Sometimes she was. She was my very favorite friend in the world that I couldn’t count on for anything, including being my friend.
When we did get together, we competed for each other without ever letting anyone win. It’s hard to break the pattern of an immature friendship, even as both people have grown up, and ours seemed only to get worse. So, we got together every few months, happy to see each other, or too happy to see each other, and then happy to drive home and wonder what the fuck had just happened. We both made good theater of showing that we cared about each other and enjoyed each other’s company, but we always managed to ring false to each other, always managed to avoid giving any bit of ourselves up. Still, we were always friends, and when we got together, things were generally very good until they were frustratingly bad. So, it was weird to be in an art museum with here, on our very first date.
A few months ago, we were doing our re-connecting thing at a wine bar across from a movie theater. It was the kind of place with long red curtains covering exposed walls that didn’t get the memo that exposed walls looked neat in restaurants. We sat and talked about where our lives had gone and red wine and winter and black tops with v-necks and warm lights and warm smiles sort of got away from the both of us to the point that each of us forgot to be frustrating.
Somewhere in the night, our eyes had a conversation about being different people now than when we were in high school. We had grown into sexual beings and excused each other from that growth. We spent the night leading each other through all the stories we had kept to ourselves through the years. We talked about the best and worst sex of our last near-decade. We talked about the things that turned us on. She talked about things that made my ribs hurt, like how she just loved playing with cocks, hard or soft, and wished she had one in her apartment she could just take out and touch while she watched tv. That seemed like it could be arranged.
As we drank, we melted all over each other from across the table. Suddenly Lindsay was this new person, this complete mystery. When our legs touched under the table, she put her hand across my thigh, and when I didn’t immediately do the same, she grabbed my hand and put it on her leg, much higher than her hand was on mine. I could feel through her skirt a warmth that meant a lot more than wine and silly conversation. She got up to go to the bathroom, saying, rather romantically, “I need to fucking piss.” I sat at the table and stared at the maroon film at the bottom of my wine glass, wishing it had more wine in it, and wishing wine didn’t cost eight dollars a glass.
Lindsay’s mouth appeared a half a centimeter from my ear, and I could feel the air moving around her lips when she whispered “comeherecomeherecomehere,” and by the time I turned to look she was already two tables away and walking towards the bathrooms. I got up, my knees a little wobbly, not sure if she wanted to make out or show me someone’s super gross poop they left in the toilet. With Lindsay, and with that night, both seemed equally likely.
She stopped in the hallway with a broad smile on her face. “Look!” She said it like she was hiding a dinosaur egg, and so I was slightly confused when she pulled back one of the long red curtains that lined the wall along a corner to reveal “a wall?” I didn’t sound as excited as she was.
“Sh!” I was being too loud. Obviously this wall was a very special secret wall. She pointed up at the curtain rods, which curved around the corner of the wall imperfectly and it occurred to me. It was not the wall she was excited about, but the space between curtain and wall. I looked down at her to smile but she was gone, along with the wall. A hand appeared out of the curtain and pulled me inside to her discovered space. It felt a bit like a fort made of pillows, the sort of thing that transfers the most mundane spot into a little bit of magic.
It took a few moments for me to figure out what was happening and to start kissing her back, and almost instantly from there our lips sent messages to our hands and hips and legs to do what needed doing. She made great use of the small space we had, somehow still finding room to curl around me, to spin us so that her back was pressed against the corner, to wrap her leg around me, dip her head backwards and push her chest up to my lips. My hand slid up the inside of her leg, inside her thigh. Under the skirt, I could feel the heat of her pulse like her pussy was the sun.
In one smooth movement, she dipped my head down, dropped me to my knees, rested her back against the corner of the wall and wrapped her legs over my shoulders so that her feet dangled off the ground behind my back. And so, there we were. It was a delightful moment to discover that, somewhere amidst our lives and experience, Lindsay had decided she didn’t like wearing underwear. She tasted like grape suckers and grabbed my hair so hard I almost screamed. Of course, no one would have heard me because she was pushing my open lips to hard against herself no sound could escape. For minutes or moments or millennia I thought of nothing but taste and tasted nothing but touch.
In the silence of our fort we could hear glasses clinking outside and the same public radio music station on low that every other restaurant in 10 miles was playing. Murmured conversation was occasionally broken by the loud laughing of the group by the door. Occasionally, someone would walk by us to or from the bathroom, but we remained protected by a shield of expectation. No one was looking for people having sex behind the curtain, so how would they find us?
She started rocking hard against me, pushing her back against the concrete wall. I stared up at her over curves and sharply dark hair, saw her pinching and twisting her nipples through her shirt, saw her bottom lip tucked tight under her teeth. She stared back at me, hungry. She pushed my face back down to her pussy and growled at me like she owned me. I sucked in against her pussy, taking her clit between my teeth, pressing on it with the flat of my tongue. I let her own me for awhile. I gave her lips and mouth and tongue. I gave her two of my fingers, curled up, pressing opposite my tongue. I let her have the hair between her fingers, my shoulders under her thighs. I let her have to two spaces on the small of my back where her heels rested, digging in when my tongue found that just-so spot.
Her orgasm appeared like one of those summer storms that you can watch from a distance all day and still get surprised and stuck in the rain when it shows up all at once. So I learned another thing about Lindsay, there on my knees and surrounded by shushes and hiding. I learned that Lindsay, who does almost nothing her life halfway, also orgasms balls out, as it were. So I learned that going down on Lindsay meant Lindsay coming in my mouth, across my face, soaking my shirt, leaving an untidy puddle on the floor of our little curtain fort. So there I was, soaking in orgasm and sweat and satisfaction. With Lindsay’s legs clenched hard on either side of my head, I realized that my soaking was quite by design. She owned me and she knew it, her eyes told me as much, and so she could do as she wished, so screamed the corners of her smile.
Lindsay let me go just enough to get off of me, just enough for me to lean back, look down at my shirt and the dark line of wetness still traveling like troop movements past the line of my chest. “Alright,” she whispered down to me, “one more glass, then we call it a night.” We got up, snuck back out to our seats, ordered wine while my shirt dried unevenly against my skin. When our wine showed up, Lindsay wrote and slipped a note on a napkin across the table to me without breaking once from the point she was making about Minneapolis bike culture. The note, in tight but uneven cursive, “I can smell my pussy all over you. So can everybody else.” She even signed it. So, I learned a lot about Lindsay that night.
A few nights later, she called me. She said she hadn’t been to an art museum in months. “Plus,” and she sounded almost shy about it, “I think we should go on a date. A date date.” A week later, I tried hard to think something about all of the chickens.
We wound our way through the museum, through a whole section full of landscapes of farms that Lindsay “ooh’d” and “aah’d” over for twenty minutes before finally eliciting a “yeah, that one’s pretty awesome” from me, then laughing at me because she thought the farms were dumb and just wanted to see if she could get me to try to like them. This is the kind of shit we always pull on each other that always makes the wheels come off. We both love to fuck with people, and both deeply hate being fucked with. For some reason, in the art museum, it just made me laugh, and made me laugh way harder than I should have, which made us both laugh, because there’s just something that’s ridiculous about being loud in an art museum.
We spent the next half hour finding the lamest shit we could and talked loudly over other people’s conversations about all the different reasons we thought it was an absolute work of genius. We made up stuff to describe what we liked. A painting of a dutch woman was “royalish” and “showed a very blue sort of suffering.” We agreed that a landscape of what could only have been Iceland or Nebraska was “Pre-post-modern” and “linearly obscure.” We nodded a lot at each other and said, “my god, you’re so right.” We giggled our way out of three different sections of the museum until the lack of any audience made the game pointless. Apparently, everyone came to the museum for the paintings, because the whole wing of ceramics was deserted. I thought they were the coolest thing yet, but probably because I rather enjoy art that can do something, like hold coffee.
I was staring at one piece of clay something, trying to figure out if the carvings on it were of dogs with huge penises or of a very early SUV. I leaned in close, examining either the ripples of foreskin or all-terrain tire treads, when a whisper came from the next room, “comeherecomeherecomehere.” I chased the whisper lines across the room and next to her, beating the last sounds to her lips, kissing before I knew not to, because I wasn’t here for clay or chickens. “Nono,” she breathed into me without moving her lips away, “over here.”
Lindsay had found another fort. She led me to the end of the room, following the wall along a display case showing the evolution of teacups, I think. Between the case and the wall there was a space, no more than two feet deep or across, that looked like a happy accident in mis-measuring, or maybe a spot where they used to have a water fountain. She fit herself in the space, back to the wall again, and dropped down in front of me, sitting on her heels and looking up at me. “Enjoy the teacups,” she said as her lip tucked back under her teeth and her hand reached up to undo my pants.
From her knees in front of me, her hand pulled my cock into what felt like the air of a church or court or post office. Air that had never in a long life of people seen a cock before. I was all hers again, and now I felt her become completely mine as she took me deep into her mouth. I tried to practice looking like I was staring at teacups, as if there is any reason in the world why someone would need to look at a teacup for longer than four seconds, but it was no use. Instead, I looked down at Lindsay, watched her head move forward and back, felt her tongue and her lips work together, her hand trailing her lips up and down.
I felt as she gave me her mouth and hand, as she opened her throat and gave me as much as she could fit me down. She gave me a cough and she choked on me, and held her head there, slowly easing me further and further until she pulled me all the way out, her spit stringing from the head of my cock to her lips. She started again with just her hand, wrapping it around the end of me while she moved it up and back down. She sunk herself further down, moving her face under me and staring up at me with the same hungry look she had when she was just about to soak my face and shirt in the wine bar. A barely audible “yesyesyes” was tingling up from her lips and around my cock.
I thought about maybe just coming on the wall, which would be gross but also sort of naughty and certainly one of our very few options. I thought also about coming on her cleavage, letting it run between her chest and down her stomach, a little payback for my little present a few nights prior. But no. She was going to give herself to me and mark herself as mine. She kept her face just under me as her hand brought me to orgasm. She smiled and her “yesyesyes” transformed to a low-grown “hrrrrrrrm” as I came across the side of her face.
She stood, my come dripping down her jaw along her neck, covering her lips and a good part of one cheek. She admired herself in the glass of the display case and said, “you’ve done very well” like she was congratulating me on a well-baked loaf of bread, “now you’re going to hold my hand while we look at a few more paintings.” We walked, each leading and following the other, back to the chickens.
“Euhn.” I gave the sort of non-committal/impressed/man-I’m-thinking-so-deep-right-now grunt that people give at poetry readings when someone says a word louder than other words.
I don’t know. It looked like a bunch of fucking chickens to me, but I was really trying hard. The painting is, apparently, one of the highest regarded of the collection. The museum has placed a special bench in front of it. On that bench, people ponder the chickens, the thousands and thousands of chickens, painted in tight cages and stretching back into an implied infinity. I tried very hard to care at all about chickens. I’m a vegetarian even, so I thought about being a vegetarian and the lives of factory chickens, but that did nothing, really. “Wow, it...” and I knew before I really said anything that I was going to say just enough to prove I had no idea what I’m talking about, “it feels like a city, all of them living so close to each other and so completely alone.” And christ, no it didn’t. It felt like a bunch of chickens in a pile.
She looked resigned to the bullshit of my answer and her “yeah” was a lot less than half-hearted. I failed the chickens test, and things only got worse from there.
As we moved together through different eras of paintings, and messages became more abstract, more statements of emotion of how colors interacted with and over each other, my reactions became more distant, more confused (I did say one, “felt Russian” to me, and found that the painter was born in Nebraska), until I settled on the same little-kid responses of “that’s a neat one,” and “I like how big that one is” that felt a lot like I was filling out a worksheet on a field trip. I waited for the moment when things would turn between us, when our eccentricities evolved from endearing to infuriating.
This time though, my stubborn reluctance at having one single intelligent thought about anything I saw slowly began to turn things more in my favor. Since there wasn’t a single foothold to anchor our conversation about where we were, we started talking about nearly everything in the world that wasn’t in an art museum. This gave us a chance to learn about each other, and gave me a chance that I wasn’t a complete moron, which is all that can be really asked of any first date.
Which isn’t to say that Lindsay and I didn’t know each other. In fact, the argument could be made that the main thing keeping us from real and full attraction was that we knew too much about each other. See, when people meet at their ugliest, their worst, they share that thing forever. Like soldiers at the end of war, they can look back at their time spent and say, “we will always be family, we will always have this.” So it is with Lindsay, who was my very best friend when I was a sophomore in high school and wore corduroys most days that had a patch in the crotch and when I cut my hair like I was a gay German baker from 1923. Lindsay wore nautical shirts and a jew-fro (she isn’t jewish, but there’s only two kinds of fro’s, and white people can only have one of them).
We went to college together, planning to be the sort of friends who act as aunt and uncle to each other’s children and ended up the sort of friends that never see each other’s apartments. As sophomores we went to a party together. There were plastic cups, bad beer, no food, and about two guys for every girl. We had a fun walk over, drinking off-brand whiskey and off-brand coke from a nalgene bottle. We took turns pretending to be each other six years before and yelling our current selves for our premeditated mistakes. We bounced down the sidewalks together in the safety of our last year as teens. We acted inseparable, but were careful not to touch.
At the party we made the immediate friends of 19 years old and sat around on couches discussing how everyone in the world wasn’t as smart as we were. When I talked about a generation of revolution, I spoke directly to a girl with messy hair and hemp jewelry that I had decided was the most beautiful girl in the world for the evening. Lindsay reminded me loudly of when I was a republican for four months when I was 14 (also because of a girl). From there, it was on, and neither one of us could get anything said without the other finding a way to make it funny, embarassing, or dismissing it offhand. It started playful, like teenagers teasing, and ended up angry, like teenagers teasing. Lindsay left with the first group heading back her way and didn’t stop to say goodbye. I brooded on the front steps about being ditched before I could ditch her first.
Our friendship was never easy, especially as we hung out less and less. After the night of the party, we took a break of a few months before contacting, then acted like nothing happened. We stopped inviting each other when we went out with friends, and only got together when we could be alone.
In nearly a decade, we have never learned to synch which of us is reaching for more and which is pushing for space. It felt impossible that she wasn’t constantly avoiding me, or me her. Sometimes I was. Sometimes she was. She was my very favorite friend in the world that I couldn’t count on for anything, including being my friend.
When we did get together, we competed for each other without ever letting anyone win. It’s hard to break the pattern of an immature friendship, even as both people have grown up, and ours seemed only to get worse. So, we got together every few months, happy to see each other, or too happy to see each other, and then happy to drive home and wonder what the fuck had just happened. We both made good theater of showing that we cared about each other and enjoyed each other’s company, but we always managed to ring false to each other, always managed to avoid giving any bit of ourselves up. Still, we were always friends, and when we got together, things were generally very good until they were frustratingly bad. So, it was weird to be in an art museum with here, on our very first date.
A few months ago, we were doing our re-connecting thing at a wine bar across from a movie theater. It was the kind of place with long red curtains covering exposed walls that didn’t get the memo that exposed walls looked neat in restaurants. We sat and talked about where our lives had gone and red wine and winter and black tops with v-necks and warm lights and warm smiles sort of got away from the both of us to the point that each of us forgot to be frustrating.
Somewhere in the night, our eyes had a conversation about being different people now than when we were in high school. We had grown into sexual beings and excused each other from that growth. We spent the night leading each other through all the stories we had kept to ourselves through the years. We talked about the best and worst sex of our last near-decade. We talked about the things that turned us on. She talked about things that made my ribs hurt, like how she just loved playing with cocks, hard or soft, and wished she had one in her apartment she could just take out and touch while she watched tv. That seemed like it could be arranged.
As we drank, we melted all over each other from across the table. Suddenly Lindsay was this new person, this complete mystery. When our legs touched under the table, she put her hand across my thigh, and when I didn’t immediately do the same, she grabbed my hand and put it on her leg, much higher than her hand was on mine. I could feel through her skirt a warmth that meant a lot more than wine and silly conversation. She got up to go to the bathroom, saying, rather romantically, “I need to fucking piss.” I sat at the table and stared at the maroon film at the bottom of my wine glass, wishing it had more wine in it, and wishing wine didn’t cost eight dollars a glass.
Lindsay’s mouth appeared a half a centimeter from my ear, and I could feel the air moving around her lips when she whispered “comeherecomeherecomehere,” and by the time I turned to look she was already two tables away and walking towards the bathrooms. I got up, my knees a little wobbly, not sure if she wanted to make out or show me someone’s super gross poop they left in the toilet. With Lindsay, and with that night, both seemed equally likely.
She stopped in the hallway with a broad smile on her face. “Look!” She said it like she was hiding a dinosaur egg, and so I was slightly confused when she pulled back one of the long red curtains that lined the wall along a corner to reveal “a wall?” I didn’t sound as excited as she was.
“Sh!” I was being too loud. Obviously this wall was a very special secret wall. She pointed up at the curtain rods, which curved around the corner of the wall imperfectly and it occurred to me. It was not the wall she was excited about, but the space between curtain and wall. I looked down at her to smile but she was gone, along with the wall. A hand appeared out of the curtain and pulled me inside to her discovered space. It felt a bit like a fort made of pillows, the sort of thing that transfers the most mundane spot into a little bit of magic.
It took a few moments for me to figure out what was happening and to start kissing her back, and almost instantly from there our lips sent messages to our hands and hips and legs to do what needed doing. She made great use of the small space we had, somehow still finding room to curl around me, to spin us so that her back was pressed against the corner, to wrap her leg around me, dip her head backwards and push her chest up to my lips. My hand slid up the inside of her leg, inside her thigh. Under the skirt, I could feel the heat of her pulse like her pussy was the sun.
In one smooth movement, she dipped my head down, dropped me to my knees, rested her back against the corner of the wall and wrapped her legs over my shoulders so that her feet dangled off the ground behind my back. And so, there we were. It was a delightful moment to discover that, somewhere amidst our lives and experience, Lindsay had decided she didn’t like wearing underwear. She tasted like grape suckers and grabbed my hair so hard I almost screamed. Of course, no one would have heard me because she was pushing my open lips to hard against herself no sound could escape. For minutes or moments or millennia I thought of nothing but taste and tasted nothing but touch.
In the silence of our fort we could hear glasses clinking outside and the same public radio music station on low that every other restaurant in 10 miles was playing. Murmured conversation was occasionally broken by the loud laughing of the group by the door. Occasionally, someone would walk by us to or from the bathroom, but we remained protected by a shield of expectation. No one was looking for people having sex behind the curtain, so how would they find us?
She started rocking hard against me, pushing her back against the concrete wall. I stared up at her over curves and sharply dark hair, saw her pinching and twisting her nipples through her shirt, saw her bottom lip tucked tight under her teeth. She stared back at me, hungry. She pushed my face back down to her pussy and growled at me like she owned me. I sucked in against her pussy, taking her clit between my teeth, pressing on it with the flat of my tongue. I let her own me for awhile. I gave her lips and mouth and tongue. I gave her two of my fingers, curled up, pressing opposite my tongue. I let her have the hair between her fingers, my shoulders under her thighs. I let her have to two spaces on the small of my back where her heels rested, digging in when my tongue found that just-so spot.
Her orgasm appeared like one of those summer storms that you can watch from a distance all day and still get surprised and stuck in the rain when it shows up all at once. So I learned another thing about Lindsay, there on my knees and surrounded by shushes and hiding. I learned that Lindsay, who does almost nothing her life halfway, also orgasms balls out, as it were. So I learned that going down on Lindsay meant Lindsay coming in my mouth, across my face, soaking my shirt, leaving an untidy puddle on the floor of our little curtain fort. So there I was, soaking in orgasm and sweat and satisfaction. With Lindsay’s legs clenched hard on either side of my head, I realized that my soaking was quite by design. She owned me and she knew it, her eyes told me as much, and so she could do as she wished, so screamed the corners of her smile.
Lindsay let me go just enough to get off of me, just enough for me to lean back, look down at my shirt and the dark line of wetness still traveling like troop movements past the line of my chest. “Alright,” she whispered down to me, “one more glass, then we call it a night.” We got up, snuck back out to our seats, ordered wine while my shirt dried unevenly against my skin. When our wine showed up, Lindsay wrote and slipped a note on a napkin across the table to me without breaking once from the point she was making about Minneapolis bike culture. The note, in tight but uneven cursive, “I can smell my pussy all over you. So can everybody else.” She even signed it. So, I learned a lot about Lindsay that night.
A few nights later, she called me. She said she hadn’t been to an art museum in months. “Plus,” and she sounded almost shy about it, “I think we should go on a date. A date date.” A week later, I tried hard to think something about all of the chickens.
We wound our way through the museum, through a whole section full of landscapes of farms that Lindsay “ooh’d” and “aah’d” over for twenty minutes before finally eliciting a “yeah, that one’s pretty awesome” from me, then laughing at me because she thought the farms were dumb and just wanted to see if she could get me to try to like them. This is the kind of shit we always pull on each other that always makes the wheels come off. We both love to fuck with people, and both deeply hate being fucked with. For some reason, in the art museum, it just made me laugh, and made me laugh way harder than I should have, which made us both laugh, because there’s just something that’s ridiculous about being loud in an art museum.
We spent the next half hour finding the lamest shit we could and talked loudly over other people’s conversations about all the different reasons we thought it was an absolute work of genius. We made up stuff to describe what we liked. A painting of a dutch woman was “royalish” and “showed a very blue sort of suffering.” We agreed that a landscape of what could only have been Iceland or Nebraska was “Pre-post-modern” and “linearly obscure.” We nodded a lot at each other and said, “my god, you’re so right.” We giggled our way out of three different sections of the museum until the lack of any audience made the game pointless. Apparently, everyone came to the museum for the paintings, because the whole wing of ceramics was deserted. I thought they were the coolest thing yet, but probably because I rather enjoy art that can do something, like hold coffee.
I was staring at one piece of clay something, trying to figure out if the carvings on it were of dogs with huge penises or of a very early SUV. I leaned in close, examining either the ripples of foreskin or all-terrain tire treads, when a whisper came from the next room, “comeherecomeherecomehere.” I chased the whisper lines across the room and next to her, beating the last sounds to her lips, kissing before I knew not to, because I wasn’t here for clay or chickens. “Nono,” she breathed into me without moving her lips away, “over here.”
Lindsay had found another fort. She led me to the end of the room, following the wall along a display case showing the evolution of teacups, I think. Between the case and the wall there was a space, no more than two feet deep or across, that looked like a happy accident in mis-measuring, or maybe a spot where they used to have a water fountain. She fit herself in the space, back to the wall again, and dropped down in front of me, sitting on her heels and looking up at me. “Enjoy the teacups,” she said as her lip tucked back under her teeth and her hand reached up to undo my pants.
From her knees in front of me, her hand pulled my cock into what felt like the air of a church or court or post office. Air that had never in a long life of people seen a cock before. I was all hers again, and now I felt her become completely mine as she took me deep into her mouth. I tried to practice looking like I was staring at teacups, as if there is any reason in the world why someone would need to look at a teacup for longer than four seconds, but it was no use. Instead, I looked down at Lindsay, watched her head move forward and back, felt her tongue and her lips work together, her hand trailing her lips up and down.
I felt as she gave me her mouth and hand, as she opened her throat and gave me as much as she could fit me down. She gave me a cough and she choked on me, and held her head there, slowly easing me further and further until she pulled me all the way out, her spit stringing from the head of my cock to her lips. She started again with just her hand, wrapping it around the end of me while she moved it up and back down. She sunk herself further down, moving her face under me and staring up at me with the same hungry look she had when she was just about to soak my face and shirt in the wine bar. A barely audible “yesyesyes” was tingling up from her lips and around my cock.
I thought about maybe just coming on the wall, which would be gross but also sort of naughty and certainly one of our very few options. I thought also about coming on her cleavage, letting it run between her chest and down her stomach, a little payback for my little present a few nights prior. But no. She was going to give herself to me and mark herself as mine. She kept her face just under me as her hand brought me to orgasm. She smiled and her “yesyesyes” transformed to a low-grown “hrrrrrrrm” as I came across the side of her face.
She stood, my come dripping down her jaw along her neck, covering her lips and a good part of one cheek. She admired herself in the glass of the display case and said, “you’ve done very well” like she was congratulating me on a well-baked loaf of bread, “now you’re going to hold my hand while we look at a few more paintings.” We walked, each leading and following the other, back to the chickens.
1 comments:
Hope all is well with you, Jenny and Tally. Would love to hear updates on your relationship with them soon! Definitely missing reading your posts
Post a Comment