Giggling (fiction) (for now)

It was a day in the interest of the “why the fuck not,” and of the school of “because it’s summer.” So you can understand, I think, why things got crazy so quickly.

People find time in the summer for other people, for afternoons that turn to evenings and nights and late nights. So we found time for each other. It wasn’t even particularly difficult. The time to do the things we want to do is just laying around our houses, waiting to be picked up and sorted.

So she made time to come to my place. I said, “It’s been too long since you came over.” She said, “It’s been too long since you’ve asked.” I said, “well, I kept wanting to, but just never out and said it.” She smiled at me as she walked through the door, “well, that’s why you use your words.”

We sat on my front porch, which is as enclosed as it can be without major repairs to busted screens. We sat on my couch out there, leaning back, drinking long silences from blue skies, from the buzzing summer. We drank lemonade and sweet-tea vodka, because it’s what summer days taste like anyway. We drank the day until our heads were lighter than before, until our shoulders and necks felt like they did when we were nineteen, maybe twenty.

I didn’t know we were going to have a summer day, one of those summer days that could only happen in summer, that could only happen in nice weather with light heads and long days that allow time the time to be special, until she put her ankles onto my lap and slid herself across the couch to lay down until her knees bent over me.

I didn’t know knees could be sexy just like that, warm and freckled on the sides and (there is no better word for it but) giggling. It was warm outside, which, I think, makes knees look way different than in the cold.

I put my hand on her knee, ran my fingers lightly up and tapped them like I was playing that thing on pianos that everyone plays when they find themselves around one, but don’t know any songs. I touched her like that because that’s how giggling knees like to be touched.

My touching almost immediately elicited that sort of groan, that sort of moan and hum and song and grunt that some girls make when you touch them just the right way. A girl one time made that sound when I pulled her hair playfully at a party, and then again and again as I kept trying. That moan may just be the most powerful force in my life, and I think about if for months when I find one. I know it’s not just me. I get the feeling looking at certain buildings, at certain bridges, at certain books and at certain wings of certain museums that much work has been done by men in the last forever-years to elicit that sound from the lips of lovely women.

The sound says, in no uncertain terms, “I want to be fucked right now.”

The sound says, in some uncertain terms, “It may or may not actually happen, or may not happen with you, but fucking fuck I want to be fucked right now.” It is not a song of romance. It is an ancient song of wrists held tight, of hair pulled, of biting and riding and spanking and twisting, of wetness and choking and orgasms that wake neighbors and start fires and define whole times in our lives.

All that, and here all I did was touch a giggling knee.

So we did this for awhile, we did this thing where I touched her knee in every way I could think to touch it, teased little bits up her thigh, retreated little bits around her calve, and she moaned and she squirmed these little almost in-perceivable squirms and it was a run-on sentence full of sexy.

She did this thing with her hands, where the thing was like her hands were doing just want I wanted to do, which was rub deep paths between her chest-to-shoulders. She did this thing while she kept moaning at me, or for me, or probably mainly for herself. She did this thing that I usually do which is to slide my fingers down the top of her shirt, little swoopy lines under the fabric, innocent enough, but fishing for rebuke or encouragement. Just like when I do that thing there was this moment when she did this thing, this moment of no turning back, this moment of not-at-all-innocence when her fingers found her nipples and stayed there. They stayed and pinched, and tugged and twisted. She lifted her hands to push her shirt down enough to bring her nipples out, to show me how she liked them touched, or probably mainly to touch them how she liked them touched.

So my hands slid up, slid up like very sexy-like, or as sexy-like as I can manage. So my hands slid up, and took with them the flowy-cottony-skirt thing that I could tell hated having to cover her legs. So I uncovered her legs with my sexy-like hands and as my hands found their ways further up, one hand on each leg, each treating its leg like a shrine and a goddess and like its own leggy slut. Each hand was after pleasure.

My hands made wonderful explorers. Hills and valleys and hills and valleys, up her legs and across her stomach, over and under and pushing aside fabrics until they found themselves wet, the kind of wet that can only go with the moans that she was making, the kind of wettness that is unmistakable in its intent and excitement.

I moved my fingers slowly, without any real goal in mind, without any hurrying, I let my fingers do as they pleased and did so slowly. Summer, after all, is the only season that baseball makes any sense.

Her giggling knees moved apart, still giggling madly at all this. Her moaning, in the meantime, had gotten louder, more insistent. I worried for a moment about neighbors and passers-by, but it’s difficult to get too worked up about that when your hand is moved from stomach to nipple and you are beggedbeggedbegged to twist hard, to twist harder, with nipples working like volume knobs for her moaning. With nipples that go to 11.

One finger would’ve felt like an insult, I thought, a complete ignoring of every signal she was sending that this was not to be a playful day, this was not to be cozy and cute and oh-by-golly-I-just-came-a-little-how-fun sort of day, so I started with two but went to three almost immediately. My fingers grouped in a triangle together with my palm up, pushed up gently as I fucked them in to the knuckle and her moans became the guttural groan of a farm tractor having an orgasm. I saw that happen once. I’m from Wisconsin.

Three fingers became four and it’s as good a time as any to say that the real fucking potential of fingers is grossly underrated. Have you ever seen the hand of a man? Not to denigrate the effect of a cock, but four fingers were not only fucking, but filling her. Her moaning turned to mainly expletives, mostly directed at me. “Fuck me asshole, you fucking prick,” and when my fingers slid in past the knuckle and her whole body seemed to flex with the first shocks of approaching orgasm I was called, somewhat ironically I suppose, a pussy. She was smiling while she said it, so I wasn’t about to let it ruin my day.

She was still smiling when she grabbed my wrist to stop me and said, “no fucking way I’m coming without your cock inside me.” That seemed pretty reasonable, so I said, “yeah, that seems pretty reasonable.” Sometimes I’m a bit of a snot when I know I’m doing something well.

We left the porch for the living room where there was air conditioning, furniture, and curtains on the windows. Sweat we didn’t realize we had produced was cooling against our bodies, creating little pinpricks of coolness across our backs and arms and chests. We took our clothes off quickly.

She stood with her back to me, facing the couch, so I did what it felt like she wanted me to do. I grabbed her hair into a tight ball with my right hand, spread her legs with my knee, and shoved her face down against the cushions. For beautiful girls who bend over: Firstly, thanks. Secondly, I hope you have some idea of just how sexy it is to see an ass in the air like that, and the curves of legs, and the sides of your lips with your mouth open in anticipation of cock. I mean, really, penises are such ridiculous things, and attached the absurdity that is a man-body, and for such a powerful force of everything sex to be so ready and hopeful and begging for whatever it is we’re packing behind you, well, thanks again. Thanks, really.

It occurred to me, as I was pulling her head back just to listen to her love it, that I really wanted to go down on her, but the time seemed far from right. We were kind of in the middle of something there, and a break for oral sex would, I thought, ruin the mood. I made a mental note though, stored somewhere near the front of my brain, to have oral sex with her. Under that note, written in a hasty, heavy hand, was a note to have more oral sex in general.

My note taking finished, I pulled her back against my cock, reaching my right hand around to guide it inside of her. As I felt just how wet she was, just how warm she was, she groaned a new groan of accomplishment. Since I first touched her knee, and maybe before, her mind had been reaching for the moment when I would be fucking her. Not to sound too hypocritical, and to speak only from being spoken to and not from personal experience, but though fingers may be nice, there is nothing like being properly fucked by a thick and very hard dick. Lucky for her. Lucky for me.

I left my arm wrapped around her, kept my fingers pressed against her, added pressure and figure 8’s I hoped weren’t too obviously that. She didn’t seem to notice my novice trick, or perhaps wasn’t in a position to argue has her back arched and her head thrashed back and forth against the control of my left hand.

I’m not very good at cooking, especially baking, and I’m terrible at making plants live longer than a week in my house, but thank whoever is in control of these things for giving me the ability to fuck well.

To say she had an orgasm is perhaps understating her experience greatly. She fell the fuck apart like my cock was the key to a room full of orgasm monkeys that all got out at once. She spoke languages that have been dead for thousands of years as she pushed her hips back against mine. She saw and forgot the future. She was everything it is to be alive for nearly a full minute, which is almost enough to kill someone.

She had an orgasm. She has a rather substantial orgasm. I wasn’t sure she’d be okay ever again, and that made me rather proud of myself.

I let go of her hair, let it fall across her face as she continued to breath like her head had just broken water. I kept my right hand pressed hard and still against her clit, letting the last lightening racers of her orgasm flash up her back and neck and rest just behind her ears. I kept my cock as far inside of her as I could move it, felt every flex and shock and spasm, felt her body press down against me, felt myself start to breath like I was getting a tattoo.

I pulled out from her, came across her ass and back. I think it’s sexy, you know, that my orgasms have that physical evidence, that she could feel almost up to her shoulder blades the tangible streaks across her skin of how completely I had come. I think it's sexy too, just how fucking filthy it is.

It’s sexy, you know.

She stood and faced me, smiled broadly and mischievously as she ran her finger across her ass, placed it in her mouth and sucked it clean. “I was hoping you’d come all over my tits,” she said, she challenged, she pouted at me. I watched her lips around her finger, looked at her breasts and nipples and that space between that did look awfully like a great spot for an orgasm, and said, “well, that’s why we use our words.”

I can be a bit of a snot when I know I’ve done something well.