A PanAfricanist Queer Womanist Collective
She lay sprawled across their bed; her smooth shaven legs competing with the silk sheets as the dim light hit them both at a favourable angle. She’d already positioned her hand in the corner where most of the silk had gathered and premeditated how she was going to strangle that bundle to try to finally get her victory over those silk sheets. The silk did nothing but complement her lace underwear and didn’t deserve all she was going to do to it. Still, she planned exactly how her hand would hold on tight. She premeditated exactly how her scream and moan and tight-fisted hand would complement how naked she would be and how naked he would be. She anticipated and already mentally reacted to how he would expect her to scream, breathe deeply and try to crease those silk sheets as she lay beneath him. In her head she was already faking her orgasm. She knew how he would forget to notice the creasing of the silk sheets after the first time she succumbed to his expectations of highly-punctuated bedroom murmurs. These would be cued by the scattered salty droplets that would exit his forehead as he was hard at work and they would land on her bored cheeks. Standard.
Anyway…After meticulously positioning her hand, she moved on to worry about the positions of her legs and feet. She never knew whether his first sight of her should be of her legs all the way spread or whether she should use her one foot to touch her calf, slightly; forming a little triangle in between where the silk sheets peeped. As she moved her legs around experimenting with the various positions her legs could maneuver themselves into, she smiled as she caught the various shapes her butt took in the wide mirror nailed to wall, close to the bed. Wow! Her turquoise lace-knickers really did look as good against her lightly-browned skin as the shop-attendant said they would. The lace hung onto her waist and curved with her butt-cheeks. The lace was obedient to her contours. And then the turquoise, in its laciness, allowed for her brown skin to feature through it and be so picturesque in that mirror. If her hand wasn’t so busy clinging onto the lace, she might have “hi5’d” her butt for looking so good. Instead she smiled a kind of smile that didn’t come over her too often, especially not when she is half-naked waiting for him.
More than how it looked, she liked how the turquoise lace felt against her skin. The blacks and whites never achieved this effect…not to her they didn’t. For him, it seemed anything goes as long as it wasn’t too much admin to take off, fling thoughtlessly and collage the floor with. She especially liked how the turquoise felt when she laid slightly on her side, lifted her leg in the direction of her falling breast and the lace moved down, slightly caressing the bottom of her butt. Sure this little slide of the turquoise lace didn’t turn her on or anything, it was too slight. Still, when it moved she was reminded how shaven and smooth her skin was and felt a little bit of a tickle. “I didn’t know that part could even feel a tickle. Hmm…So this is what happens when you choose turquoise,” she thought. It’s the turquoise effect.
The sound of him draining his bladder into the clean toilet water and diluting it with his golden yellowness almost wiped the turquoise effect away…but her reflection in the mirror invited it to stay. The toilet flushed and she started repositioning her legs and rethinking about how her hand was going to grab onto the silk sheets. Soon enough.
“Happy Anniversary Baby,” said her man with a broad smile and the uninspiring tone he’d used for the past three “Happy Anniversaries Babys” that she’d gotten. He was wearing his white, tight briefs and although, as always, they defined his package well, she’d known them for so long, and knew exactly what his package was about. She also knew what it was not about. All this knowing and rehearsing frustrated her! But there was no time to ponder on that because he climbed on top of her and didn’t even seem to notice that her leg was so thoughtfully positioned to make her butt look good. He didn’t seem to even notice the turquoise effect.
He began slowly and, what he thought was, sensually, from the middle of her neck. She knew that kiss and she was annoyed. He ran his big hand over her turquoise-laced breast and she was more annoyed because she figured he felt boob and not beautiful-breast-in-turquoise-lace. She didn’t think he even noticed how new and turquoise it was. She had never owned anything turquoise in her life and that day she tried something out for him yet his eyes didn’t even linger. Sure his hands did and of course she moaned a little, as usual, but it’s his eyes she needed affirmation from. He moved towards her mouth. She was too annoyed to kiss him back so she turned her head and he landed her bored cheek instead. She was just bored and annoyed. And his body was blocking even the pleasure of her seeing her own reflection as he kissed and caressed and so forth.
So she closed her eyes and re-imagined her reflection, reimagined the turquoise-effect – slight tickles and all. She had so easily drifted into a trance and didn’t even notice that he’d moved her well-thought-out hand-position, unclipped her bra, taken off her panties and acquainted his package with hers. Luckily she was always so well-lubricated that sometimes his presence was not a noticeable intrusion. Just as she didn’t take note of him entering her, she didn’t take note of him exit.
“Baby?” By exhaling anything more than breath, her thoughts of herself were halted. “Huh?” she managed to let out. He went on: “So since, you know, you like being the one at the bottom, I was wondering if this time you wouldn’t mind turning around? Don’t worry though, you’d still be at the bottom and I’d still do all the work.”
There were too many implications that came with this question. It wasn‘t asked sheepishly enough to be ignored and processed slowly, nor was it put forth flippantly enough for offence to be taken or justified. Her only external response came in the form of that “huh?” sound– this time it was less bored and more confused-sounding. Her reaction was more laden then he would ever know. With it came the disruption of many mental processes, the collapsing of her long-standing knowledge about her boudoir, and the falling of her mighty ideas about her contribution. It was the start of some kind of deadly revolution about what it meant to have anniversary sex with…her.
With no other ways to respond she just turned over in the space underneath him. This was also her ploy to hide her daze, her disillusion, and her non-response. Words flung around in her head. These words didn’t need to be accompanied by others to form whole sentences. They made plenty of sense on their own. “corps”, “works” “me” “comfortable”, “new” were the words her mind managed to hold on to.
She failed to feel his warm body carefully pressing down against hers as he kissed her from her neck, down her spine to the small of her back. He lingered right where the turquoise effect had begun and ended. As if he had long-awaited his turn to make art out of their anniversary union, he made a sculpture out of her unconscious body. At first, his package was nowhere near her. He worked with the silk to glide, around and between her legs and arms, from one part of the bed to the next. His tongue, mouth and body eased from one limb to another, one direction to the next. The bed became the canvass covered in living silk and their bodies. But it seems only he noticed and attempted this art. Had she turned to see what was in the mirror, she might have seen how he turned the silk into an extension of his artful expression of her body, through her body. But she lay there. Still.
Her mind was still tossing words and confusion about when an unrehearsed moan was yanked out of her limbs, out of her breath and she swallowed a gulp of dense air. It must have been the air bubbles that caused her to realise her heart and its beat. She stumbled upon its increased pace and listened to its proposed rhythm. She tried to calm it…control it as she usually did. Just when she started believing there was consistency in her heart’s beating, the artist drew his artwork in for better inspection and this time a moan filled with much more air escaped her mouth. The moaned broadcasted itself despite the fact that she had swallowed most of it along with her deep inhale. Shocked and short of normal, controlled breath she listened to her heart once more. This beat could be measured!
What in good, breathless heaven had happened to her rehearsed attempts to crease the silk sheets as he sweated all over the front of her body?! Her own heartbeat, her moans, her breath, the turquoise effect had made a mockery out of all she knew her anniversary (and her sex) to be. She couldn’t even imagine where she needed to put her hand next or how and when she was going to grab the silk sheets now to claim victory. She didn’t know…anything. She had forgotten how to swallow the moans, how to control her heartbeat and how to look at her man and see what he was feeling. She never imagined she had a role except to lay there and be bored in her rehearsed moans.
As if possessed, he impolitely ignored the precedent she’d set for their engagement on their anniversary. Without consulting her, he was suddenly making her release unforeseen breaths and uncontrollable chunks of air in between all her attempts to think and forbid herself from letting out any screams. Surely she could not endorse such! Right there she decided that she WOULD NOT… right there her breaths came out in shiver and her hands and legs were doing the same. She tried to resist but shivers and seconds of breathlessness later …Just before her first drip onto the silk sheets… she had to acknowledge it: She had lost her sexuality by never looking for it.
She had always lay there like a corps waiting to be done with as her man, any man, pleased. It was her package that was predictable. He was the one who had known what her package was about and not about. Maybe he had noticed her new underwear but it held no hope for anything other than being new underwear. No adventure, no nothing. Not when she just lay there. So maybe he got his and since she always grabbed onto the silk sheets and screamed routinely, he thought somewhere she was getting hers. The thing is: she couldn’t know the answers to these questions because she never asked. She wasn’t asking now though…there no time between actually feeling.
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