Friday, April 15, 2005

Hankering for a Spankering

I could feel the heat of his hard-on through his pajama bottoms. M. Biologique ran his hands over every inch of my body, gently lingering on certain parts, aggressively on others, as conversation continued as usual:

"Shut up! Your favourite colours can't be green and purple! Those are mine!"

I had visited him the morning before he went in for his exam and he invited me to the party he was hosting for his geography friends that evening. Later that night, the lot of us barhopped (where I drank water, natch) and participated in some after-hours karaokeing (where I spontaneously took the stage during a stranger's Ol' Blue Eyes performance, sang back-up for him and twirled the cord of my mike, Mick in full rooster mode) before heading off to this notoriously good Lebanese take-out place (where I bantered with the owner who ominously advised it was better to be lonely than be with trouble). We disbanded when it finally dawned on us that it was half-past 3. Everyone was hella fun and friendly.

A few minutes later, M. Biologique and I broke into our university. When the lobby guard asked us what business we had doing there, I explained that I was inquiring about two pairs of missing leather gloves.

"Oh honey," M. Biologique pretended to empathize. "Those ones? With the...? Hmm, maybe they fell in the cracks between the chairs on the fourth floor."

But, the officer reminded us, you said you lost them months ago.

"Well," I quickly cut in. "If they're between the cracks, it would be highly unlikely that anyone would've taken them."

He gave us full security clearance. (Not that we did any vandalizing. Alright, maybe a little.)

We ended up back at his place where he plopped into his comfy chair as I silently dragged out the pull-out bed. We talked for a bit until he saw that I still had my stilettos on, body hanging half-on and half-off the seldom used sheets.

"Whatchoo doing, still wearing your shoes?" he practically demanded.

"I don't want your apartment dirtying my feet," I shot back.

He sat in his bed, watching me undress, placing each article of clothing over a nearby armrest. I crawled on the mattress containing no comforter nor pillow, a parchment of white in an otherwise black expanse. He told me I'd freeze. I asked him where he put his blankets. He told me they were with him on his bed. I went to get one. He refused to let go. I pulled harder. He tugged with equal force and with one swift motion, I was once again curled up in his arms, trying desperately to preserve the facade of normalcy even as he made his way down, pinching my inner thigh, tickling more than my eardrums with nonsense.

I made him breakfast following our fondlelicious foray, the Kodak image of a domesticated dervish. Quickly packing my things, I told him I better get going before he dismissed last night as another excursion in misguided loneliness.

"I'm going to the library," I informed him. "Not that I have any work to do."

"Why?" he asked. "So you can write in your diary about last night's crimes before any sins were committed?"

I laughed and concocted a non-denial denial. He asked what I was now contemplating in that head of mine.

"Nothing," I answered truthfully. "Tennis."

"Whatever Lily. I don't wanna get a call from you tomorrow telling me how, Oh [M. Biologique,] we can't be friends anymore, again."

"We can't be friends anymore," I said with a knowing wink.

"Or, Oh [M. Biologique,] you have to make a decision."

"You have to make a decision," wink apparent no more.

And, with minimum formality, I packed my things, walked to the elevator and pressed the down button. His door opened behind me just as the flashing numbers above the lift stopped ascending.

"Let me take you out for coffee."

It was a morning ritual that carried us late into the unusually sunny afternoon, his girlfriend still (unfairly) kept in the dark 300 miles away.

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