Sometimes I like to write erotica. Some if it’s real, some imagined. This one is real.
We were sitting on the couch side by side, both on our phones, seeing who could find the sexiest tumblr. Or we’d scroll through together, thumbing past some images quickly, lingering on others. I said we should say which ones we like; thinking, lest we linger too long on something one thought the other liked but didn’t. This one’s very appealing, I’d say. I like that one, you’d say. But somehow we commented sparingly, as if a sort of self-consciousness had crept over us, in admitting what aroused our senses and what didn’t. As if verbalising our approval left us too open and too vulnerable, revealing too much of ourselves.
I think we wanted to find the same thing. Something sensual, something titillating, something we could enjoy together, maybe while enjoying each other. Though no matter which corners of the internet we look in, it’s always a mixed bag. Between suggestive curves and shadows and monochromatic forms and delicately and explicitly exposed bodies, are insincere expressions and motel room lighting and things that others might find alluring but not you, not I.
Somehow we strayed too far from the things that made my hand want to stray up your thigh. I mentioned some photos I once emailed you, a long ago typed NSFW subject line. There are more, I said, invitingly, alluringly. At least that’s how I hope it sounded. We pull out the laptop, more suited for images contained too tightly in our small-screened hands. We talk a little too objectively about which ones we like, why we like them, almost as if it’s not even me. I comment on my eye makeup; smoky, sultry, sensuous. A hint of green.
There’s the video too. You’ve seen it before. Have you watched it since, I wonder. It’s at full screen, the sound is up; suddenly I feel a nervous heat, a self-consciousness swelling up, watching myself, naked except for knee-high boots, spread across a sofa, with my hand between my legs. Is it strange to feel aroused by my own body, my own bare breasts, my own breathiness? In the video my eyes close, open, look directly at the camera; is it weird to look into my own eyes? I watch you watching me. Your expression gives nothing away and I am desperate to touch you.
An awkward pause while we stop to run part two of the video, a separate file. Apparently the camera turns itself off after a time. We watch, barely moving; I alternate between watching you and watching me, as the breathing and sighing and intensity escalates and crescendos towards the finish. The video clicks off and I’m straddling you on the couch, our tongues entwined, hands frantically unbuttoning jeans. My top is pushed up, pants are pulled off, you’re sliding down the couch until your head is between my thighs. Again I feel aroused by the sight of myself, seeing my breasts tumbled out beneath the dark blue of fabric, my bare belly, pale and smooth, seeing your tongue disappear inside me.
After a time I pull you back up, taste myself on your lips, your mouth, and I fuck you noisily, unreservedly, intensely. I imagine someone watching us. Maybe a figure at the window, peering in, maybe we left the door open a crack and someone stands there in full view. I’m watching me on top of you, watching you beneath me, picturing someone watching us, picturing me watching them watching us, imagine I’m you watching me, looking into my own eyes.