Head Games by Matt Adler

When I asked him, I looked away. He lit my skin though. Every time. His bite would hit and spit and lift every hair. So hairy, his beard bit me. I pushed myself down on him while he lay on the bed. I always gave him head.

I should save myself though tonight. Regardless of money or our anniversary. But to ask for head and plead and ask again after a year! God, asking for pleasure is horrible. I lie there sweaty, thinking I could do it subtly. I’ve warmed him up. I have to let him think I’m happy with him. He doesn’t have a problem asking, probably because he always gets what he wants. But who asks for head? It should just happen, like spontaneous combustion. Some cultures believe the vagina is God. He should get down on his knees, pray and be thankful for the beautiful gift he has before it vanishes.

I pushed him down while I tripped over desire. Falling on top, I touched him and kept his clothes on. Propped on him, I think to myself it may be better to have him on me. Instead, I fumble for his pants and leave them on, his beard still biting me. I feel him through his pants.

The room is stifling and makes the city quiet in the night. I leave his pants on to let him want me. It is better to let him want me. Be on top. Want me enough so he’ll give me head. I put my forehead on his, kissing his eyes and cheeks. I usually make love to him, but tonight I want to fuck. I want him to love me and fuck me and give me head.

Our lips open and we throw off our clothes. I hold him down, and let him know that tonight is the night. Tonight, I’m getting head. I feel him again when I roll on top and make him know what I want. I have to be subtle. To give is better than to receive, isn’t that what all the pimps say? As he tries to take off my shirt I let him struggle. I help with half of the sleeve. Take off my shirt. Take me. Take off my bra. Fuck me. He does as he is told in silence. Our kisses soften the booming trucks outside along the quiet streets. His touch is easy now. Be rough, I show him. On top, he makes himself naked and loud.

“Come here,” he says, kicking his pants off like it is an accomplishment.

My pants are still on. I tell him, “Take them off.”

I drive his hands on my hips so he can move with me. He turns the belt buckle into an orchestral dance—the excitement in his hands are under my own. I clench a knuckle-full of hair and rein him in.

“Ow.” He pauses like I hurt him. I am not joking tonight. Tonight is serious. I want to be fucked and loved so unbuckle my pants, turn down and give me head.

I strain him downward to the center of my universe. He overshoots to my legs like he is some foreplay god, willfully ignoring my damp panties. It is uncharted or unnavigable for the man. I begin to sweat now, uncomfortable and frustrated. He puts himself on me but I am not ready. I press my legs together and push him away. I want head. Not your head, my head. He detours around my upper thigh onto my belly and up to my neck. He bites me and I wilt. I lie still for him.  

He rolls his hands into mine with his head towards my belly button. We peel the soaked panties off now and I feel him close to me. Celebrate, I tell him with open legs. He comes up on top of me like some covert acrobat. If it weren’t so important, I would have accepted him. But tonight, I have to save myself.

I ask hard, “Can you give me head?”

His eyes blink in the darkness. Close to my breasts, he perks up like some puppy dog.

“Head?”

“Can you?” Flustered, I worry the moment is totally gone now.

“What do you mean?” He asks me to explain as though he’s unaware—to supplicate him. I try to make it appetizing, even though I am a perspiring mess by now.

“Can you lick me? I want you. Lick me.”

Take me please. Ignore whatever hang-ups you have. Ignore what we have learned for so long.

He sweats uncomfortably at the thought of my command. Obviously, he doesn’t comprehend the graveness of the matter. I ease him into the notion of need over desire.

“I can’t without it. I want you.” I tell him.  

Puddles of mixed sweat form on my belly.

“I don’t do oral,” he says with such finality. I look away harder now, finished with the whole absurd night.

I thought I wasn’t this way. I never asked for any man to give me head. If they do it, they hold on to something; something with breath and affection. Tonight I have to save myself, I want to breathe, I want his love. I plead my case, as if some trumpets go off in the distance.

“Isn’t it time?” Pausing, I detail the cause further. “For me.” I feel like some poor dog scrounging around an alley for something to eat.

He stumbles in his thoughts, already feeling I am not content. He is probably turned off.

“I don’t do that until I know. It’s touchy for me,” he added.

“What does that even mean?” He was touching me. He didn’t want to lose what he had in front of him. “I don’t get it. Why don’t you give head?” My voice weakened. It was a small release, but I couldn’t bear to look at him.

“I can’t. I don’t do those things. We met around the corner and I’m the boss here.” But he didn’t get it. He didn’t understand. Whoring is a simple thing and so is a penis. 

“Why don’t you put a penis in your mouth? See if you like forcing something down your own throat.” 

“I would gladly put your penis in my mouth,” he smiled in the dark. Even if it wasn’t a joke, he would grin. His smile had taken me somewhere I thought I had left for some time. 

“It’s like running and breathing only through your nose. I don’t have male genitalia but if I did, I wouldn’t ask someone else to have some pleasure through pain. Would you want to stick something down your mouth?”

He thought hard and long for some time. He was not listening and from the distance between us, he was either over sex or making me feel guilty. Now on the other side of the bed, he was trying to trick me into leaving the subject alone.

Guilt. Even the word sounds annoying. It is like hate. Hate is fed by guilt and for me, it crosses over into another word that I haven’t heard or don’t want to hear for a long time. Maybe love. I can’t bear to utter it out into the world, just saying it makes me tense. I know from my past that you can’t ignore guilt. But when we met at the corner, it went away for a while. You painted me red and blue with your smile, holier than ever, you painted me in calm warmth; the trees and the breeze, above all, touched me when we met and then you asked me if I was ever in love, and I did not have an answer, nor do I have one now, because it is hard to know if you can’t see something or feel something, and it is even harder to believe that it all may never be found. Love’s doubt flows and lurks like something that smells in the night. 

He pricks me with every angle, as if I would flip upwards for him. It will not work on me. I shift myself into the covers like it is freezing outside. The fan rocks back and forth. I lie with trucks tearing through the streets that shake the building. Then it is quiet and the mood is hard. I try to make it softer with both of our hearts pounding. I throw the sheets off between us to lose the issue, breathing out loud. I count my heartbeat to slow it down. Focus out loud and slow everything down.

“100, 99, 98, 97…”  

“What are you doing?”

I was naked. The sheets were a blockade between us. I kept counting, exposed and sensing the foolishness in all the talk about love and head. Maybe he will take it as a countdown.

“I’m counting.”

“Counting for what?”

“I’m counting my heartbeat.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“My heartbeat is up so I’m counting it!”

“You are crazy.”

You are crazy. Your conformity is crazy. Don’t you think it’s time to do what you want? Live a little.”

A big truck rammed through the street, screaming from all of its weight. He was so happy all the time, it was infuriating. It is quiet for some time. Guilt flows out of my skin, but the fan’s breeze pushes it back.

Enough nerves, I think to myself. I am not going to move. Not for him. Not for your beliefs. I shake the sheet onto him. He stirs on instinct until a hush runs through his muscle. His legs are stiff, and his arms stay straight like my plaything. My head turns and holds his gaze, pink from the streetlight beaming into the room. I have him in my domain so he listens with eyes open and mouth closed. His hush lies with me, flows down into the streets and up above into breeze that cools the night. He is close now, I breathe for him.

“Why don’t you do this?” I roll over and take him, the lioness with her prey. His stiff neck is bare while I mount forward. My bottom rests on his chest and our sweat mingles into a smooth hodgepodge of guilt, hate and love. Still, he stays for what comes next. I paw him and, with knees bent and ankles close to his ears, we feel his breath, then his beard. A symphony of trucks blast through the walls until the room explodes into white and pink, and blue and red. Finally, head.

 

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