VSM: R&D
It is the discovery of the kiss that undoes me.
My husband does not kiss me like this. Our couplings are perfunctory, as if neither of us enjoys the experience, and truly, I don't think we do. I hear of what men do with their whores, and in a military camp, sometimes I hear what they do as well. I listen to the heavy breaths punctuated by grunts, the little shrieks, the moans. The first time I heard those noises, I thought a girl was being killed. I know differently, now.
We do not kiss, he and I. Not in the way that she and I do. He kisses my cheek, chastely. I kiss his forehead, in the same way that I kiss my children. We occasionally brush lips, each of us blushing as we part, for this is just part of the game we play.
She and I are drunk when we discover it, the kiss. We drink together like we did when we were peers, only now it is my vast expanse of bed that we are sitting on instead of the Contessa's. We laugh together as if we are not Barona and Castellana, but still two friends. We say unkind things about the French and their terrible fashions while we talk about our families' businesses, making sage observations of our fathers. We two are alike in that we share philosophy and mathematics, but can barely sew a stitch of fanciful embroidery.
When we press our foreheads together, we are suddenly not two women of worldly pursuits. We are children, girls who innocently gossip. We giggle more than we laugh with sophistication, and even though our gossip is of the court, we two who know so much more of it than any two farmer's daughters could ever hope to, we share the innocence of our experience, such as it is.
We are so close together, here, on my bed. I extend my hand, trace the curve of her cheek with my fingers, marveling at how smooth her skin is. With my fingers under her chin, I gently guide her lips to mine, and they brush together softly.
After that first tentative touch, I want more. I know that if I stop to think, to analyze it, I will regret it, and so I don't. I pause long enough to look into her eyes, but they are closed, her lips waiting for mine. I take this as a sign, and bring her to me once again.
I dare to do something I've never done before, something that I have seen only when no one thinks there is anyone looking. I slip my tongue between her lips, delving in and out until I find hers. She emits a startled little sound, then it deepens to a long, soft moan.
Her mouth is thick with the taste of wine and oranges, and I am greedy. We explore each other's mouths, our hands clumsily touching each others hair, faces, skin. I want her, all of her, and although it is already late, I am afraid to suggest that we sleep, for this may look differently in the daylight, and she may not want me then.
My husband does not kiss me like this. Our couplings are perfunctory, as if neither of us enjoys the experience, and truly, I don't think we do. I hear of what men do with their whores, and in a military camp, sometimes I hear what they do as well. I listen to the heavy breaths punctuated by grunts, the little shrieks, the moans. The first time I heard those noises, I thought a girl was being killed. I know differently, now.
We do not kiss, he and I. Not in the way that she and I do. He kisses my cheek, chastely. I kiss his forehead, in the same way that I kiss my children. We occasionally brush lips, each of us blushing as we part, for this is just part of the game we play.
She and I are drunk when we discover it, the kiss. We drink together like we did when we were peers, only now it is my vast expanse of bed that we are sitting on instead of the Contessa's. We laugh together as if we are not Barona and Castellana, but still two friends. We say unkind things about the French and their terrible fashions while we talk about our families' businesses, making sage observations of our fathers. We two are alike in that we share philosophy and mathematics, but can barely sew a stitch of fanciful embroidery.
When we press our foreheads together, we are suddenly not two women of worldly pursuits. We are children, girls who innocently gossip. We giggle more than we laugh with sophistication, and even though our gossip is of the court, we two who know so much more of it than any two farmer's daughters could ever hope to, we share the innocence of our experience, such as it is.
We are so close together, here, on my bed. I extend my hand, trace the curve of her cheek with my fingers, marveling at how smooth her skin is. With my fingers under her chin, I gently guide her lips to mine, and they brush together softly.
After that first tentative touch, I want more. I know that if I stop to think, to analyze it, I will regret it, and so I don't. I pause long enough to look into her eyes, but they are closed, her lips waiting for mine. I take this as a sign, and bring her to me once again.
I dare to do something I've never done before, something that I have seen only when no one thinks there is anyone looking. I slip my tongue between her lips, delving in and out until I find hers. She emits a startled little sound, then it deepens to a long, soft moan.
Her mouth is thick with the taste of wine and oranges, and I am greedy. We explore each other's mouths, our hands clumsily touching each others hair, faces, skin. I want her, all of her, and although it is already late, I am afraid to suggest that we sleep, for this may look differently in the daylight, and she may not want me then.