I just found something old I wrote ages ago.
When I was younger I used to love cowboy movies. I didn't care that much for the gunslinging or bar brawls, but the scenery. The harvest moons, bales of hay in old creaky barns. It seemed so still and timeless. I always loved the speeches delivered by the old, grizzled sheriff or bartender or whoever, the wisdom they'd impart to the protagonist just when they needed to hear it most. My favourite is from a film called Nine Shots Till Dawn, an unremarkable film in itself except for this speech, on the topic of growing up, facing your fears and "being a man".
"Son, I'll tell you what it means to be a man. Lotta folks say it's about what medals you got on your chest. It ain't. Others say it's about how much money ya got, it ain't that neither. Shoot, some people will tell ya it comes down to what you got between your legs, but these days that don't mean nothin'. What makes a man is what's in his heart. Being a man is about being brave, smart and honest. If you can be that, you're a bigger man than me."
My man is on his way home now. I scurry around the living room, arranging things and lighting candles. A lot of women do this for their husbands because they feel they have to. I do it because I love to see mine smile, nothing more than that. Not that he's my husband. He wants to be, though. He wants children, a big house and a family dog. I love his dreams for us, what he sees in our future.
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He settles into the dark linen chair in the corner of the living room and stretches. I tiptoe over to him and jump onto his lap, straddling him so we are face to face. He smiles shyly, one corner of his mouth curving into his cheek, and his sweet, soft hair falls slightly over one eye. I rest my head on him and let all my weight go.
"Baby." I whisper into his neck, kissing his jaw.
"Baby..." He whispers back, the words dampened by my hair on his face.
I start to kiss and nuzzle with my nose. He closes his eyes and arches his back slightly, sighing. He takes my face in both hands and kisses me softy on the lips, curling my hair around his fingers. When I break away, I lower my gaze and rest my hands on the top button of his purple shirt, and then slowly undo it. He looks up at me, his huge dark eyes flickering, and then leans in so close the peak of his nose is practically in my ear canal.
"I want to make love to you." His mouth is next to my ear but he's speaking at a normal volume. I smile and shake my head.
"I'm having my period. Let me just take care of you."
He seems to snap out of his erotic daze and starts babbling, "Are you alright? Do you need a hot water bottle, some asprin? I can go to the shop and get you some ice cream if you --"
I shush him and kiss the bridge of his nose. "No. I'm fine. Relax."
I undo his shirt buttons, giggling. I run my finger down the trickling stripe of downy hair that goes from his chest to his stomach, then lowering my head begin to dab and sup at the hairs with my tonguetip. I can feel him becoming tense, worrying what I'm getting out of this, if anything. I slide his shirt away down his arms and lay my hands softly on his chest bandage. It's taut and smooth but as I run my hands over it I feel the hardening of a nipple underneath. I reach around behind him to unwrap it, and despite the low whines of protest he makes, he doesn't stop me. "It's okay." I say softly.
I unravel the bandage and pull the final layer away. He gasps at being suddenly exposed. The pectoral silhouette that the bandage creates is gone, and his breasts are bare and unbound. I wonder silently if it's easier for him to breathe without his chest strapped down like that.
I run a hand over his breasts, then lean in slowly to kiss his nipple. His head drops back and he sighs again, deeper. I run my tongue all over it, sucking and kissing and nibbling, feeling his hot flesh under my hands.
I sit up and shuffle back slightly, beginning to undo his trousers.
"Baby..." He moans this time. I kiss him deeply as I slide my hand down, down..
I linger for a few moments at the start of his pubis, stroking, feeling the softness of it. He shifts in his seat slightly to allow his legs to open more. Finally, reaching further still, I reach the lips and rub them gently but firmly. He exhales audibly and nuzzles into me, whimpering. Using my ring and index finger I spread him apart, and with my middle finger I rub and dip, up, down, in and out. He wraps his arms tighter around my neck so my head is resting on his chest. I rub my cheek against his downy soft skin as my fingers flex inside of him. He keens and writhes, eyes screwed shut.
I press against his inner walls, finding all the places that need to be found. As I do this I visualise myself reaching up inside him until my fingertips are rubbing the very core of his being, the vulnerable mass of soul that his entire being is framed around. I picture my fingers massaging away the pain, the confusion and doubt in him until he is clear and empty.
He's panting now, gasping and straining. His mouth drops open but he does not draw breath, and stays frozen like this for a few seconds before spitting out a series of "fuck"s, low and staccatto.
He goes limp in the chair and I withdraw my hand.
It's covered in a slick film, which I taste. It's hot and sour, yet somehow full of meaning and memory- like an undeniable symptom of his love for me. He finally opens his eyes, still short of breath. No words are needed. It's enough.
Later in bed, he holds me, one hand underneath my aching stomach. His breath on my neck is like putting my ear to a shell and hearing the sea. I feel his strength covering me, sheilding me. I love my man.