Posts Tagged ‘kissing’
by hannah
July 22nd, 2010
From Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 1, Spring Season (CHAPTER 13: ORAL FIXATION)
I scan my kitchen counter: A half-full bottle of Skyy Vodka…maybe; a bottle of Monogamy cab—definitely not; and a black bottle of 1994 Colheita Porto that my dad sent me for New Year’s Eve—to celebrate my engagement. I pick up the black bottle. My dad, who drinks this stuff every night while knocking back a large cigar, still thinks I’m going to develop a taste for it. The stuff typically makes me gag, but it’s strong, and I need to get rid of it before it brings back any more bad memories of how my New Year’s Eve should have turned out. I open the bottle and pour two glasses. I stroll over to Ben.
Ben is reclined on one end of my couch; his jacket is draped over a chair, his shoes are kicked under my coffee table, and he’s recounting the night he and Yvonne strong-armed her ex-husband over recipes. Her ex got the bar in the divorce, but she refused to give up the title to the dishes she’d helped perfect.
I hand one of the glasses to Ben. “So the large white envelope I saw you holding was filled with…”
Ben nods. He hands his cigarette to me.
“Stealing recipes, Sopranos-style…nice.” I take the cigarette, kick my heels off, and recline on the opposite end of my couch.
I place my feet near his crotch, take a drag, then take a sip of the port—and wince.
Ben starts rubbing my feet with his free hand.
“Somethin’ like that. Yvonne’s stubborn. She kept saying: ‘He’s got the best pub grub thanks to me, and that’s what everyone wants right now.’” Ben takes a sip of his port—and winces. “But, like, fries with six different dipping sauces. You know: fancy stuff.”
I hand the cigarette to Ben, who takes a last drag and then drops it into his glass of port. “This stuff sucks.”
We both laugh, looking at one another through the spirals of leftover smoke.
“I’m told you eventually develop a taste for it,” I say. “So, Wiseguy, back to the night of the Great Recipe Caper, were you packin’ heat, or what?”
Ben tilts his head and winks. “Sopranos-style.”
He grabs both my feet and tugs me toward him. I have just enough time to set my glass down next to the couch before he reaches over, grabs my hands, and pulls me onto him. His hands run up the length of my jeans and grab my ass…
by hannah
July 5th, 2010
From Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 1, Spring Season (CHAPTER 12: POST-EJACULATORY REMORSE)
Mr. Smyth is sudsing up my back in his luxurious dual-headed shower. I am leaning into one wall, enjoying the attention.
“So, what are you working on next?” I ask, as he starts gently kneading my ass.
“Aside from all the lower regions of your body?” His hands work around to the front.
I look back at him and grin. “In addition to that…what book are you working on next?”
“I don’t know yet; my agent wants me to do something totally different.” He moves his body closer to mine. “Not law related.” He ducks his head to gently suck on my shoulder.
“How do you know so much about law, anyway?” I ask, turning my head to find his mouth and suck on it for a moment.
“My mom’s a lawyer. My dad was a lawyer,” he answers between kisses. “Half my family is in law.”
“And you’re not a lawyer, because…”
by hannah
July 1st, 2010
From Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 1, Spring Season (CHAPTER 12: POST-EJACULATORY REMORSE)
Mr. Smyth and I have sunk into the big black velvet C-shaped cushions that make up our private booth in a private corner of the Asian restaurant we’re at. The large floor-to-ceiling red curtains have cut us off from the rest of the world, and Mr. Smyth keeps saying things like: “We should see each other more often than this.”
I keep smooching on him, wondering why I was ever worried about my future, or about whether I did the right thing by not returning the couple voicemails The Ex left me after the incident in the elevator.
The conversation has gone from the incessantly bad L.A. traffic that led to my accident, to that being why we should all work at home and ride more bicycles, to why I never pursued my passion for fashion design, to how enlightening Mr. Smyth’s trip to India was a couple of years ago. I go from laughing about how a small tribe of kids robbed him of all his rupees at a restaurant in Delhi to pouring my heart out over how my dad convinced me into a “stable” yet completely unfulfilling career. I let him order all the tapas because I trust he knows what I want, and he lets me feed him because he finds it endearing that I hold my chopsticks with two hands.
Mr. Smyth lifts the large decanter off the table and pours more red wine into our glasses. He replaces the decanter and puts his hand back with the other one…between my thighs.
I lift my glass off the table. “You know, David, here I am warming your hands…and I don’t even really know what you do for a living.” I gingerly take a sip. “All you’ve ever said is that you’re an ‘independent contractor.’ For all I know, that could mean you’re a hit man. You just came back from some family reunion in New York, after all.”
“Ahhh, except hit men don’t have family reunions in Manhattan—they have them in more low-key areas like upstate New York.” Mr. Smyth runs his hands leisurely over my freshly shaven legs. “I have no family in upstate New York.” And then he leans in to whisper in my ear: “But I do have an alias.”…
