For many years I required everything to be clean.
I’m not sure when or how it happened, but I viewed it as growing up. The holes in my jeans vanished and the distance between haircuts grew shorter. I learned to favor cocktails with just two or three ingredients, and that included the brandied cherry at the bottom of the glass. I longed for smooth pussies that had been carefully shaved until I could run my tongue along a new landscape of tender skin, and even on the loudest occasions we mostly came in the dark.
I like to think I got dragged along by the rest of the world. We cleaned up Time Square, we stripped at airports, and we emptied our parks and riverbanks all in the name of feeling safe. I moved into nicer bars, steadier relationships, and made every effort not to come in her hair. Each day I felt safer and less at risk, but my anxiety broke free every six months forcing me into a huddled ball of tears. Maybe it’s the price we pay for progress.
And then one day we left the rooftop bar with disgust on our lips. We found the street, but even that wasn’t enough. The park let us touch the earth and we broke our cold plastic nicotine devices in half and chain-smoked Lucky Strikes until our lungs hurt. We stayed in bed for a week and didn’t shave an inch of skin until our bodies looked real once more. We grunted as we fucked and forgot about the neighbors for the first time in years. Even alone, I moved the tissues from the bedside table and stared at my cock when I came on my stomach.
When I finally felt stubble between her legs I lost control, and pulled her into the closest bathroom. I dropped to my knees, pulled down her jeans, and ate her pussy like it was the first time. She pulled my hair, thrust against my mouth, and forced my tongue and lips where she needed them most. She drenched my face when she came, and we didn’t turn on the faucet before walking back into the bar, alive for the first time in ages.
When we got home later that night we fucked on the bed with the lights on and the door open. We both soaked the sheets, and for days I could smell my come on her body. We made noises, messes and mistakes, and our rebirth was imperfect.
Outside of our carefully wrought shell the world was frightening again and everything was uncertain.