Six Seconds of Awkwardness
He tossed the phone aside, not caring where it would land, and excitedly reached for her bosom. Clasping the tender breasts in his hands, their breathing became heavy; her eager eyes beckoned for him. At first, a faint familiar tingle of excitement mixed with anticipation gripped his chest. Then she reached for his arms, slithered her delicate hands towards his shoulder muscles, and every inch of his skin itched to get closer to her. Amidst the intensifying sensations, they fought against the wave of urges.
Her lips, wet with desire, trembled. He held her cheeks in his left hand and leaned towards her. In anticipation she closed her eyes. But he opted for the card of suspense and missed her lips. With gentle roughness, he pulled her closer till her heaving breasts were pressed on his chest. Delicately he planted kisses on her neck; slow and tender, every move deliberate. At every contact of his lips and her skin, pleasure welled and coursed through her veins. Her desires took over and she collapsed in his arms. Desperately, breathlessly, their lips met.
They are masters of stealth, the moments that imprint the taste of wild passion in the heart. If you seek them in the sophistication of life, you will find only frustration; for wildness abides in the common places. And sometimes in the arms of a stranger. He slid his hands towards her waist, and with the tip of his fingers traced the outline of her hips. A flash of raw sexual yearning jerked his genital. He grabbed her waist at the pelvic and pressed his groin with hers. Soft moan, a heavy exhale in the beginning, escaped her.
For a long time, for he had never allowed himself to find love, he had not been with a lady. If anyone had shown even the slightest of interest in him, he would always find a reason not to work things out. Asymmetric nose. Inward hairline, giving the impression of a huge forehead. Talks too much. He never failed to find a flaw. He was far from perfection either, and he knew the basis of his judgement was skewed but, he desperately couldn’t help himself. But in that morning when she walked into his life, every detail about her excited him.
Her escalating moans served the cue for him to leave the flow of events to the dictate of instinct. With slight tingle in his hands due to the anticipation, he reached for the outline of her skirt to caress her thighs. She seized his hands and brought them to her boobs. For a minute he played with the nipples, and then slid his hands in her skirt again. She slapped his hands away. Stunned, he hesitated. He leaned for a kiss. She pulled away. Disoriented, he wanted to look away, mumble sorry, storm off all at the same time. But in her eyes, where a fire blazed, turmoil of emotions pinned him.
“I have a condition called ambiguous genitalia.” She said indifferently. If it were under a different circumstance, he would have detected the plea for acceptance and the taints of trauma in her voice. The unfulfilled desires mixed with awkwardness that loomed in the atmosphere chocked her words before he could grasp them.
“Err… what?” He asked. She construed that he did not know the meaning of ambiguous genitalia. Her face wrinkled in search of familiar words with him, yet harmless to her. Studying her expression, he concluded that fate had already served its twist in what he had wished, even desired, would be a great romance.
The next three seconds, dreadfully awkward silence reigned. Although they still had their clothes on, he felt like he was naked in front of the whole world. He battled to contain the boiling embarrassment in the pit of his stomach. His pulse lowered, his breath struggled. She stood still. He could hear people jeering at his nakedness. His attempts to bear the awkwardness were in vain. A strong urge to storm out came over him. The romance would have been epic, he thought, but now he had to leave. He had to walk away.
“It means I have both female and male genitals.” She said calmly.
“Err…what!” He replied. His voice laden with surprise and disbelief. His ignorance, if any, did little to hurt her. She had expected such reactions. But then he just stood there, staring at her genital area. Perhaps judging her. Perhaps disgusted with her. Three seconds elapsed; he didn’t move. The trauma she had endured all her life conjoined into one, and she experienced spite for her condition. She hated herself for thinking that she could have found acceptance in the arms of a stranger.
Not knowing what to say, or think, he simply stood there. Staring at her, but not registering anything. He felt like sitting but was scared; lest his movement change a variable in the circumstance. Lest she construes the impression of unworthiness and run away. Even when the patience she had accorded her elapsed, and she did leave, he still didn’t raise a finger. He didn’t want to stop her. He didn’t want her to stay either. So, he let her go. In the morning she had walked into her life, and crawled under his skin. In the evening she had walked away.
(It has been a while since I was last here, so I figured a guest post wouldn’t do any harm. Would it. Find the author at writer dismas)
