Free Putty In Her Hands by R J Butler Page B

femininity. I think of Emily, and I know
I love her, and will always love her, but I feel helpless in this
pursuit of perfection. It controls me.
     
    Making sure
no one is watching, I reach for the diamond-shaped pill in my
pocket, and remembering the words of the Irishman in the sex shop,
I bite it in half and swallow it down with a gulp of tea. I’ve
never taken Viagra before and hope it has the desired effect. Then
after a few moments of deliberation, I think, bugger it, and take
the rest. So, I’ve taken the Viagra; had something to eat; got my
DVDs; and had a little time to myself. Haven’t been able to calm my
nerves but I don’t think anything could. And now it’s time. Time to
go.
     
    I was pleasantly taken aback by
the reception I received on arriving at Dawn’s flat. On opening the
door she flung her arms round me and held me some time, nuzzling in
my neck, whispering, I’ve so missed you and It’s so
lovely to see you again. In the kitchen she asked if I wanted
anything to eat and seemed relieved when I said no, but I did say
yes to the glass of port.
     
    She led me through to her
living room, which I didn’t get chance to see last time. Painted
pale blue and infused with a soft orange light, as elsewhere it was
impeccably tidy, with a few landscape paintings hanging from the
wall, a photo of her mother and step-father, and another of her and
Duncan on their wedding day; a low glass-topped table in front of
the TV, piled with a few glossy magazines, and in the corner a
writing bureau with a laptop, and next to it a small rack of CDs.
She sat down on a brown leather settee, and patted the cushion next
to her, inviting me to sit. Sipping our ports, she asked after my
Christmas, and I of hers, and asked after everyone at work. Then
she enquired about the DVDs.
     
    I showed her: This one is a
European art-house film; this one an old classic; this a worthy
British film; and this one… I don’t really know. Directed by… I
read the name. Werner Herzog, whoever he is.
     
    God, I love Werner Herzog’s
work.
     
    Oh, fuck, do you?
     
    He’s brilliant. Good choice,
well done, Robbie.
     
    Yeah, right. A good choice.
     
    She took a sip of port, swilled
it in her mouth, then reached over and kissed me, a syrupy kiss
that gave me an immediate, extremely hard erection, aided, I
guessed, by the Viagra. But just as I was falling under the spell
of desire, her telephone rang. I hoped she wouldn’t answer it. She
did. It was her mother. She spoke half in English, half in French.
Meanwhile, my hard-on remained firmly in place, almost painful in
its strength, pressing against my trousers. Dawn motioned for a
top-up of port which meant I had to get up from the settee and
sidle along, trying to disguise the tent-like shape in my
pants.
     
    Are you OK? she
mouthed.
     
    Yes, I whispered. War
wound.
     
    She giggled. Pardon, maman,
vous disiez?
     
    You speak French to your
mother? I asked once we were both settled back down on the
settee. We spoke of our parents, and slowly, very slowly, the
tumult in my pants subsided but the desire in my heart burnt
undiminished. I watched her as she spoke and found it odd that I
should be here, dazed by her beauty, awed by the yearning that
stirred within me. And the path that had led me to this point had
been all my doing, a step-by-step approach that had opened up
before me at my command. I’d never expected it to be so free of
obstacles. Yet here I was, a step away from consummating what had
gone before.
     
    She was still talking, but of
what I don’t know, when I took her face in my hands and kissed her
gently. She smiled at me, looked coy. I reached out for the port
and took a fortifying sip, then kissed her again, my hands feeling
the outline of her breasts. Oh, Robbie, she breathed. Don’t stop kissing me; your kiss, it’s so…
     
    Hmm?

So… just kiss me.
     
    I did, again
and again. And as I did so, I slowly unbuttoned her blouse. I
cupped her bra, pale green,