Free Best of Best Women's Erotica by Marcy Sheiner Page B

and slipped his warm hands under my clothes. This was before we’d lain together naked in a dark room, and so it was a thrill when he dragged his finger along the edge of my thong, about which he asked “jokingly,” was it Victoria’s Secret and was I promoting prison labor.
    In the kitchen, Trevor came up behind me, scooped my hair away and licked my neck.
    â€œSooo…” He knew about my sort-of celibacy, said it didn’t bother him. I pressed against him, swooning, by which overused word I mean that I stopped thinking Is he sane? and Will my heart get trashed? and instead allowed his animal presence to fill a fractured mind. I felt like dancing, like losing myself in a cheesy club and being felt up rudely.
    â€œI want music,” I said, and bent at the waist over the Formica to grind my ass against him. He pulled himself close, pressed my
bones into the counter, yanked me up by the hair.
    â€œI’m still kinda shy,” I said, and meant it.
    He laughed. “This is shy? You’re the one that’s all bending over doggie-style. I’m as gallant as I can be, under the circumstances.”
    He had a point.
    He embraced me as if we’d been lovers a long time, even took my face in his hands. “I have really selfish reasons for saying this—but you’re due to be violated by a man who has your every best interest at heart.”
    I breathed in nervously. While everything I said about looking for Señor Right was true, there was another side to my withdrawal: throughout my twenties, my sex life had been complicated by one evil little factor. No matter how hard I tried to cover it up beneath a veneer of sexual confidence, I was crumbling. Every one of my fantasies focused on some kind of crime scene.
    It had been the worst with Jeremy: I felt a gun to my throat, winced at the sound of it firing. With one guy after another I fell on my sword in female hara-kiri —the metal piercing my throat while ninjas raped me from behind. The tingle of orgasm was accompanied by the spattering of blood on the wall. I told myself it was harmless fantasy—even “Dear Abby” said fantasy was okay. For a while I was proud of it as avant-garde eroticism, like The Story of O. Or I reasoned that I hadn’t found the right guy. But day in and day out, it isn’t healthy to think of sex as a murder-suicide—killing myself while others killed me.
    Though I resisted listening to F-Man, I nevertheless found it had something to do with Daddy; doesn’t it always? There was guilt, there was revulsion, there were dreams. For years I lugged around my confusion like the purse that breaks your shoulder
with loose change and old lipstick. I wanted to abandon the whole thing, wanted my vagina to stop aching for it and be normal, like an elbow or a toe.
    Not good.
    I knew the source. Certain of my memories—my father’s game of touching my tongue to his when I was little, the time he gave me a bath at ten years old “for old time’s sake”—anointed themselves as significant. But you know how it is with this stuff: you can know something yet not know it. Through celibacy I thought I’d sort it out. It was cheaper than therapy.
    â€œI’m not sure,” I said again, in the kitchen.
    Trevor said, “I think it’s time.”
    Â 
    I lit a candle. The room was cold, and outside the fog swirled low and thick. Trevor took stock of my room, my Wings of Desire poster above the desk, books arranged against the wall because I wouldn’t spring for bookcases. His gaze settled on the ceiling corner, where a crosshatched shadow flickered like bad German Expressionism. It was my old lacrosse net. Suddenly, I was embarrassed to have kept it all this time, as if at thirty I still lived in a dorm room. Trevor said, “Your room’s way less Pottery Barn than I thought it would be.”
    â€œGee, thanks.”
    From his tone, I knew he