I'd known him for a while. He was a friend of a friend and he'd been bobbing in my periphery for some time. At the parties of our friends we always found time to flirt—discreetly at first, but then one boozy night I found myself in his basement apartment biting his neck. And now here I was, only days later, after a thinly veiled "date" (dinner at your house, fool, who did you think you're kidding?) in bum-fuck nowhere outer-Brooklyn, horizontal on his bed, my right knee squeezing my ear.
He kisses my face—not the lips—and I have to stifle my laughter because the noises he makes are ludicrously dramatic. I want to tell him this isn't a porno but I resist. So instead of asking him to shut the fuck up, which is what I really want to do, I kiss him harder in the hopes of smothering his emphatic groaning. I have no such luck.
He pulls his sweaty body on top of me, his movements desperate, almost frantic as the force of his pelvis thrusting rhythmically into mine intensifies. I choke back the giggles—he's enjoying himself, after all. And I'm not exactly stoic when I'm vertical or back-to-front or upside down or... otherwise.
I let his grunts—metamorphosing from deep masculine sounds to feline purring and whimpering—fade to background noise as he pounds against me. I try momentarily to pretend I'm enjoying myself but give up when I realize he isn't paying attention. He's so caught up in his own imminent climax and shouting things like, "Oh fuck Kat that feels so good!" (I wonder if he realizes I'm not actually doing that much, other than trying not to laugh), he barely notices I'm there. Well, that's a lie, considering he consistently feels the need to acknowledge my "wet pussy"; at least he knows what he's sticking his dick in.
And so, the climax begins. He buries his face in my neck and speeds his earnest thrusting to a pace and angle that feel more like he's scratching a vaginal itch for me, as opposed to trying to pleasure me. His back arches away from me, but his bottom half is still burrowing around inside me and now he's slobbering all over my neck. Then suddenly, violently, he lurches upwards, screaming, "I'm coming! I'm coming!" (no shit), upon which moment we find ourselves, unfortunately, face to face.
It's the sex moment I dread most and yet conversely it's the moment I thrive on, perhaps perversely. La petite mort—his, not mine (although maybe it is mine, the melancholy that comes directly following sex with an adult man who still uses "tricks" he very obviously learned in high school)—always leaves me torn between a sort of satisfaction that I got him there, relief that it's finally over and mirth at that stupid face he pulls.
Perhaps there are some high school tendencies I too haven't entirely grown out of, and I accept that. I laugh when people fart. I think "willy" is a funny word. And I think sex, as much as I sometimes love it, is a ridiculous act, the outcome of which often leaves me choking on laughter. I've had those poignant, cloying moments of love making where climax is mutual and meaningful—but even then there's a subtle comic undertone.
It happens during the act: the primal grunting; the proclamations to a God you probably don't even believe in. But mostly, it happens at the moment of ejaculation when a man's face contorts, twisting into a shape so intricate and ridiculous you don't know whether to stare at it (study it, learn it, repeat it to your girlfriends tomorrow) or look away (because if you look right at it you are going to laugh, and that's just rude). So apologies, guy, if you see me smile right when you're enjoying yourself the mostest. And guy, if you so choose, you can smile right back at me—if my face pulls shapes so ridiculous you're compelled to laugh, it just means you're doing it right.