06
We lay in my bed, stripped to our underwear. We didn’t even bother looking at each other, didn’t bother trying to sneak peeks and try to do anything inappropriate. We were stagnant, like the kind of water where a mosquito leaves their spawn in. It was just too hot to be clothed, too hot to move, too hot to fuck. Not that we fucked. Our attempts were laughable at best, disastrous at least.
Not that I didn’t want to. But it was difficult. Our sexual escapades were limited, due to the fact that my mother was home often and his mother was home all the time. Renting hotel rooms meant less money for shopping, and neither of us was willing to give that up for a few minutes of romp. And finally, there was the fact that, despite how much we loved each other, we didn’t love ourselves enough to be comfortable with being bare.
“I think I’m melting,” he said seriously, turning over and propping himself up on his elbows. His skin was smooth, like a girl’s, making me fully aware of my hairy arms. He ran a finger up the length of the inside of my arm before letting his head fall into a pillow. “I’m dying.”
I slapped his back, a loud sound due to the sweat. “Stop whining.”
He moaned. “I’m going to die. I’m going to melt away and die. I’m going to melt away and die a virgin.”
I rolled my eyes. What a drama queen. He complained that all I did was bitch and moan and pretend I was worst off then anyone. If only he could hear himself.
“Stop it.”
He turned to face me, one slanted eye glaring at me. “You’re going to let your boyfriend die a virgin?”
I shrugged. “I don’t mind. That’s all on you. If you want to alleviate that, do it yourself.”
“I wonder what Lisa is doing today…”
“Oh, shut up.”
Suddenly, he was on top of me. He pinned me down to the bed with the press of his chest and the heat from his body. Frankly, he could have pinned me down with the smolder of his eyes, but I wasn’t about to tell him that. He held my arms above my head with one hand, the other tracing lines on my side.
“Here’s the thing,” he started. He kissed my jaw lightly. “I know all this sex shit has been hard but… I love you. I’ve always loved you. Fuck, the way things have been for the past few years, I probably always will. And so I want you to know that I think you’re one of the most beautiful girls on the face of the planet and when I see you, I want to kiss you all over the place. And when you wear a shirt that’s low cut or a short skirt, I go crazy because I want to be with you in every way. So, listen fucking closely. You’re beautiful. I love you. I don’t care if you have stretch marks or shave your legs everyday. Just let me look at you, let me love you, because that’s all I want to fucking do.”
You can’t learn to love yourself in a day. It’s a work-in-progress, and sometimes you take one step forward and two steps back. But hearing those words from the only guy I could imagine spending the rest of my life with (because I didn’t have enough courage to continuously make efforts in trying to become comfortable naked in front of many men) made me realize that I was imperfect and that sometimes, that’s okay. Because he was a guy, and he’d probably never notice the fact that my ass has stretch marks, only that it’s big. He’d probably never notice that my boobs aren’t perfect, just that they’re good enough to squeeze. He’d probably never notice that I have belly flab, because all he’d want to do is kiss it on his way down. He’d probably never notice that I have a nasty birthmark on my ankles, only that my legs are good enough to wrap around his waist. So I could freak out about my looks, but he’d never even bother to care because to him, I was beautiful.
I craned my neck to kiss him, pulling his lower lip with my teeth. I let go and settled back on the pillow. “I guess I would feel bad letting my boyfriend melt away without helping him out.”
He smiled. “That’s what I like to hear.”
