When We Get Home


I put on an oversized
T-shirt and an extra large sweatshirt and melt into the sofa to sulk. Andy watches me. He sits down next to me.

"Don't touch me," I tell him. "I don't feel like being touched." Andy puts his hands in his lap.

"I just want to understand how you feel," he says, "I don't understand how food can ruin your day."

I think about trying to explain to him the importance of the food variable in the female mood equation, but I'm not sure, so I say, "I'm too fat to be with you tonight."

He says, "You look the same as you did last night."

"Well I don't feel the same." I say, "I feel fat."

Andy says all the obvious things, like my weight doesn't matter, and I look beautiful, and I shouldn't be so hard on myself. But it's not what he says, it's how he says it. He's trying hard to deal with me. He's being so valiant.

I kiss him to spare myself his kindness. I hate that Andy never has bad food days. I wish I weren't such an emotional weight for him. I know this is going to be the reason he dumps me.

I decide to give him a blow job so he forgets that my mood is ruining the night.

We make our way to the bedroom. I roll around with his body for a while, contemplating the intricacies of friction.

We roll around a long time, because I figure the closer he gets to ejaculation while we're frolicking, the less the ejaculation will depend on my technique. Andy's hand slips under my shirt, but before he can touch my fat I slide down his body where I'll be out of reach. I push him back down on the bed. I give his side a swat so he lifts his hips for me to pull down his pants. His penis is hard and unruly, so it's difficult to keep it flat enough to get his underwear off. I pull his socks off, frantically building up saliva in my mouth.

I lick my hand like a dog, leaving a spit globule right in the middle. I've seen Andy masturbate, so I try to move my hand the way he moved his. I try to be really into this blow job--moaning and groaning, making his penis the center of my existence--I've read enough books to I know that if I'm excited then the blow job will be more exciting.

Andy is growling. I alternate my mouth with my hand, and pray that he likes what I'm doing . Things are very wet. Just as I'm getting used to the mouth-hand thing, Andy comes--way in the back of my throat, so I feel like I'm drowning in rubbing alcohol.

He pulls me toward him, and I feel thin and beautiful. Andy has fallen asleep.




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