His cheeks are flushed, broad ribbons of salmon whipping back towards his hairline. His eyes are wild, from my outburst or my bra, I'm not sure.
But truthfully, I can barely even focus on that shit right now.
"Oh. My. GOD" I say, trying hard not to stare.
"I thought..." The end of my thought trails off because I am one hundred percent aware about how ignorant I am about to sound.
"If you are thinking right now I am not doing something right."
"No, its not that. Definitely not that. It's just..."
He looks at me curiously, his chest billowing with the effort of his breathing.
I say in almost a whisper, "I thought white boys weren't supposed to be so much with the well endowedness." I look down. "So what the hell are you doing with that?"
I hurriedly think back to our conversation the night we met...
Pointing to my head I say, "No guy in his right mind hits on the girl sitting alone at the bar and not socializing. Not unless he's a masochist. Or has a REALLY big dick."
He raises his eyebrows at me and smirks. It takes all of my god given self-control to not let me eyes wander down to the zipper of his dress pants.
Jesus. I been hoodwinked!
He laughs at me. Outright laughs like I'm headlining with Kevin Hart and Kat Williams.
"I never told you that."
"Yeah, but that's what we were always told. Black girls got the game fucked up! I have to tell my people!"
We laugh hard until we can't breathe at how ridiculous I am at the most inopportune moments. Somehow, we both end up collapsed in a heap on the floor, our backs against the plush carpet. I may or may not have been even more turned on by the fact that even his damn carpet smells clean. I mean, come. ON.
He tosses his words up at the ceiling, but speaks to me, "This isn't a good idea is it?"
"No, it isn't."
"I'm not ready."
"I'm not ready."
We sigh in unison, a frustrated orchestra harmonizing in flat notes.
"I fucking hate being an adult."
"Right? I missed the days when I could think with my dick and not care about the consequences in the morning."
"Me too." He raises his thick eyebrows at me. "Well, you know what I mean," I respond with some vague gesture around my lap.
We lay there silently, no doubt recalling all the relationships long since buried only to claw their way back to walk the earth at the least opportune time...
Like, you know, when my jeans are on top of his dresser?
"I like you," I tell him in a small voice, with all the bravery in vulnerability I can muster.
"I like you too. Alot, actually."
"Well, duh. I'm awesome," I retort, with a Kanye shrug to punctuate. He punches me in my arm. "But that's the problem."
"It really is. I'm not ready to like anyone."
"This is all part of my pattern," he says self consciously, and I can see where he has gotten smaller in his admission.
"Well this is what I do after breakups. I call myself sleeping with a girl too soon just to get over the last one. But I never pick just the jump off hoes. I always pick some great woman that I end up falling for. And then I am in a relationship with her before I got over the last one."
"Oh my God me too! The sleeping with people too soon I mean. Surely I woulda just started fucking you and then left you all high and dry with little to no remorse about the situation when you started really liking me."
"I know right. But I'm not that girl anymore. That is a definite breakup pattern of mine that I would like to break."
"I understand. But did you have to break that shit now?!"
We laugh some more, the warmth of still being able to share a laugh wrapping tight around us. For a minute I worried that I wouldn't be able to laugh again with him.
And ready or not, that hurt.
We lie like that for awhile, quiet but comfortable, his hand on my hand in the space between us. Not quite holding my hand, but still covering me, warming me, comforting me.
"I should go."
"No. Stay. I promise not to try to take advantage of you again."
"Well that's the problem! I so want you to." He laughs at me.
But nigga, I'm serious.
"You should stay. It's late. And I could use a friend. This girl I really like just rejected me and laughed at my dick." He gives me his best puppy eyes and a pout, the dimple in his cheek caving in like scooped ice cream.
"I can be a friend."
"I can too."
He throws me a tshirt and a pair of too big basketball shorts, along with a pair of the funky, fuzzy socks his collects before we retreat to his couch, talking and laughing, playing Wii, and cleaning up his kitchen. When we realize that the sun is coming up, we head back to his bedroom after a bit of argument, both of us huddled safely in our corners.
Except for his feet. His feet find mine and rub them softly, smothering them with warmth.
I once mentioned off handedly the fact that my feet always get cold and that I missed when I used to have someone to sleep with to do that.
Fucking being a grown up.