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The National MILF Show continues.
" And it was true. Mitchell's girlfriend Pam was at his apartment and I lived with a roommate then.
We faced the bottom of the bed, tucked-in sky-blue sheet- a color slightly more muted than the sky, which might have been too strong, kept us up at night, felt like daytime. I'd landed hands forward pointing to the far corner but not in danger of going off it. Mitchell wasn't pushing but rocking my body, which gave with him, opened, tilted up so that he went in and down as well as forward. I felt the upper surface of his penis, arching where my figure began its curving descent to the narrowest point, where his hand rested lightly, didn't need force to exercise control.
I heard Mitchell's breath and felt mine, shallow, working fast in and out to keep up with the pace, as on the treadmill, with "those guys" watching, the third friend, bearded, bald, joining the first two. More might have followed.
I felt the surface.
I may be smaller than Mitchell, an American, but inside me it found ample space to work, and I worked and played with him.
Mitchell seemed to be in a three-point stance, like an American football player or a runner.
"You okay?" Now that he was dominating me, as he'd said he wanted, did he feel some scruples? And when I said I was fine, he pushed on hard, given license, maybe not so different from the kind the strangers at the gym felt they had. They were a gang and nobody was going to stop them from saying whatever they wanted about me, right in front of Mitchell talking about my body as if I weren't there or couldn't understand. Because I was foreign?
Now Mitchell spoke with his.
My back swayed.
Bump, thump. Bump thump. We collided, I shuttling back while Mitchell swung forward, out of synch with each other, like two buoys hit by cross currents. Working hard, knowing eventually synchrony would come. And it did.
Mitchell's hands moved- languorously- down my back to the narrowest point on the V of my torso and braced where my hips began their opposing V. He has photographed this position, streamlined images reducing my shapes to their basic components, like sculpture by Brancusi, almost stupidly simple shapes reflecting the intelligence of nature, the simpler the more powerful, defining the space around them- it resonates, the silence explodes in a sonic boom. That was how I felt Mitchell's penis defining the space inside me, percussive waves, booming.
Mitchell had gone that same day to the store where he'd bought his new camera, to look at other models and compare. He enjoyed his equipment. He'd told me he spoke to a salesman who revealed he had the same camera Mitchell owned- "Isn't it great?"- They raved together about the features of the instrument, its large sensor, its sharp lens. I knew that whatever else Mitchell was doing then he was also looking at me with his photographer's eye. He's crazy about image quality, high resolution, big sensors. Though he doesn't paint, he's almost an artist too.
He likes fine equipment, enjoyed mine and his. Was that what my vagina was to him, I wondered, a wide sensor? Did he rave to friends about its high responsiveness?
He went long and strong as he had when I was on top, and deeper. My shoulders squared, supported by arms extended from the blue sheets, followed the spring and give of the mattress- we'd landed at the corner opposite the door, most open zone, exposed to the widest space in the room.
My position, on hands and knees, brought my shoulder blades into relief. I could feel his fingers following their shape, confirming by touch what his eyes took in, territorial, like a king surveying his lands.
He broke the silence, groaning, "I chose a monkey."
That's what they had said. "Remember?" he was asking.
Our laughter rocked inside us.
Bringing them into the present moment.