Smut

He just finished cleaning out the coffee filter from yesterday morning. The grounds only sat for the day, but the air was so humid, a thin film of mint green mold covered the black matter. It was late in the morning, almost noon. He could hear the sound of cable news coming from the living room. The revolving cycle of headlines that didn’t mean anything in their lives, poured into his eardrums. He poked his head around the corner and there she sat, as if she were in a coma. Her eyes were open and her chest appeared to move up and down with a shallow breath. He had no idea how long she had been awake. Some days she didn’t move from her corner on the couch. It had been months since she had been out of the house. They had been married for almost 15 years, both of them still young enough to find new lovers, both of them too old to care. He gathered her image and brought in the younger version of her to replay their first date in his mind. He leaned against the wall between the kitchen and the family room and closed his eyes to reminisce.

Her sweet smell, like bananas and vanilla, made him feel like a puppy on a leash. That first date was magical, they walked to get a sandwich and went to play miniature golf. They were both 19, Freshman at a small liberal arts school. Her lips were always so glossy and tasted like root beer lip smacker chapstick. When the night ended, she wrapped her arms around his neck, looked him in the eyes and stuck her tongue deep into his mouth. She slid her hand down to his crotch and cupped his balls. He was in love. He opened his eyes, and there she was. His love, his teenage heartthrob, sitting on the couch, 25 pounds heavier, hair kinked and lined with gray, wrinkles at her eyes and mouth. She would always be his love.

She looked up and noticed his eyes were closed as he stood against the wall. It was longer than a blink. He was thinking again. He did this every now and again, go into a daze and stare off into nothing or close his eyes, as if he were awake in a different realm. She studied his face, his body, his stance. He was every bit the boy he was the day they met, but now manhood had taken over his frame. He still stood off to one side on his left leg. She learned in their fourth year of marriage, it was because he had torn the right ACL when he was 14, jumping from a roof onto a trampoline. He barely had any hair left on his head, and his back was covered in patches, mixed with lumpy moles and the occasional black head. All she could think was, I love that old, sexy, motherfucker.

He walked over to the couch and lifted the half-eaten tube of sour cream and chive pringles out of her hand. She knew what he wanted. He brushed the crumbs from her navy blue t-shirt. With one hand, he lifted her half-full can of Orange Fanta that was tucked into the cushion and with the other hand, he lifted her chin up and met her mouth with his. Her breath tasted like phlegm and a waxy, chemical version of onions. He didn’t care. He stuck his tongue far down her throat and caressed her free-range breasts, as they flopped under her loose fitting garment. She moaned from an achy back and stiff neck as she sat up to meet his mouth. She wanted him as much as he wanted her. She pulled him down to meet her on the brown, worn, corduroy couch. It had a sour smell that reminded him of his grandma’s bedroom. The smell of female, that wild trout smell, mixed with body odor and a bit of baby powder. He’d been thinking about replacing that sofa for years. His body weight fell awkwardly and rough on top of her. It was a familiar and welcome feeling, but they could never seem to sync their sexual dynamic like the movies. He lifted the giant t-shirt from her torso, revealing her white skin and rolls of fatty tissue. She had joked months ago about giving it an acronym, LBF, or lower boob fat. It wasn’t quite a stomach roll and it was too low to be actual boob. When her shirt came off, he could see her nipples were hard. They were a darker than the first time he had seen them. She had nursed two children with these breasts and they fell flat against her like fried eggs on a wall. He never noticed. In his mind he saw the plump round breasts of a 19 year old undergrad with pink, small nipples for him to nibble on. His mouth opened and he suckled like it was the first time he had encountered her. She grabbed his shoulders and he felt her desire beneath her grasp. Their eyes closed for the memories and then opened again for the angst of real and true connection, the couple came up for air and smiled at each other. Her eyes welled with tears, she knew their time was ending soon, that he would move on. His mind consumed with his growing erection that needed to be deep inside his love. The two of them, bending time to suit their specific needs, one slowing and one speeding.

He reached down and moved his old boxer shorts from her bottom. She always wore them around the house. He liked the idea of her in his clothes. He hated the reality of having to see her body shaped by such awful design. She had put on weight since the children, since the agoraphobia, but she was still so hot, so attractive to his 19 year old mind. His head slid slowly through her supple thighs down to her ungroomed vanigal area. They were both too old and too lazy to bother with a daily, weekly, or even monthly grooming routine. She would shave if she knew a special occasion was coming, and the same with him. He looked down and there was pubic hair, a lot, he wasn’t afraid. In the middle, they both just accepted what is, instead of wishing for something else. He took his fingers and spread her lips apart. She hadn’t showered since the day before, but he didn’t care. He needed to taste, smell, touch her in every way this morning. The subtle scent of urine and crotch wasn’t going to detour him. He slowly moved his head back and forth, a nice steady pace. One finger, then two slid inside her and caressed her g-spot. Within minutes she was orgasming on his face and he was pleased. He moved his head back to stare at her and noticed the toilet paper stuck in between her ass cheeks. In a sneaky swipe, he plucked it out and wiped it on the couch.

He rose to meet her face with his. He kissed her hard, like they had when he was young. He didn’t care about reciprocation. He needed to feel his cock, which had been hard since the coffee pot, inside of her. She was the pleasure center for him, she was always the right amount of wet, tight, sloppy, and everything in between. He entered her slowly and he could still feel her contractions from his tongue. He loved knowing that was all him. Her release was his release. Alone it was just a function of biology, together it was an expression, a gesture of faith and loyalty they both grew to rely on. He looked at her, settled into her neck and smelled her . He had barely begun to thrust, but knew it was not going to be long. She could feel him start to shake almost immediately. His back couldn’t take the position. His once toned stomach hung low now. It slapped at her mushy mid section and it made a slurping noise. He was out of breath and she pretended not to notice, instead she moaned louder. She wanted him to know she was enjoying his pounding. She couldn’t tell if he was close or if he was fatigued. He stopped and said he needed to take a break. She smiled her motherly smile. She caressed his back and gestured for him to move off, her right hip was cramping.

He laid on the couch, breathing hard, wheezing with a grimace on his face. His back was spasming and his dick was going limp. She pulled his cargo pants all the way off. He was laying there naked, pale and flaccid with black trouser socks. His chronic halitosis had been off putting for years and with the panting, it was all she could do to not wretch. She straddled his waist, her pink and purple stretch marks visible. She was trying to engage him again, but even the wet and swollen target wasn’t working. His breathing continued to labor and her face contorted. Every bad thing she had ever thought about herself came flooding into her brain. He is disgusted by me. When he saw her eyes shift, he felt instantly sad. She had no idea how beautiful she was. She was his everything. He was trying to tell his cock to fuck her, but it wasn’t working. His back hurt so bad, but he couldn’t tell her to get off, it would scar her already fragile ego. He felt dizzy. He whispered to her, I think I just have to pee. She slid down off of him, her hip still cramping. He took a second to recover and sat up. He walked towards the guest bathroom. She giggled at his butt flat and droopy, like a back with a crack. She pulled her clothes back on and grabbed her phone. She checked Facebook and words with friends. Holding back the tears of defeat, she returned to her tube of pringles.

He looked at himself in the mirror, his not yet old but not quite young body. The signs of age and disappointment noted everywhere. He told his dick to fuck off. He angrily thought, just one fucking thing, you just have to fuck your wife, and you can’t even do that. He emerged and saw she was back where she had started. He walked over to the couch and started to dress. He pulled on his pants and noticed there were gummy bear wrappers under the couch. Fucking kids. The dog hair matted to his shirt irritated him. He looked at her and patted her shoulder. He was headed into the office. She knew he would text on his way home to see if she needed anything. Backing out of the garage he noticed the tiny piece of toilet paper he had pulled from her crack was stuck to his pants.