Imagining Him, Series IV: Finding Our Querencia

Twenty-five years of age, and two years of knowing my man, and I find myself marching along to a familiar tune. Wake up, wash, shower, dress, breakfast, leave the house, walk with purpose, spend bits of the day reading, exercise the mind, have lunch, drink plenty of water, breathe through the afternoon. Later, watch the sun set, and then return home and kiss the husband — lean into his neck, warm his skin and inhale the clean scent of him. All feels right in the world as he takes my hand and leads me to the kitchen, then perches himself on a barstool, looking at me lovingly as I pull out the pressure cooker — his eyes darken tellingly— the chopping board and knife. He’s already laid out onions, potatoes and tomatoes for me, and he watches as I dice them; two pairs of eyes start to tear up.

The house smells of turmeric, garlic, and of my man’s sweat. He adores the sight of watching me cook, and looks at me as if he lives for little else in life. As I stir the rajma that I had soaked last night and boiled in the morning, he comes up behind me without warning and plants his lips on my neck, leaning down to bite my ears and smell my hair. His bright blue eyes sparkle with mischief as I lean back into his embrace — he wraps his comforting arms around my belly, and I feel just as blessed as the first time he rocked me in his arms. I close the cooker with a lid, and sprinkle cumin seeds in the little rice cooker. He doesn’t let go, moving his hands down to my hips and rocking himself back and forth on his heels. No doubt background music and incense would complete the picture-perfect frame here, but somehow I find myself preferring the calm he finds when he’s with me.

Sixteen whistles later, the rice has been served and the strikingly maroon colour of the now-cooked rajma has earned me another kiss from my adoring husband, moments after he’s tasted my masterpiece. “Not enough salt again,” he chuckles into my ear — a low, gravelly-tinged honeyed voice that I could listen to all day and night into my old age. “I can taste salt on you whenever I want, right,” I grin sheepishly, and reach for the salt grinder to make amends for my mistake. Grandmother would be appalled — seven years of cooking and still no intrinsic sense of how much salt should be used. I reach for the chopping board and fold in the cilantro. My husband is very particular about consistency of how viscous Indian dishes must be; tonight, I’m confident I’ve scored big time.

We laugh about the people that drove us both up the wall at work today. I watch him devour our meal, as he licks his lips after every bite. I still worry, even after all these months, that he can’t quite handle green chilli, but he gallantly doesn’t let on that his taste-buds have been set alight — I wonder for a fleeting moment if I’ll ever find that out. His mother calls halfway through the meal, and I greet her pleasantly. She keeps the conversation cordial over speaker-phone, and asks whether I’ve been taking care of her baby boy. I smile at him, and gurgle before stumbling through the semblance of a response to that. She chortles and reminds her son that we have an appointment with our surrogate over the weekend. My husband looks at me and mouths “I love you” as his mother tells about my sister-in-law and how ecstatic she is about her engagement.

No sooner are we done with dinner, and about to share the washing-up, that the waterproof speaker comes in handy. Ever the one for excellent timing, my mother has decided to call from the airport lounge before her trip. My man answers for me, and she is still sounds awkward and uncertain when she speaks to the man I’ve decided to share my life with. Sometimes I end up going away thinking that she doesn’t understand why we struck a chord, or why he means the world to me. She hears my voice over the running water and enthusiastically regales me with how she helped someone sitting next to her with their smartphone while waiting to check-in at the counter. My husband finishes drying duty as she chatters away about my cousin and her newborn, and he whirls me around into his arms, arching me backward so as to better allow him to lean down and kiss me all over again. I giggle quietly and try in vain to focus on what my mother is saying. There are tech gods somewhere who I should be thanking for the invention of noise-canceling microphones.

My mother has insisted on meeting the surrogate personally, and my man has exuded the grace and perseverance that I’ve known him to exemplify, in kindly having agreed. “She’ll complain about some inane thing every time you come within two feet of me,” I grumble into his ear while walking up our volcanic cone. He holds me close, and hums in a low voice into my ear, speaking softly, “Maybe she’ll warm up to the idea of us in time.” I frown at him, and he kisses my forehead, taking my hand and warming my fingers using his breath. I sigh happily, and I pick up the pace of our climb. Reaching the summit, we tiptoe around sheep droppings, using hand-held torches to show us where to tread. He smiles into my shoulder as I kiss his earlobes and lick the hollow at the base of his neck, leaving the soft sprinkling of hair (that I’ve come to know so well) sopping wet. We take in the lights of the city, snuggling into each others arms as we reminisce about the first time we were here together.

I lounge on the couch with my favourite book, and he sits by me on the carpet, watching his last rugby game. He’s diligently making notes in a little journal, pausing the video every now and again, to discern stuff he could improve for the next game. His features soften when he’s concentrating, and a little birthmark on the back of his neck flashes red. Every now and again, he scratches the back of his head, and I smother a smile as I go back to reading about the singing of wolves. It’s surreal, this story, almost like our relationship. It makes for a tremendous story for our children, or so I’m told.

I love watching him undress — he couldn’t possibly look more perfect as he slowly strips off his innermost layers, eliciting a groan of impatience from me as I catch sight of his beautiful skin. His hair is the stuff of legends, not just on his head but all over him — it is bathed in the lamplight in shades of golden. He licks his lips gingerly, as if he still nervous, even after all this time. He crosses the bedroom in a few quick strides, and I grin from ear to ear. He asks me if I’m alright, brushing his nose over my collarbone as he pulls my layers off me. I answer softly, “Yeh … I reckon I will be,” and giggle, looking up into his face as I trace his bottom lip carefully, so as to give my tastebuds a taste of the treat that is to come.

Latching my teeth onto his bottom lip, I suck lightly and pull his tongue into my mouth. Our tongues slowly begin to dance, and then whirl faster and faster as the orchestra plays on. The tempo quickens, and the miniscule flecks in his oh-so-blue eyes seem to glow in a darker shade, as if they are drowning in desire. He swings me onto the bed and dives in beside me. I laugh and make a quip about Tom Daley, which he growls at, then grunts to let the comment pass. We’ve come a long way together since that night on Titikopuke.

He envelopes me completely in his arms, lying in our bed. It smells of him so much that it makes my head spin. “You know I can smell your arousal, right?” he asks, eliciting a guffaw from me. “You really only need to use your hands, you know,” I retort, placing my hand over his jockstrap. Stroking gently, I find a rhythm in the vertical action (up, down, up, down) in stroking his shaft. “Take me,” I whisper into his neck, and I’m rewarded with a low growl that vibrates through him. I grab the lube, and he mutely takes the bottle from me. Pressing a finger to my lips, he squeezes the cold liquid onto his finger and reaches around to get me ready. I watch his face contort as he concentrates on finding my hole, and he giggles nervously as he pushes at the entrance. I close my eyes, and my breathing slows to a dreamy pace that I match to the sound of his heartbeat.

In a rush, his fingers make it past the sphincter, and he’s in. I gasp, and he covers my mouth with his, feeling for my prostate. I move my head to smell his arms, and to lick the sweat off his shoulders as his brows furrow with concentration. He adds a second finger slowly, stretching me to accommodate his shaft. With his other hand, he works the stem of my cock, leaving me lost in the ecstasy of having him work me through the bliss of being introduced to my heart’s song all over again, in an atmosphere of undiluted joy. Pleasure surges through me, which is why I whimper loudly to complain when he removes his fingers. “Fuck me!” I hiss.

“Impatient tonight, aren’t we,” he intones, lifting me onto his chest and reaching for the lube. I snatch it from his hands, and a growl rumbles through his chest, which drives me wild. “For you,” I coat his cock with copious amounts of the liquid, which warms next to his velvet-like skin. His balls feel full, and I play with those, earning a moan from the man under me. “I want to make you come,” I state flatly, and he gurgles in delight. Pressing his nose into my belly, he tells me that I’m pretty, and my mind goes into overdrive. I feel the cock-head press against my pucker, as he slowly pushes himself inside me. He breaches the first ring, and tears come through to my eyes as I take his whole length — in pain.

Knowing exactly what to do, he rubs my back with his fingers while staying still, not moving inside me. I tried to shift a little, to better accommodate him, and the pain transformed into something else. He pulled away, and then barrelled back in slowly. Making room for his width hasn’t always come easily to me, but he manages to get me to moan when I look at his face, engrossed in the act of making love to me with such intense concentration that it might one day bore a hole through my flesh. We always work out a rhythm that comes organically with each thrust, which makes the pain of making room for him inside worth every delicious second of having him inside me. I start to push back on his dick, and he directs my movement by placing his hands on my hips.

He sits up for a moment and kisses his way from my navel to my chest. He tweaks my nipples, which makes me gasp aloud. He slows down carefully, looks up into my eyes, a smile lighting up his eyes. My being impaled below transforms into waves of pleasure, as he shifts around looking for my magic button. My eyes roll back in my head as he presses his nose into my midsection, and I chortle aloud. He whoops with joy as sweat drips down his forehead. “We’ll need a shower after this,” I manage to say, and he grunts in response. I feel the timbre of his deep voice vibrate through his body and mine, and I know why this is happiness.

He intertwines his fingers with mine just as he finds my prostrate, which makes me howl with joy. It is at that moment that I feel absolutely liberated, as he brings me closer to my climax. I stroke my own cock, with his hand placed over mine. We rock to the beat, keeping in time with his thrusts. His voice brings me over the edge, and I come all over his belly and our interlaced fingers. He slams me down on his dick hard, and he roars his orgasm into me, filling me with his warmth. I start to laugh, sated by his release and warmed by the glow of his happiness. He pants softly, and kisses my thighs one after the other.

I wince as he pulls out slowly, and his semen spills out of me. He leaves me sitting on top of him as he dips his fingers in my come and licks it up. I kiss him soundly, tasting myself on his tongue. Then, he snuggles me against him, and he drifts off to sleep. I watch him contentedly, sighing gratefully as I watch his belly expand and contract with every breath. I whisper into the darkness, “I will always cherish this man … no matter what …” My eyelids start to droop, and I can’t help dreaming about carving clandestine moments of bliss like tonight’s out of the all-encompassing world of infant-induced sleep deprivation that we were both about to enter.