I call it “Her List.”

I see her once or twice a year and we go through the same ritual each time. We give ourselves an hour to say hello, have a drink, kiss faces, and remember. We check in about our lives and we try to go slowly, knowing that we’ll fail.

Once we leave the restaurant, we no longer need to say anything until we’re in her room. The first two years required communication, but now?  Now she walks into the room, strips down to her underthings and takes out a blindfold.  She ties it around her eyes and lays down on her back.  I watch from the foot of the bed, and I say one word: Begin.

The list starts the same way each time.  It begins with Marcus, moves to Tasha, Josh, and then Michael.  She says each name clearly as I crawl between her legs and pull off the last bit of her clothing. She slows down when she feels my mouth on her, and she grips my hand as I kiss her.

Years ago our ritual lasted a moment, but now?  She’s added more names to the list than I can remember, despite the number of times I’ve heard it. I push my tongue inside her as she continues, and she says each name with a moan. I slide fingers into her as I hold her thighs wide open; I nibble and pinch, sending her squirming on the bed as she struggles to focus.

When she gets to the last name I’ve heard before I’m always hard.  I have a condom on and my cock against her lips when she pauses, and I wonder how many new names I’ll hear.  Each lover has taught her something.  Each one has shown her something new about herself, and there’s love in her voice as she speaks. I go back and forth between jealousy and gratitude, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t sometimes just marvel at the number of cocks that have been inside her.

I fuck her as she says each new name.  She thanks them out loud as I push deeply inside her, and with her eyes covered, her mind can be anywhere. Five, six, seven new names since I’ve seen her last.  Seven lovers and one night stands.  Seven people―men and women―have kissed her lips and pinched her nipples.  Seven people have shown her something new. 

For me.

She says my name at the end. She whispers it into my ear and by then we’re both coming. I bite her lips and she pulls me to her.  She scratches my shoulders, and I thrust so hard I have to hold her still. Our mouths take each other in, and our bodies shake in fits of release. We sigh and we moan.  We come and we scream. We forget everything.

Guy New York

“Tell me again why I’m special?”

She was nestled in against my shoulder as I ran fingers through her hair. She smelled of cinnamon and red wine, and she fit perfectly.  He soft fingers touched my arm, moving on their own free will. Her voice sounded like water.

“Do you remember the ninth time we had sex?”

“No,” came her soft reply.

I closed my eyes and instantly saw her white summer dress clinging loosely to her skin.  Her golden hair covered one eye before falling over her shoulders and down her back, but she made no effort to move it. She lifted her hips and dropped them down again as I tried to breathe slower and last longer. It was only when I closed my eyes that I could hear her quietly singing.

“We were on your couch in the summer. It was so hot out we missed winter.  Your dress clung to you in all the right places and…”

“Lots of girls have dresses that cling to them in all the right places.”

“And you moved over me so slowly it felt like a dream caused by fever and drought. You barely touched me as we made love, and just before you came you started to sing.”

“I did not.”

“You did too. Something about summer and wine, and you sang it over and over in a whisper before you let out tiny whimpers and moans.”

She slipped her fingers into mine and nuzzled my shoulder once more. I kissed the top of her head.  We both closed our eyes.

“Maybe that means you’re special too,” she said.

Guy New York