“Are you sure it’s a chocolate stain?” he asked, laughing. I shuddered. He laughed again. “I guess it’s a bad idea. To have chocolate in bed while having anal sex.”
“You asked me to bring it. And, you’re gross,” I said, wiggling away from the chocolate—it was chocolate—stain.
“I’m an animal,” he agreed, happily. “And I didn’t ask you to bring it. I asked if you guarantee the fun.”
Stickler for details.
True, I suppose. He said—texted—“Do you guarantee the fun?” To which I responded, “Depends on how you define fun.”
“Chocolate and ice cream,” he wrote back. So. I showed up with a quart of ice cream. And a single square of Lindt dark chocolate.
“This is barely an adequate offering,” he had said. Then dropped it down my shirt, and then lips against lips, teeth against teeth, and we forgot about the chocolate, completely, until…
“Don’t freak out. It’s just chocolate.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure of nothing. Except that I never want to move from here.”
He licked the traces of the chocolate—yes, it was just chocolate—off my chest later, and then kept licking down the stomach, the crevices and curves of my body where muscles and fat engage in an eternal fight.
“Should I go get the ice cream now, or later?” he asked. “If you promise to wash my sheets after, we can eat it in bed. In marvellously messy ways.”
“I am not doing your sheets,” I protested. “What the hell?”
“You really are the worst lover,” he said. “You bring me the tiniest little bit of chocolate. And then you ruin it—and ruin my sheets with it. And now you won’t wash them.”
I turned away.
“Hey, hey,” arms on my shoulders, hands pulling me too close into a chest, shaved, but not that morning, prickly. “Are you crying? Are those tears? Shit, don’t you know I’m joking?”
“I never know when you’re joking,” I said. I said that often; often, it sounded like a confession.
“Well, I would rather like you to take my sheets and wash them,” he whispered, into an ear, then into a cheek, licking tears off it with the tip of his tongue even as he formed words. “Because I’m lazy. And your washing machine is better. And you did bring me the tiniest, tiniest little bit of chocolate…”
“…It was all I had,” I murmured. “And I didn’t want to stop at the store… I just wanted to come…”
“Oh-oh,” tip of tongue now in that space of my neck, oh-my-god, that space. “Does this mean… does this mean that when I open the ice cream carton… did you bring me used ice cream, bitch?”
I burst into laughter.
“You did,” he groaned. “Tiny square of chocolate. Used ice cream. And you burst into tears when I call you the worst lover…”
“Shit, not again, stop.” Kisses. “Stop. Stop these ridiculous, ridiculous tears, best lover, favourite lover, lazy lover, can’t be bothered to buy chocolate or ice cream lover, doesn’t want to wash my sheets lover, drives me insane with every move-scent-sound-lover, come here kiss me, lover…”
Elated, I slid into the kisses, hands, rubbing my face against that prickly chest, losing track of whose smooth-hard-hands-legs-ass-belly were whose…
“Next time,” he said after, rubbing my face in the tear-stained, chocolate-stained, sweat-stained sheets, “bring a whole box of chocolates.”
“And un-used ice cream?” I murmured.
“Ice cream,” he murmured back. “I forgot about the ice cream. Deliciously messy ice cream. Stay right there. Don’t. Move.”
For Nicole: Cardamom Knob Wool
For Jenn: Piano River Feather
For Lara: Peasant Cicada Pomegranate
For Paola: Stoked Sunrise Ferocity
For Nina: Crimson Brilliant Moon
For Cathy: Elated Chocolate Tears