MC - CHP 15 pt 2

Chapter Fifteen continued:




Farrere wasn't happy.
This was largely due to the fact he didn't know why he wasn't happy. Any other man in his current position would be champing at the bit to tear off his clothes and conduct an experiment on friction.
His would-be test-subject, nestled as she was against him, was silently telling him exactly how she hoped the evening would progress.
'Ok, I'm not imagining it,' Monica murmured, emerging from his neck and smiling at him. 'You smell like coriander.'
'Sorry, yeah,' Farrere mumbled, his throat dry and making speech difficult.
'It's a nice smell. Were you cooking with it?' she asked, returning her mouth to his neck. Farrere made a noise of affirmation, which probably sounded negating due to the current placement of Monica's right hand.
He locked his throat against any further sounds, concentrating firmly on the wall. Not his office wall, which was refreshing, but the wall above the television in his apartment. It occurred him hanging some kind of artwork there would make the space less bland. It would have to be something fairly modern and uninteresting, though, otherwise it would clash with whatever might be on the television. Not that he watched much television. Although he could really go for some right now, it'd be a better distraction than the wall–
Monica's hand fell out of rhythm, tugging at him a little too sharply and making him flinch. Monica didn't see; her face was still in his neck, her tongue wet beneath his ear. He realised, of course, that tongues were supposed to be wet, and in no way was she drooling on him, but he just couldn't find the pleasure in it. Genevieve had always complained he was the first man she'd been with who didn't get an erection the moment she set her lips on his earlobe.
Genevieve again. He wished she would stop appearing in his mind, her hair crumpled from where she'd wrenched at it and her eyes swollen from crying, murmuring to him that all his relationships would be the same if he never changed.
In retrospect, Farrere thought her criticism of him quite disproportionate to her confession that she was sleeping with her yoga instructor. However it had been interesting for him to learn people actually did that sort of thing.
Why couldn't he forget her words? Was it his mind's effort to show him Monica would be yet another repeat of all who'd come before?
The phrasing of that thought bothered him. "Coming before" was not something he wanted to be considering in relation to himself and his past girlfriends; he very rarely came first.
Monica gave a tiny murmur of hesitation against his neck.
'Uh, do you like anything in particular?'
He felt her teeth as she smiled. She cupped her hand lower in his underwear, squeezing gently. He tried not to shy away – he didn't like that at all, if he was being honest–
But he wasn't.
'This is fine,' he murmured, turning his face to hers and kissing her.
Why couldn't this feel good? He wished she would stop smiling.
'You're entitled to more,' she said, bashful and serene. 'You know you've waited well over a month now.'
'Has it been that long?' Farrere mumbled.
'Yes,' Monica chuckled. 'I've never had anyone be this patient before.'
Farrere cursed internally, realising guiltily he was relieved he'd avoided sex for this long.
'Sorry,' he said feebly. 'We've both been so busy.'
Pathetic, his conscience fumed. Absolutely pathetic. He wasn't sure if it was referring to his excuse, or himself in general. Probably both.
'We have,' Monica agreed. 'And don't apologise. Waiting has been both refreshing and nice.'
She moved her hands around his neck, now intent on kissing him, and with a pang he felt his modicum of automated arousal disappear without her touch. What would she think when she returned her hands to him? He lay her down over the couch, occupying her arms with his shoulders, and he closed his eyes, transporting himself to when this would be over. The kissing ceased, but Monica made no move to commence anything else, instead she held him, still smiling, her cheek against his clavicle.
'I should warn you,' she said, her smile finally wavering. 'I'm not... the best at all this.'
'I'm much the same,' Farrere answered, glad she'd given him an opening to announce something in that vein, even though he'd opted for an understatement.
'I doubt that,' Monica whispered, her smile back again. 'You don't have to worry about a thing. You could just look at me and that would be fine–' she briefly covered her mouth with her hand. 'Sorry... But you do know you're sort of stunning, don't you?'
Farrere tried to keep his discomfort from his chuckle.
'I should be honest with you, though,' Monica continued, her voice fading. 'Um, would you happen to be very partial to... to blowjobs?'
Farrere stared at her, every fibre within him focusing on not reacting with horror.
'Because– because I don't mind giving them, I've just had a couple of bad experiences, and if you'd like one that's fine, but I'm–' she covered her face with her hands, wriggling beneath him in an attempt to take cover beneath his chest, her ears bright red. 'I'm completely dreadful at them. Or so I've been told. Sorry. Also mood ruining. I do that, too.'
This situation was fundamentally foreign to Farrere. He'd never been with a woman who'd shown any kind of doubt over sex. Unfortunately for both of them, Farrere was hard-wired with a response to friends expressing stress.
'Monnie, that's ok,' he said, quickly and comfortingly. 'I don't– actually... They bother me, in a way. They–... always have.'
Monica emerged from her hands, astounded. Farrere panicked, now desperate to absolve his statement.
'I– I really... I find it hard to separate all the connotations of degradation and dominance from them. Because – I don't want to degrade or dominate, and I... I should borrow your hands, skilled in face-hiding as they are, lest I dig myself a hole I can't get out of.'
Far too late for that, he thought, having gone numb. Monica blinked at him for a painfully long moment.
'You're not actually real, are you?' she mumbled. 'Any second now you'll just... vanish. Or turn into a prince. Or something.'
Despite being no stranger to not knowing what to say, Farrere found it never got easier.
'And... what's your opinion on oral-my-way?' Monica enquired. She wasn't being coy, which Farrere would have much preferred to what she was being: curious-with-a-hint-of-bemusement.
He didn't know what would be worse – facing up and answering her question with the truth, or lying and potentially having his face relocated to his least favourite place for it to be.
'How do you feel about it?' he said softly, barely supressing his panic. Why did she want to talk about all this? Why didn't she just expect him to want everything she wanted? All of his past girlfriends had, and although they'd caused him a great deal of grief, at least they'd never given him time to think.
'I'm... not the biggest fan,' Monica admitted shyly. 'Which I've been assured is just because I've never been with someone who was any good at it.'
'I don't know how good I am at it,' Farrere found it difficult to monitor what he was saying – his scalp was tingling, recalling the unpleasant stinging he associated with "oral-her-way", courtesy of long-nailed fingers knotting in his hair.
'I know it's an unforgivable faux pas to mention one's exes in... this type of situation, but there's absolutely no way you could be worse than my exes,' Monica said sagely. 'Maybe it's best if it's not the agenda tonight, though, simply because I'm feeling self-conscious in light of your... gorgeousness.'
Stop, stop, stop – was all Farrere could think. Please stop speaking, I don't understand –
A desperate theory hit him: maybe she didn't want to have sex. Maybe that was the subtext to all she'd said. And because that was his only theory, he opened his mouth to employ it –
'Monnie,' he began, fighting to keep his voice even. 'We don't have to have sex yet if you don't want to.'
Her face broke into her wide, glowing smile.
'Don't panic, Farrere,' she whispered. 'The sex part, I like.'
Her hands crept down his stomach, and he felt his spine longing to arch away from her, but she stopped short of his jeans, lifting the base of his shirt and sweater.
'Actually, you'll get cold if I strip you off here, won't you?' she chuckled, releasing his clothes.
'Probably,' he murmured, copying her smile.
'Bed?' she suggested.
'Bed,' he agreed.
Farrere was convinced sex made everyone feel slightly nauseous, and that they just didn't talk about it. Why else would he have felt sickened by it every time he'd engaged in it since the age of fifteen?
To be fair, he thought dully as he led Monica to his room, I never actually wanted to have sex in the first place. It wasn't me who initiated the loss of my virginity. I just can't say "no".
Once they were undressed and under the covers, the routine Farrere was accustomed to slowly began to emerge – although he wasn't sure he was thankful for it. Monica moved atop him, her stream of inscrutable remarks finally lessening in lieu of little moans inspired by the obligatory movements of his hand. She bent down, kissing him, her whimpers fast growing in desperation. Farrere knew he was good with his hands; he had to be. He suspected every one of his past relationships would have ended months in advance if not for his dexterity.
'Do you have condoms?' she whispered eventually, breathless. 'It's fine if you don't, I've got a couple on my bag – I hope you don't mind them.'
Farrere held no opinion of condoms, having never understood what men complained about. They made no difference in sensation for him.
'I've got some,' he said, leaning over and opening the drawer of his bedside cabinet, anticipating what her response to his next statement might be. 'And lubricant, if you'd like.'
'Oh, thank God,' Monica muttered. 'I was going to warn you it might be a bit of a tight fit. You're, uh... blessed,' she giggled quietly.
And I should warn you that's one of the precious few things I have in my favour, Farrere thought dully. He sat up, thankful for the lack light in the room as he rolled on the condom. His throat locked up as his erection waned within his hands; this was always the moment his brittle façade came closest to shattering. He kissed her when he'd finished, trying not to be hasty or rough, bringing her back onto his hips.
It was agony. She remained on top despite his murmurs of logistics, and the pace she set was slow and rhythmic. His nerves locked up with dragging, thick sensation, and every time she paused he was overrun with fear his body might not see her through.
'I'm sorry,' she whispered, falling still again, her arms around his neck.
'It's alright,' he answered, breathing out, one hand on her back, the other twisted in his sheets.
She gave the barest chuckle. 'It's like a double-ache,' her voice was distant, apologetic and raw. 'Because it hurts, but I really want you.'
Now Farrere understood there was only one thing she'd insinuated this evening. She wanted reassurance, greater than he'd given. He eased her off him, carefully employing his strength to move her beneath him. She didn't protest, but he sensed her worry.
'I won't press in as much this way,' he murmured, his voice catching in his throat, but he ignored it, too tired to hope she would, too. 'It shouldn't have to hurt,' he set his hand on her arm, and felt her own hands shaking on his hips. He watched her eyes, seeking stillness.
'You're beautiful,' he said.
He could see it, but he couldn't feel it.
When he finished it hurt, but compared to prior feelings, it was indistinct.
She lay with him afterwards for longer than he could remember any woman staying with him before. Now that the worst was over, he liked talking with her. She was different, he enjoyed her company, and she understood as much of him as she was privy to.
'Farrere,' she mumbled, lying with her head on his arm and her fingers pressed to his chest. 'Your legs tell me you shouldn't be hairless here,' she prodded his sternum. 'Fess up.'
He laughed, exhausted and done with maintaining self-image.
'Tell no one,' he warned. 'I had it lasered.'
Monica covered her mouth. 'No,' she breathed. 'Well, aren't you extreme. What's wrong with waxing?'
'I'm not co-ordinated enough to do it myself, and going to get it done just scarred me more and more each time, so... drastic measures were employed.'
'And what's wrong with having chest hair?'
'Urgh,' Farrere emitted in response.
Monica was briefly consumed by giggles. 'Must sit up,' she groaned. 'Must get my phone and text Phil about your dear, departed follicles.'
'Monnie, don't,' Farrere said with all the seriousness he could muster.
'Fine,' she sang begrudgingly. 'But I really must sit up, because I really must get home.'
'What time are you going to your friend's exhibition tomorrow?'
'Ten a.m.'
'And what time is it now?'
'Two a.m.' There was a pause, followed by a despairing: 'Shit.' Monica sat up, letting out a low hiss of pain.
'What's wrong?' Farrere asked concernedly.
'Just these,' she said, tucking a sheltering arm around her breasts. 'Wish I could get them lasered off, they've caused me more trouble than my life is worth.'
'How so?'
Monica smiled grimly. 'Years of painkillers to counter the back pain. I wanted to get them reduced so I could keep playing netball, but mom wouldn't let me,' she gave a low, sad chuckle. 'Her exact words were: "They'll get you through doors." And they did.' She found her bra amidst her clothing on the bed, and, wincing, pulled it on. 'I might keep this on next time, if that's alright with you.'
'Absolutely fine,' Farrere said gently, refusing to anticipate the next time. 'Are you right to get home?'
'Mm,' Monica hummed, pulling on her blouse then scooting back over to him. She kissed him, tucking his fringe off his forehead. 'Do you sleep with your hair up?' she said softly.
'Uh, no,' he replied.
'It looks so dashing when you put it back. I couldn't believe it when I noticed you had a ponytail,' she chuckled, returning to her clothes, standing and dressing.
'I get that a lot,' Farrere said quietly, smiling.
He got out of bed, pulling on his underwear and jeans. He wanted to put on his shirt, but feared she'd comment.
'What are your plans for the weekend?' she enquired at his door.
'I'll probably spend every minute of it cooking to feed Iggy,' he said wryly.
'Ah, I'd love to meet him,' Monica grinned. 'All of them. I suppose that might be weird for your sister, though.'
'No, she's been a lot happier recently,' Farrere said considerately. 'She and Iggy have been mad for each other since they were kids, and they've finally started dating, so they're both veritable founts of elation at the moment.' Farrere couldn't spare a thought to how amused he was by Iggy and Xeeva, because he was too busy praying Monica didn't press him to introduce her to them. He was also hoping the conversation was going to wind up now, because his head was starting to throb.
'That's so sweet,' Monica said brightly. 'What's that been like for you?'
'Hilarious,' Farrere assured her, ignoring how long he'd spent worrying that he wouldn't know how to handle it. 'Genuinely, hilarious.'
'Hm,' she smiled. 'Big brother.'
They watched each other, exhausted and vainly filled with hopes amidst their crossed purposes.
'Bye,' Monica said.
'Bye,' Farrere kissed her cheek. 'You're sure you don't want me to come down with you to your car?'
'Yes,' she nodded. 'Unless you do it shirtless so I've got a reason to tell any passers-by why you're so baby-smooth.'
Farrere grimaced at her, crossing his arms over his chest. Monica laughed, waving at him as she headed down the hallway. Farrere shut his door, falling into darkness. He stood still for a moment, wide-eyed and unfeeling, and then he headed to his bathroom and showered, washing her scent off his skin. He despaired when he found how persistently it lingered on his bed sheets, because by that point he was beyond getting up to change them.
His temples ached and a nerve jumped painfully behind his eye. He moved to the very edge of his bed, trying to keep his nose from his pillow. He tucked his hand under his cheek, and was relieved to find it still smelt of coriander. Comforted, he employed five years' worth of practice in shutting his body down when all it wanted to do was run until he collapsed. Blissfully, it wasn't long before sleep claimed him.
His peace was short-lived, however, because it was on that night the dreams started.