Mostly rambles, few brambles
I Didn’t Have Any Music On My iPhone, So We Boned To An Episode Of ‘Fresh Air’
This post originally ran on Slackjaw on 2/5/21.
One minute we were in sweatpants, flopped together on the couch, musing about how we both viscerally abhor every single judge on Chopped, and the next minute an exploratory hand and probing toe primed the pot of passion and our sprawled selves constricted into a hot, spitty knot.
Clothes were ripped off without regard for elastic longevity and the TV was turned off right before the contestants started dripping sweat into their sauces. “Wait,” she said, collapsing onto me, “can you put on some music or something?” She didn’t elaborate — she didn’t have to — we both knew my sex breathing was real weird. This perpetual ghost-sneeze-asthma-attack that emanates from my aroused self nullifies any and all trilling passions. I’m not offended. I get it. Nobody is turned on by a dying trout.
“Um,” I stalled as I scrolled through my phone. There was no time to waste in the afternoon light; my blemishes, notable vitamin deficiencies, and skin-tag constellations were literally laid out in front of her, and pity couldn’t hold off disgust forever. There was no time to re-download Spotify, never mind trying to recall the twenty things my Apple ID password might be. YouTube was also out. I didn’t want to put on a slow jam, let the suggested-video algorithm take the wheel, and be left trying to finish to a frenetic lunatic explain how The League of Women Voters were the actual masterminds behind Chappaquiddick.
Her face was rightly annoyed now. “Just put something on,” she said, with no mention of her own cell. I told her fine. I set my phone down and the wet humping ensued.
“From WHYY in Philadelphia…” the tinny speaker chirped.
Our crotch-mashing ceased. Her eyes narrowed as she stared at me. “Is this Terry Gross?” she asked and I nodded more submissively than I usually do during sex.
“Sanjay Gupta’s on,” I said. “The CNN neuroscience guy.” I tried to sell this like it had always been the best possible plan and not just a back episode I’d been meaning to listen to. What could be hotter than two steamy bodies and inquisitive minds churning up fuck butter while learning how to maintain healthy brains and tittering at Terry’s little asides? “I think he’s got a new book,” I added between eager thrusts. Apparently, per Dr. Gupta, there was such a thing as good stress for your brain. He didn’t mention it explicitly, but that category would definitely include gratifying one’s lover while audial options and natural light conspire against you.
Tough to say if it was Terry’s well-read curiosity or Dr. Gupta’s charming non-regional baritone, but we industrious porkers found our rhythm. We never knew that brain cells actually could regenerate, and I never knew that she could spank me that hard with the cheeseboard.
Soon my face was completely smothered by a throw pillow and I was feeling my consciousness fade, but I could still make out Dr. Gupta faintly describing how multitasking is a lie we tell ourselves. The absolute irony, I thought, and I heard her chuckle first, the pillow releasing as the smoked gouda chunks began chubby raining onto my bare torso. “No, Dr. Gupta,” she said aloud over the clatter of skin in the well-appointed living room stinking of sex, “I don’t know if multitasking is always a myth.” We snickered together for an instant before I started choking on manchego. She leaned over, swooping, and dominated me with a kiss, absolutely coring out my mouth with her mild, rind-y tongue. Dr. Gupta added it was tough having three kids and two dogs during the pandemic, and I closed my eyes and felt both our bodies tense and softly shiver.
Great show, Terry; I know for a fact that Dave Davies couldn’t have brought us to orgasm.