By Sheree L. Greer
December 23, 2006 10:07 p.m.:
It's a race. I will lose because Rayna never wears a bra. We squirm out of our sweaters. Then, tank tops fling over heads, belts rip through loops, jeans down hot thighs. We step out of them oddly and carefully; like toddlers learning to walk. Thongs slide from ass cracks, swing around ankles and get kicked into the air. I snap my bra hook with a single hand and peel it off my moist breasts.
'I want to fuck you' I say.
With Rayna against the wall, her legs on my shoulders and me on my knees; I lick and suck her until her thighs threaten to snap my neck.
'Jesus Christ!' she screams.
We collapse to the carpet in a heap of sweaty skin, aching muscles and trembling appendages.
December 24, 2006 8:16 p.m.:
Rayna and I lie on the floor naked in front of the couch. My heart bounces around in my chest like a pinball, clicking and ringing and giving me a thousand more plays.
'I gotta go to church tomorrow,' she says.
'Okay,' I lick red wine off her skin like blood from an invisible wound.
'You gon' come?' She stretches. 'I mean, it is Christmas.'
'I don't really do the whole Christian-thing.' I say, trying not to sound irritated. 'I'll pray for you,' my mother said when I came out to her.
'You know,' she rolls on top of me and puts her head on my chest. My nipple is her microphone. 'I still believe Jesus saves.'
I didn't mean to, but I giggled.
Rayna rolls her eyes, shakes her head, and goes down on me. I call out to God when I cum.
December 25, 2006 2:45 a.m.:
I watch Rayna sleep.
Beads of water on her shoulder or the musky salt between her breasts— I want it. The crispy cool of her still bath-damp pubic hair or the tang of her marinating against Victoria Secret cotton all day—I want it. Sometimes I fear I'm but a caricature of desire. I am a tongue wearing glasses with enormous hands. I am taste and touch, and perhaps nothing more. I'm always broke. My mattress is on the floor in my bedroom. My stereo is piece of shit. I drink too much. I'm slow to anger but filled with rage. I am a struggling writer and all struggling writers are poor and temperamental, difficult, and dramatic. She is too good for me. When will she figure it out and leave me?
'What's wrong, baby?' Rayna says in her sleep. She takes me in her arms. I am wrapped in chocolate.
'Nothing,' I say. Lying. Ever dramatic. Ever tortured. I do it to myself. I kiss Rayna's chin. 'I still believe Jesus saves.' I really don't give a damn. I believe in her. 'That's fine' I should have said.
Rayna kisses my forehead and I thank God for her ignorance.
Sheree L. Greer is a writer and student who says 'Come on, ya'll. ... 'Make Love, Not War.''
