Lust At An Italian Dinner

I used to watch his cock all day long.. I don't know if he knew how often I watched that part of him, I had never told him. Always angling down the right side of his tight jeans; outline clear. And always I walked around my labia swollen, an apricot between my legs, ready to be eaten.

And now I sit here in an Italian restaurant with him. My desire huge and unwieldy, my flesh full and my apricot drips my clit hard as its pit. I'm married, 5 years now and yet still I sit beside him here.

He eats his pasta and I stare at his strong outdoor fingers and veiny hands and then his muscular forearms. Still some of that outdoor man left, still pieces even though his middle is softer, his mustache grayer. He's an administrator now - far from that guy I knew who hiked all day to toss water bottles in a lake to test for water quality.

Still, I know what he has down there under the table in his lap. I remember its power and its hold over me. I know how it can grow; much longer until my eyes are riveted on his jeans and I can't tear them away. Tonight, though, it's hidden, under the table in slightly baggy pants, the type you would wear to meetings with clients.

We eat food, and I am food. I drip a little more, my vulva is warm thick cake batter dripping all over the chair. I want him to dip his fingers in me and suck them off slowly. As if I were a dipperful of hot fudge sauce. To put his fingers in my mouth so I could taste and lick the sweet saltiness too. Right there in the restaurant. I want to savor the taste of it and see the darkness of lust in his eyes. I want his fingers deep inside me, pushing hard and deep. Instead, I leak all over the chair.

He talks about work, about vacation, about his house. I listen with only the minimum attention it takes to occasionally say m'hmm. I can't focus on this talk - it's not why I'm here. I scoop a few strands of green noodles on my fork. I jiggle the fork in the air, noodles dangling, and then smack it on the green pile on my plate, lumpy cold, congealed pesto on it. I can feel my nervousness rise up to my throat and surround a noodle still stuck there. I want to talk about the reason that I am here. I smash my fork into my noodles and I can feel my frustration. So can he and he stops talking. We look at each other and burst out laughing; some of the tension is taken away with the laughter.

"Can we talk about my request? The reason I am here," I ask. Desire aches in my wrists, my belly, my ass, the place where each little hair attaches to my head - that place that remembers his touch. I want to slide on his sweat slicked skin. "Sure," he says. Except I don't want to talk at all. What I really want to do is go outside right this moment and fuck. Let's get out of here, can we go to the back of your truck, I want to say. Lie down on the hard ridges that are probably there although I've never been there.

I want to feel his hot penis in the entrances and exits in my body. In ANY entrance or exit - any would do. My mouth - sucking on him, until hot juice squirted, letting it run down my chin. In the ass, oh yes, that too, especially that, I remember that very well. In slowly, slowly because he's big and I'm not used to anything up there. Feel his belly skin kissing my lower back.

And of course, in the usual place, the vagina, the cunt, the vulva, the soaking sucking cave where once only fingers and waxy long phallic vegetables had been. Where later IUDs and diaphragms waited. Where dildos and penises, yes those, a number of them over the years, some memorable, some not, had been.

And now where now two fiery bowling ball heads of babies had passed. Molly, my body trying to expel her over and over again. Over 40 hours and nothing left when the doctor finally pulled her out of me. And Abby in a hurry taking 8 minutes of pushing they told me. I don't know - it was forever. Me screaming -get that thing out of me- and then my daughter came out blue and with a cord wrapped around her neck. All of a sudden everyone was quiet and very busy. I didn't know - they didn't tell me. I was just left with my agonizing efforts to push out the placenta.

Had these two girl heads changed my cunt for him? I wouldn't know, because there I was, married. On the other side. My breasts tighten and I want to squirt my infants milk all over him. I want him to taste it, to lap it up, and to plunge into me and my belly that remembers those babes that rose from beneath. I want him to fuck me, a mother.

He tells me about seeing my husbands face in his thoughts about sex with me. He tells me he sleeps occasionally with other "old friends" because he has no relationship right now. Old friends, but not with me, he wouldn't. He talks of his mom who strayed from his dad. He talks of protecting a family from the destruction of an affair.

Birth control. "What do you and your husband do," he asks? He has had a vasectomy, I tell him. Oh well, that would be an issue too, he says. He has found another stone to put in his wall. Another barrier so that he could stay safe.

I know better, I know how the barrier he is putting up can be knocked down, can be scrambled over. It's easy when I'm consumed with the need to touch every inch of him. The wall he puts up in front of me is what is allowing me to push, to be fully ready for what he can accept from me. I know that if he lets his wall down, then..... well then, I will play the aggressor, pushing in the cracks of his life. It's the afterward, the feelings that are unknown. And that doesn't matter either right now.

But I can't push him. I can't cross the barriers he's put up. He would retreat and disappear. And I would bear full responsibility of the actions because I moved towards him and he didn't come towards me. Right now, I can't take that. Right now, I am farther out than I ever have been in my life and I am scared.

For now, I am to stay away. That body is not for me; other bodies are for him, yes. Hot, hot sex with others. And sometimes cold, tight, dry attempts that don't end in satisfaction. But me - who has all these memories, these images - no, I'm on the other side of the wall I've created with my family.

There is no touching of hands, or knees, or hugging. No caring gestures. Why would there be? I walked back into his life after 5 years of marriage, after more than 10 years since we were together and here I am lusting. He says he was surprised when I asked him, but now he really isn't, now it seems inevitable. He talks about a connection between the two of us, how after 5 years we still can just talk. I think about his erect penis in my face.

The administrator isn't of interest to me right now, not really, all I really want now is the maleness in his pants. The maleness I know he carries in his caresses and touches. His backrubs and hairpulls; his lust. His way of knowing me sexually. But I see no evidence of any of this. Just my memory. The desire of him, to have him, to have him have me, take me. With every drop of his maleness. Yes, I'm a mother, a wife, a partner and not to him. But right now my only desire is to be a woman, a woman fucked by a man. This man beside me.

We talk about friends and I remember the time we hiked all day up a mountain to take water samples. I see us standing on a jutting rock at the top, and looking down over the lake far below. He unzips his pants and releases his erect penis It springs out, unfettered, eye and head jutting proudly out. His body the pole, his penis the flag, advertising him - a man. A man at the top of the mountain. A man full of lust. I sink to my knees on hard rock and take him into my mouth. Slowly, a lick at a time, I savor the sweatiness of him. I try to get my mouth over him, but I already know I can only get my mouth over the end of him. The shaft still there for my hand to slide over. I feel my saliva, my spit cover him and I lick my hands so that my spit covers them too. Until my hands, his penis, my mouth, my face are all squishy and slick. And I suck, and lick. I am lusting and I see him out there wet and bobbing, silly and beautiful in its maleness. And when the time comes and he releases his juice, I let him spurt all over me and then move away to let him spray onto the mountaintop.

A woman on a mountain. A woman strong, solid and lusting. And a man. I want him inside me, but he is spent. So I turn and go over to our lunches. Knowing that in a while - an hour or two, I'll find the perfect place and I'll have him take me from behind, pounding and pounding. And then I'll turn him over in the dirt, with his hiking boots still on, hold his hands above his head and suck myself onto him gently. Agonizingly slowly I'll lower myself down.

After a bit, I'll grind my pelvis into his - sharp, tensions building up. Until I feel deep inside me, a releasing, a squeezing and rhythmic lapping. Deep, deep inside me, all the way from my labia up, way back up, into the depths of my body. And I draw my mouth back in ecstasy and agony and ride him up and down until I scream. Then slowing down a bit, but the tension is still there and it rises up again, this time more towards my clitoris, my vulva, the outer barrier of the inner world and the outer world. The place where my two daughters had ripped out of me to be in this world. And this time, when I climax, it's more immediate, more in this world.

Finally, I release his arms, and stretch out on top of him. My whole body covers his, my legs hold his penis firmly between me and in me. Up and down, slowly and softly. I feel tension rising again, only this time it's a sweet release, a nice quiet release and as I come, he groans and shoves himself into me. Finally he hangs on to me tightly, and shudders. Shudders and shudders.

"Do you want another beer," he asks in our Italian restaurant. My spaghetti sits in front of me, it again makes my stomach roil. He really has a lot of work to do tonight he says, but this is much more fun. Having dinner with a friend. I think about how in my memory and fantasy, I have climaxed three times in a row and that when I knew him, when I fucked him, I didn't usually come more than once at a time. He doesn't know that about me. Ten years is a long time. A marriage, two pregnancies and births and two young kids is a lot of experience.

Again I ask - "why not me? What about my requests? He tells me I am making this hard. I look over at the next table, at the family in red shirts, the 6 boys all dressed just like each other, at the mother and father dressed in red shirts too. I remember my 41/2 year old daughter. This afternoon before I left, I told her that I'd leave something for her when I came in so she'd know I checked on her while she slept. I take a napkin and write - I love you, Mo. He sits next to me and sees me as a mother, a caretaker.

And I want him to take my breasts, my tight, giant, milk filled mother breasts and squirt and lick and suck. And I want him to squirt his magnificent man member into my breasts while I squirt them. Two body fluids - one filled with cells and proteins necessary to create new life; the other filled with proteins needed to nourish that life, to keep it growing. Both mixing there in a silvery sticky puddle.

A married woman, a mother, full of life and lust; and a man. Next to them are the silent partners too. On the one side, a family, a husband, a life in another city. On the other an on again-off again, I'm not sure, we're just not right, not really - relationship. Of course, sitting there on the table between us lie lust, mostly lust and the dusty image of guilt.

I turn from the guilt and see me stretching out on my belly in the sun, a younger, less lived me, a less complicated me. He is beside me and slips his fingers gently under both sides of my pelvis. He brings his fingers in from both sides of my thighs, stroking, closer, closer, never quite there, finally tugging on my labia, opening them up and exposing the clitoris, pushing them, backing out and coming back - until I can't stand it anymore. I'm tight and ready to explode and then he rubs full on my clitoris and he pushes his other fingers up inside me. No more softness, just lust, just sex. My ass in the air.

"Another beer," he asks and I am brought back to reality. I see that I have finished my last one. I think about the drive home and the fact that I've had several beers. I need to get home to my family. "No," I reply. I wrap up my Italian dinner that I have not eaten. We walk to our cars side by side, not touching. We hug briefly and say goodbye, not even a chaste kiss, much less what I really want to do right now.

He tells me he made sure that we met on this side of the bridge so that there would be no temptation to go to his house, so he could keep me at a distance. He is going home to finish his work. I hope he goes home and fantasizes. I hope he takes out that strong, lustful part of him between his legs and in his heart and pretends it's me with him. But I won't know; it's not for me to know, unless that's a barrier we can cross - a story he can tell.

And so I head home - full, dripping, open. Breasts too tender for fabric to touch - the windows wide open while I drive through the dark, cold night.