“Yeah?” I ask. “You’re just going to leave it sitting there motionless like a dried-up octopus with three limbs missing?”
“That paints a bit of a picture,” he says, “but I was thinking about starting with the hand on your alabaster orb and maybe, you know, seeing where things go from there.”
“Are you starting to think that maybe we should just stop talking?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he answers, and he leans over me to kiss my lips.
With one arm under my pillow and his other hand massaging my “tit,” Damian kisses my mouth and my jaw on his way to nibble on my ear.
His hand moves from my breast down between my legs and he parts my legs with his fingers, his hand moving over my core. I’m running my hands down his back as he gets me so wet, his fingers soft, but commanding.
I move my hands across his body and in between his legs to find him already hard and throbbing in my hand, and as I tug softly, he moves one, then two, fingers inside me.
My body’s churning with lust, and I’m not going to lie, a bit of confusion. This beautiful man massaging my G-spot still hasn’t reversed the breakup.
In practical terms, that doesn’t mean much, but it’s a level of uncertainty that I’d just as soon do without.
“What are we, Damian?” I ask.
“What do you mean?” he asks before kissing my breasts.
I’m a bit distracted at the moment, and I don’t really feel like explaining. “What are we?” I repeat.
He looks up at me, his fingers still inside, but still now. “You’re really into the labels, aren’t you?” he asks.
“It’s not so much that I care for labels,” I tell him. “I just want to know if this is going to end any day now, or if you’re looking to make it a more permanent thing.”
“Can’t we just,” he says and his fingers are moving again, “enjoy each other and worry about the rest of it later?”
I can certainly think of better times to have this conversation, but it’s getting in the way of my “enjoyment,” so I persist. “Someone asks me if I have a boyfriend, what do I say?” I ask. “I think we can make it that simple.”
“It’s not really my place to answer that question for you,” he says.
“Clumsy,” I tell him. “If someone asks you if you have a girlfriend, what do you say?” I ask.
His fingers stop again and he slides them out of me. “Nobody’s really asked,” he says.
“Hey, Damian, do you have a girlfriend?” I ask.
“Now that was clumsy,” he says.
“If you don’t want to be in a relationship,” I tell him, “that’s fine. Really, I’m enjoying myself and if sex is all we’re going to have, I’m okay with that. But it would be good to know where I stand, or at least a general idea.”
He sighs and rolls onto his back.
“It’s complicated,” he says.
“Why’s it complicated?” I ask. “It’s a pretty simple question.”
“It’s not just about what I want,” he says. “It’s about whether or not my life is currently suited to accommodate a serious relationship.”
“You’ve had a little time to think about it, though,” I tell him. “Seriously, there’s no wrong answer here.”
Who am I kidding? Of course there’s a wrong answer.
“Danna has relapsing remitting multiple sclerosis,” he says. “I’ve been taking care of her for the last few years, even before she moved in and she just had an epis
ode. Apart from my professional concerns, like finding a temporary agent that’s not going to screw me over and trying to keep my mind in the moment at work rather than worrying about her, she’s my sister and she’s not doing so well. I think that has to come first, doesn’t it?” he asks.