by Mabie, M.
“He was older and off to college by the time I was seven or eight. So he visited, but it was just me and them for the most part when I was a teenager.”
“How are they doing now? Do they still live where you grew up?” On one hand, I'd like to meet them, but on the other hand, it sounds a little daunting.
“Yeah. Same house, in fact. My dad says that he can't learn his way around anywhere else now. They do pretty great actually.” He kisses my head again, like he's trying to kiss away my rampant thoughts.
“I didn't see that coming.” My body finally relaxes back into our rhythm. I lay my head on his shoulder and let him lead me around a little longer. “That's how you know so much about blind shit.” I slap him on the arm.
“Blind shit. You're such a lady.”
We dance for hours, and even thought I have a whole new list of things I want to discover about Ben, we've made progress. He is trying just as hard as I am to build something lasting.
We're tired when we return to the room, and we lie facing each other, talking about the last few days and how much we are looking forward to The Keys.
Before falling asleep, I thank him for telling me about his parents. Something about the fact that two blind people had a good life makes me feel so much better and, I don't know…optimistic. Just knowing that some kind of normal will be possible if my sight leaves me in the dark is reassuring.
For the first time, I believe that Ben really can help me—and that I want him to.
Sex on a deserted island is everything I imagined it would be. Sure, Ben and I aren't completely alone here, but it's easy to pretend.
The waters are clear blue and the sand was powdery and white. I'm with a man who calls himself my boyfriend. Anywhere would look better with that knowledge, but as it happens, we are in paradise.
The bungalow Ben rents for us to stay in for the week is phenomenal. It's not a grand palace or anything like that. It is cozy and comfortable. We have a golf cart we can ride anywhere on—respectfully—and a few times, we pack a cooler and go exploring the trails that link the other cabins to ours. We never see any other residents though.
It's as if we're totally secluded in a real-life Jason Mraz video.
The little house has two bedrooms, a master suite on one side and a smaller guest suite on the other. Even the rooms are far apart. The kitchen is economical and smaller than either of our own, but the refrigerator was stocked when we arrived, and we can call the main house for anything. Even full meals, if we want.
My favorite part of the house is the open veranda. The glass wall that faces the ocean opens up completely, giving the living room and the veranda a one-large-room feel. I love it.
We spent our first night sleeping on the queen-sized bed swing that hangs from the ceiling outside. Even though I know creepy crawly things are out there, I'm not nearly as scared of them in this postcard-like hideout. It's just too beautiful a place for evil to hide.
We sunbathe—both topless. Ben's skin turned dark brown the second his shirt came off and mine caught up a few cautious days later. He hasn't shaved since our last night in Seattle, so he’s sporting a rustic almost-beard. I don't know if it's the sun that brings out the colors, but it is a lot redder than his dark blond hair.
We are drinking our weight in Corona. And we quickly grew tired of cutting up lime after lime, quitting on the beer garnish all together by night two.
“We're on chapter five,” Ben says as he looks for our last spot in the book he started reading to me yesterday. “What do you remember before you took your second nap yesterday?” He pokes at me and I pretend like I'm going to roll away. He overpowers me and rolls me back, pulling me onto his stomach.
“Maybe you should just start over. You put me to sleep.” His bare chest is irresistible and I kiss every place I can reach, lowering myself farther and farther down his body until I reach his swimming trunks.
Ben opens his book again and sits it on his chest, flipping the pages to find his spot. “Yeah, right here. Are you asleep yet?” He laughs at his own joke before I can. “Should I read out loud? I wouldn't want to wake you.” His belly bounces with the laugh he gives himself. He's killing me.
“If you think now is the best time to read, do not let me stop you.”
I kiss his hipbone and trail my tongue along the waistband of his shorts, stopping at the single button in the middle. I bite it to release and pull his zipper down with my teeth. I know what I'm doing to him because I feel a strong throb under my chin as I look up to see that his face is entirely hidden by the novel he's reading out loud—poorly.
I pull his shorts off with some help from him. That is, he lifts his ass off the mattress when the time is right. “Are you paying attention down there? This is getting good,” he tries to say steadily but fails as he smoothes a hand through my hair.
I grab him with alternating hands, one always stroking up him. “Not interested. I'm busy. It's getting pretty good down here, too.” Then, without warning him, I suck one of his balls into my mouth as carefully as I can and make a little humming sound with the back of my throat.
I hear, “Oh,” and a hardback novel being shut and discarded to the side table.
His hands move to brush back the hair that falls haphazardly into my face on either side. I let the ball loose and lick him from base to tip, our eyes meeting around his now fully erect cock. I trace the vein that I've come to know very well. It laces up the bottom and wraps around to the left in a zigzag.
I open my mouth as wide as it goes and begin my slow descent on him. I take him all the way, feeling him tense and squirm with pleasure at the same time.
I seat and reseat him deep in my throat and lavish him with my mouth until I can tell he isn't going to last, his stomach muscles quivering with every swirl of my tongue. I bring my mouth off of him for only a second to lick my hand, making it wet enough for it to slip and slide over him with ease. While I work my hand and mouth on him, he makes the most erotic of groans and pants that are music to my ears.
“Oh, oh, baby. Tatum, I'm going to come. Ahh…” He stills one hand in my hair and the other one is stretches above his head, gripping the rope that suspends the swinging bed we’re lying on. His head goes back and he's lost.
He moves his hand with my head—not forcefully, but intensely enough that it's turning me on. It would be easy to slip a finger down my already naked body and lessen the desire I'm feeling, but instead I just stay the course. His body is so deserving of my rapt my attention.
Five fingers thread through my blond hair and grip it at the nape of my neck as Ben's lean hips flex into me one last time. I hear the air leave his lungs when he’s filling my mouth with his hot come. I don't hesitate for a second to swallow and keep sucking until he's given me every last drop.
After a few minutes, Ben looks down, retracting his chin into his neck, and the position shapes his mouth into a still-pleased frown. He has thoroughly satisfied avocado-colored eyes.
“Get up here.” He reaches for me. “You're mouth is criminal.” I lay my head in the crook of his arm and he laces our fingers together, bringing them to his mouth for a kiss. Then he kisses my hair over and over. “You really do like books, you kinky little sprite.”
“I told you. I have a weakness for a man and his book. Now, if your sight was worse—not that I'd wish it were—we could add some glasses to that pretty face of yours and go blow the roof off of this motherfucker.”
He shouts a laugh and kicks one leg up. “You're so eloquent,” he says like he's serious and tickles my side.
We sleep outside that afternoon until past sunset. I wake when I feel a warm mouth on my breast. Then it's replaced with cool air. Tilting my head, I peer down to see. Sitting up while leaning over my body with one strong arm, he's playing with me.
I continue to watch his expression as he alternates between my breasts. He face exudes both wonder and entertainment. He has educated moves—first a wet lick and then a soft stream of air, working m
y nipples in unison.
“Whatcha doing down there, Benny?” I ask merrily.
An easy smile spreads across his lazy, tan face. The darker color of his skin makes his eyes infinitely brighter and so striking.
“Wasting time. Watching you. Being creepy. Take your pick,” he answers idling between his teases.
“I'm hungry.” Unashamed of my nakedness—since we've been mostly naked for most two days—I stretch and move to sit up on my elbows.
“Me too. What are you going to cook for us, woman?” He places a final kiss smack dab in the center of my cleavage.
“Woman? Nice touch.” I push at him playfully. “I don't know. I'm not very good. How hungry are you?”
“Well, with what I want to do to you later, I'd say I'm going to need some sustenance. What can you cook?” He props himself on one elbow and looks at me curiously.
He almost appears hopeful, the poor guy. His expression reads that he still thinks that I've got at least one trick up my sleeve, and I'm about to break it to him that I don't.
If you want something microwaved, I'm your girl. If you need coffee, toast, ice cream, chips and salsa—from a jar—I am who you're looking for.
Looking at Ben right now, all I can see is overestimated expectations. It's time to let him down easy.
“I really can't cook. Like at all. Anything,” I say disappointedly.
“Sure you can. You're just busy is all. When you have time and are hungry, what do you make? Like, what's your jam?”
“My jam is calling for Mexican or Chinese. I also am experienced with the ‘let’s have ice cream for dinner all week’ jam. Seriously.”
“Let's get you a jam then.” He's up and pulling me with him. “What sounds good?” He's into the kitchen and opening all of the cabinets and the refrigerator in a flash.
“What is there?” I can see all of their contents, but my brain doesn't do quick meal assemblies. I don't work like that.
“What meat do you want?” He's standing between the stainless-steel doors of the side-by-side refrigerator, looking through its contents.
“Chicken.”
“Yeah. Chicken.” He searches for a moment. With triumph, he holds up a package of chicken breasts, victoriously saying, “Got it!” Already I'm feeling better about this. He's found the meat. Now he can cook it.
But first. “Excuse me, Chef Boyardee? Do plan on cooking in the buff? That seems a bit unsanitary. Bacteria and all. Want your shorts?” Regrettably, I think that I really shouldn't have said anything. I could watch him shuffle around in the kitchen naked every day for the rest of my life.
My concern lies in the singular thought that something tragic could happen to, well, his penis. I'm not much of a balls girl, so a mishap to them would be acutely unfortunate. But let’s be very clear. It would be a crime against humanity to put his glorious penis in harm’s way.
I won't stand for that kind of irresponsibility.
“Go put a shirt on and grab me those shorts,” he bosses. Then he winks at me when I check his tone with my pulled face.
I look for probably thirty seconds before I can locate the shorts on the floor next to the swing. You would think that since I put them there I'd be able to remember their whereabouts.
I didn't.
It is also rude to send a blind girl to find her sexy companion's pants. That feels a little like adding insult to injury.
He jumps into them, rights the zipper and button efficiently, and then assess me. “No pants for you. From here on out, only my dirty t-shirts.” He plants a quick peck on my neck before sidestepping me to the sink to wash up. “Come here. Wash up.”
I appraise them, thinking that I've done a myriad of things with these hands today and a good wash is probably warranted. I move next to him, sliding my hands into his soapy ones. His fingers move in and out of mine. He washes each of my fingers with a pair of his own, rubbing suds front and back. His large fingers cleaning my smaller ones surfaces a plume of affection within me.
I kiss his shoulder.
We rinse, and Ben rummages around, finding tools, pots, and pans. He hands me each one—for me to do what with, I don't have a clue.
“What vegetables?”
“I'd love a Caprese salad.”
“Perfect.”
He directs me and I participate, a willing student. As I listen to him instruct me step by step through each process, his voice trenches a permanent groove in my mind. His low tones and inflections wash over me and I listen with wide-open ears.
He tells me to smell everything and to watch the timer for the chicken while cutting up basil and tomatoes. In the end, it was so easy that I probably could have done it without much help.
I suppose just because you've never done something doesn't mean you should equate yourself to being bad at it. Or maybe he is just a good teacher.
He washes the dishes and I dry them, working in tandem, chatting about random things. I tell him about my matchmaking with little Devon and Cynthia. That earns a most delicious kiss as he says, “You are a romantic.”
We take a walk along the beach and draw dirty stick people in the moonlit sand. Mine are the best because of the generous attention to detail I have when it comes to linear lovers.
We don’t have our phones with us. No pictures are taken, but I won't soon forget the sight. At least I pray that these memories are more permanent than their likenesses, not fading out of my mind the same way the waves wash our pornographic scratches from the sand.
The next few days we spend actively doing things. Funny thing. Seeing through snorkeling goggles for a regular person is a lot RP. It's not quite as hindering, but Ben finds it interesting that it is so similar when I tell him.
I watch him observing around us to see what he is missing, waving his hands out to his sides, testing how far he has to move them to see them when looking straight ahead.
He doesn't say anything about it. What would he have to say anyway? This is frustrating? This isn't that bad? Nothing would be the right thing, so I appreciate his unspoken opinions.
We jet around a cove with one of the island tenants on a small boat. Ben and I explore all the colorful fish and the shallow ocean bottom for hours, occasionally coming up and telling each other what we see and asking if the other noticed the same. We play in the water like children fascinated by everything around us.
“Ben, I have to pee,” I say, bobbing next to him in the water.
“So go,” he tells me, like it's the most natural thing in the world.
“For real? You'll see it. Gross.” I look through the clear water and know just how obvious it will be.
“Just swim around and pee.” The words he's saying sound so weird, but he doesn't look like he's kidding.
“It seems rude. Those fish live here.” It just doesn't sit well with me having spent hours admiring their beautiful habitat and then pissing all over it on my way out.
He confides quietly with one hand flanking his mouth like he's telling a secret, “I did it. I could do it again.” He is kidding me. His smile is stubbornly trying to fight its way out as he squints and acts like he concentrating. “Ahhhh…” he teases.
To hell with it. I take advantage of the diversion he's making and pee.
At first, it felt so wrong, and then it was incredible. I really had to go.
After we're back inside the boat, Ben says to Miguel, our guide, “Ms. Elliott went to the restroom in the water.”
What a tattletale!
“I... Hey... I didn't know,” I stutter through clenched teeth to the handsome asshole I am sleeping with. “You. Did. Too.”
“Ha-haa!” Miguel hollers. “First timer!” When I face the tan Latin man steering us back to shore, he only winks and continues to laugh and shake his head.
“Mr. Harris, you're a dick.”
“It's Benny.”
I can't see his eyes through the mirrored aviators he's wearing, but I can see every white tooth in his smart-ass grin.
&nb
sp; Our last night, so far, is bittersweet. We build a camp down by the water and have a fireside picnic. We eat fruit, which we never seem to grow tired of and mysteriously never run out of. We drink our last vacation Coronas and talk about all the things we've done over the last few weeks.
We take turns watching the stars while we roll around naked on the blanket, telling each other how good it feels as we worship each other's bodies.
I think we accidentally made love. I hate that term, but I don't know what else to call it. My body thanked him in every way that my words can't yet. My heart sought alternative means of communication to tell him just how much I am already his.
Curled up next to him while watching the fire, I ask, “What happens tomorrow when we go back to real life, Ben?” I want him to say the right thing, but I don’t know what it is.
“What do you want to happen, baby?” He answers my question with his own and tightens his grip around my body like he's trying to attach me to him.
“I like this.”
“And?”
“And,” I sigh, trying to calm my nerves enough to speak the truth, “I'm nervous.”
Ben's puts his lips on my neck and talks with his mouth on my skin. “I think we just play it by ear. Tomorrow we go back to real life, but you'll be you. I'll still be me. We can still be us.” I pray that the hope in his voice is right.
“What about your job? I can't pay you to do things for me. It doesn't feel right. It would feel like I'm paying you to be with me.”
This time, he thinks a little longer to answer. “You don't have to pay me.” What a simple solution.
“I have to pay you. It's your job.”
“I don't need the money and I like helping you. Call it pro bono.”
“Ben,” I cry, even too whiny for my own liking. “I'm serious. This is a big deal. Should I start looking for another PA?” My voice rises right along with my anxiety.
“Hey, cool out. This is what we can do. Everything stays the same. I'll keep working. You can pay me or not pay me. I don't care. See how it goes. If it gets weird, we'll deal with it then. Then, after your brother's wedding, I'll help you find a new assistant. How about that? We won't borrow trouble.” He pets my hair and runs his hands up and down my arms.