by Alex Cioran
Lily is on top of me, wearing sunlight in her hair. Her breasts are bouncing. What I like most is to see her breasts bouncing like this. The way the softness shutters. I also like her to press her breasts together, to squeeze them up and then let them fall. This, as she's moving on me, too. I'm simple in my tastes, and I'm glad for that. I don't need to have my balls squashed by high heels. I just love my wife's breasts.
The way she's moving now, I can barely stop myself from coming. I'm not inside of her. She's just rubbing her wetness against me. The feeling swells. I want these moments to last forever -- these moments when I'm not thinking about not having enough money or someone getting cancer again. I'm just moving against Lily's wetness and her eyes are closed and her mouth is open and she's pushing her breasts together.
Let me sing a little more about Lily's breasts. They're creamy, the nipples pink and hard when she's fucking. I often lick my hand and rub between them and let her hover over me and make a tunnel for me to slip into. I love them. I kiss them. I suck her nipples. I taste her sweat, her various sweetnesses. I love to eat her out and then bring the wetness up to her breasts. She sings when I lick her. I love her breasts when she's flat on her back, the way they pancake out. I love them when she's over me. I love them when she's in the shower, soaping up. I love them -- as she gets older -- going lower. I love when she blows me, one arm cradled under breasts as she kneels and just as I'm about to come, she takes her mouth off of me and lets me shoot onto her breasts and then she rubs the come into her skin and laughs.
I'm leaning up to stare at her breasts now. She's pinching her nipples dark. She's tonguing the tops. The light makes her gold.
When I'm done, she grabs a towel and presses it on my belly.
She curls up next to me.
I kiss her now. Our mouths taste like morning coffee. I go down. I kiss her breasts. I kiss her belly. I kiss between her legs. I open her with my tongue. I whisper my tongue over the fluttering place. She bucks. I look up at her breasts. She's touching them. She knows I want her to do that. She's pushing them together. She puts one hand in my hair. She tells me slow down. She tells me that feels good.
I slow my tongue. I flicker it the way she likes. I bring up my hand and push two fingers inside of her. We're not in a house with close neighbors anymore. We're out in the country. She screams. Her yeses are loud. I reach my other hand up to her breasts and then to her neck. She likes my hand on her neck when she's coming. Not choking. Just touching. I'm moving my fingers in and out, timing it with the movements of my tongue. And with my pinky I'm fingering her rosette. There's an oh Christ and a high buck and she's done and I'm back up at her mouth, kissing her, passing her taste back to her.
"We should go clean up after breakfast," she says.
"In a little while," I say. It's Saturday and this is all I want.
We can't fall back asleep with the blinds open to such brightness. She rolls away from me and I look at the sunlight dotting her. I touch her freckles one at a time. I put my hand on her bottom.
Lily in June is a dream I once had. I was a kid then. Sheets felt new. I slept with girls who rumbled my name and tasted like uncooked corn. I dreamed of older women, a wife I didn't know yet. Those girls barely had breasts. They moved like half-formed drawings. In the beginning I wondered if I'd invented Lily. Her perfect shapes. Her voice like the moon on a red night. Her pushings and pullings and the ways she loves me into a new happiness every day.
Lily in June moves softly in the morning. She stands in front of the window and stretches. Her breasts make shadows on the wall. Outside the window is our garden and beyond that the tree line and all the quiet that we live near.
Lily in June is morning-perfect all day long. She slips into her underwear, tangles with her bra, complains how she needs a new one, an expensive one. She throws my shirt at me. She puts on a sundress. It's a hot day. We don't have plans. I want to get her out of the sundress. I want her to take off her underwear but I want her to leave her bra on. I tell her that. I want her to be on top of me with just her bra on. I want to push the bra off over her breasts. Something about that. The way they loosen and fall. The way the black bra rolls over her chest and she has to raise her arms to get it off and I see her armpits. I get up and go over to tell her how much I want that. But I want it to so much that I'm hard again and I can't make it back to the bed. I roll her underwear down and she keeps the dress on and I hold her breasts and we fuck with her leaning over the dresser. We knock a candle-holder to the ground. I look at a dish full of her turquoise jewelry. I tell her how I like her with the dress on.
I slow this moment with Lily down. Look how she moves. Look at her hips. Look at my hands on her bottom. Look at the way she looks over her shoulder at me. I can see all the gray in her hair and I love it. I want to kiss her gray hairs. I want to kiss her ears. This feels good even though I'm holding her breasts instead of seeing them. I miss them. I picture them under my hands, the dress and bra between my skin and hers. Still, they're moving with love. Still, I dream them.
Lily says, "I want to see your face." So I pull out and she turns around and sits on her dresser and wraps her legs around me. I unbutton the front of her dress and then reach inside and unclasp her bra with fumbly fingers. I have her breasts then, they're in my hands, even though the bra is in my way, and I'm soft with them. I'm kissing them again. And I'm trying to kiss them and move back into her at the same time but it's hard because she's so low on the dresser.
Lily in June has her hands on my chest. And then she has them in her hair. She arches back. I put myself back in and we're moving again. I slow this moment down because Lily's breasts are making circles over the open petals of her dress. They move in their soft slowness, in a white tumble. I won't last long looking. I close my eyes. I see them anyway. The dream of those breasts always on the blacks of my eyelids.
Lily in June isn't dissatisfied when I finish. She knows it's her love that's killed me to quickness.
These are our days. We work during the week but we yearn for nights and weekends when our bodies can shadow into kisses, when we can sunlight into perfect trembles. We still fight, sure we do. And I'm happy for it. We fuck even better after we fight. Those are the best ones. There's anger mixed with the love. We move faster. We hold harder. I can see tightness in Lily's neck. We almost shatter.
Lily is 35. I'm 33. Lily had boyfriends and girlfriends before me. I only had girlfriends, though I once kissed a man in a bar. A painter. Lily lives in that kiss now. Lily lives in everything.
Lily in June is the best Lily. She works in the garden for a few hours before lunch. She comes in with soil on her hands and under her fingernails. Her sundress is loose and she is sweaty. She's wearing one of those floppy-brimmed gardening hats. Her freckles are star-dark. She holds up her hands. "I want to touch you with my dirty hands," she says.
And she does. On my neck.
She wants to know if I've ever burrowed a little hole in the ground and you know.
"Lily," I say. I laugh.
"What? Have you? It's a thing people do."
"Sure. I want to see you do it."
"Seems like a waste."
"That's true," she says, and she thumbs at my pants.
We have lunch at the picnic table beyond the garden -- fresh bread from the bakery, tomatoes, mozzarella, red peppers and basil from the garden, the rose' she likes -- and we sit in the sun.
In the afternoon we close the blinds and watch a double feature: Claire's Knee and Love in the Afternoon. We're roped together on our uncomfortable sofa. I feel like I should go for a run, but I'm wine-tired from lunch and in love with being Lily-lazy. We kiss and I keep my hands between her thighs during the movies.
Later, when it's getting dark, Lily lights candles and we open a new bottle of wine. I tell her to take off her underwear because I like the idea of her walking around the house like that. I like to feel that aching. It's better here than out. I tell Lily let's never leave again. Let's have a million meals and a million bottles of wine and mark every inch of the house with our love and just say fuck work and fuck everyone else and oh how goddamn perfect that would be. Lily nods into me and kisses my shoulder.
We shower together and leave the lights off because it's nice to shower in the dark with our bodies pressed under the needly thrum of water.
We like to pretend in the shower.
"We're both high school teachers," Lily says. "I teach French and you teach English. We had to stay after for a meeting and I've had a crush on you for a long time and I guess you've had one on me too. I whisper in your ear when no one's looking and tell you to follow me to the locker room."
"And I go with you," I say. "I'll go anywhere with you."
"My name's not Lily. It's Ana. And you're Eric."
"Nice to meet you, Ana," I say, and I'm touching between her legs.
We kiss like almost strangers. Our bodies feel new this way. I say Ana in her ear. I kneel down and kiss her belly and say Ana Ana Ana. I like the water pouring over me. I like Lily as Ana. I like Lily as whoever she wants to be. I like the way the darkness feels like light. I like the way we fuck as if we're dreaming.
Our days unscroll like this. Lily in June knows the night. She wears a wispy white nightgown that I can see through.
She wears the Catholic school girl skirt I bought her in Nashville.
She wears glasses even though she doesn't need them because I like to see her in glasses.
She ribbons spit on her hand and rubs me hard.
I dream Lily when I'm sleeping next to her. We go through cases of wine and sleep naked with the window open. I don't dream about other women. I only dream Lily's hands and Lily's kisses. In the middle of the night we often wake up kissing. And then she falls asleep on top of me after we've made dumb drunken love.
Lily listens to Lana Del Rey and Bruce Springsteen.
She kisses me over coffee.
She puts her hand in a jar of coconut oil and then rubs it between her legs and opens herself with it and slides me in and I love the whispery feel of our moving.
She runs topless on our treadmill for me. She does jumping jacks topless. She brings me coffee topless. Cuts my hair topless. I ask her to iron naked and she does, goose pimply, shivery. I love it.
She orders an apron from an Etsy shop in California and, when it comes, she wears it with nothing underneath. I chase her around the house. She leaves the apron on while we fuck on the kitchen floor.
We work but work passes in pale hours. Nothing matters except home.
Lily in June asks me questions. If we had another daughter, what would you want to name her? Do I look old? Will you still love me when I'm seventy even with an old floppity vadge and floppers to the floor? What is the purpose of love? Who made us? She kisses these questions into me. Sometimes she wants answers.
Our June is holy with long hours of love.
Lily is reading one afternoon. Jude the Obscure. I take off her socks and kiss her feet. I kiss up her bare legs. I kiss the insides of her thighs. I open her with my tongue. She tells me get the coconut oil and I do and I circle it into her and she pulls her shirt off over her head and unclasps her bra and hugs her breasts.
She looks like she's in a painting. Neck arched. Breasts shadowing her belly. A sweep of hair on her forehead. Biting her lip. A dried dandelion on a chain around her neck.
This moment is numinous -- not having come yet but wanting so badly to, Lily wanting to fuck me forever, her face letting me know this is it, everything's just perfect. All last year's sadness gone from her eyes.
This isn't just new love. Lily and I have been together for seven Junes. We lost a baby. We've lived together in three cities. Lily and I held our love up against the hot pavement and watched it burn and then we brought it back home and treated it tenderly until its skin grew back and it was soft again.
Lily and I aren't young and dumb. When we fuck -- like we're fucking now on this couch, Lily's breasts moving, that smile of hers, afternoon goldenness collecting on her -- there's so much story behind it, so much love. I remarry Lily every time I fuck her.
Lily in June is saying my name now. Listen. Lily in June is saving us with her voice.