There are some sounds in life that are familiar. The sound of the pizza delivery guy's shoes against the pavement; the sound of Kayden having loud (questionable) sex; and the sound of my boyfriend, taking a dump in the bathroom. Okay, that last one might be a little TMI - but, if you've ever lived with someone, you'll know exactly what I'm talking about.
As someone with a plethora of mental disorders, these sounds bring me comfort because I know what they mean. It's the uncanny, unpredictable, unheard before ones, which bring me a rush of anxiety, stronger than my boyfriend's bowel movements after he's had Indian food.
"What time's your game?" I ask Erik, just as he's coming out the bathroom door. I don't need to wait for him to say something to make me aware of his appearance, because the simple adjustment of the bathroom fan is enough to be as loud as a siren call. That and the fact that his entering the bedroom means a variety of scents and aromas has now come along with him.
And before you think I'm some weird scat enthusiast, I mean the smell of the Dove soap we use, not his feces. The smell of that is masked by Poo-Pourri and the frequent use of a Febreze spray. It's scented Hawaiian Paradise; so anytime I feel like I'm in Maui, I know he's taken a dump.
"7:30." He answers, casually strolling out in only a bath towel tied around his waist. Yes, nothing else. Nothing to dry his hair (obviously, he's a boy); but more importantly, nothing to conceal his Greek God like body, or stop me from potentially seeing his Johnson, if his towel were to fall off.
I realize his baring of skin when he leans over to give me a kiss and I make direct eye contact with his towel. His dick which is hidden beneath it, no doubt swinging forward to say "hello". Well joke's on him, because by the time he has some meeting availability, I'll be fast asleep. Just another one of the many perks of having a different sleep schedule than your boyfriend.
I don't say anything, but make an awkward noise with my throat - something between a laugh and a clearing of the throat. I do it because when Erik doesn't have clothes on, I can't think straight. Perhaps it's my body's way of trying to figure out if I have any brain cells available; or if they've all been killed off by my self tanner.
He shoots me a confused look, furrowing his eyebrows together while raising them in a questioning dad, sort-of-way. I really need to stop comparing Erik to a dad, because people will really start to think I have some weird incestuous kink. In reality, I just see some traits in him that I suppose I wish I'd seen in my father.
A protector; a carer; someone that would want to slay all the dragons for me. Something I always craved to have in my own family tree, but never did. Now, 21 years after I needed it, I've found those same traits in the man I've come to love. Talk about a plot twist.
"What?" He wanders, casually strolling across the room and heading towards our dresser. Technically it's his dresser; but if technicality was really concerned, it's all mine. After all, it's my bras; underwear; t-shirts; and various brands of leggings that take up the majority of its space.
His t-shirts also preside there, but as we all know - those bitches are mine.
"Nothing." I answer, rolling the lie off my tongue like it's a cotton swabbing from a doctor. I don't exactly know how to say that you wearing no clothes makes me unable to think straight; so instead, I return my eyes to the laptop screen in front of me, suddenly unable to focus.
Then - and I do mean then, when I've just began to regain consciousness, he removes said towel; and it all goes to hell.
His bare ass is exposed to me - fully exposed. I can see a thin layer of light blonde hair trailing down the body of it, because yes, apparently his ass has a body of its own. His schlong - which can be seen hanging slightly past his ass, is flaccid and swinging around like a monkey hanging from a branch.
Truthfully, I have many questions; on how men's bodily autonomy works, but all I can muster in this moment is a laugh. A short sighted, lack-luster, uncomfortable snort.
It's the kind that makes you so embarrassed you wear a paper bag for the rest of your life or change your name and move to El Salvador. Unfortunately for me, my passport has been expired for exactly two years and I am neither a risk taker nor trying to fuck with border patrol.
What makes it worse is him turning around, his schlong whipping to the side like a girl flipping her hair back and forth in an effort to signal her flirtation to the opposite sex. I knew a girl in middle school who did that compulsively; everyone made fun of her for it but she still managed to get all the boys.
"What's up with you?" He asks - Erik, not my middle school math teacher that I occasionally used to fantasize about. He turns fully around to face me and suddenly I'm staring at a full-length, naked Erik King.
I can feel my face melting into the floor; my body wishing it could be drowned with one of the many show pillows on our bed. "Nothing. You're just...naked." I finally muster, sounding like a teenage boy that's never seen someone fully nude before. I suppose if I were really a teenage boy I would reach out and squeeze his tits; of course, he doesn't have any. I wonder if his buttock would count.
It's by far, nicer than mine - which truthfully, makes me a little resentful. Why is it that men have been gifted with long lashes; flawless skin; and perky cheeks, while women are the ones having to strategically darken themselves to achieve any of the above? That my friends, is injustice at it's finest. And another point that confirms god is in fact a man, because why else would he favor one gender over the other?
An amused smirk spreads across his face, as if my discomfort is something that brings pleasure and not pain. "I am." He agrees, making no move to conceal this fact or cover up his Johnson. I feel kind of like one of those judges on Next Top Model; maybe the unhinged one? Which one of them is that, you may wonder. I think all of them. "See something you like?" He teases, not missing a beat when he strides across the room and comes over to me.
Why on earth is this man so fucking beautiful? This should not be allowed. God, we need a recount.
"Erik." I laugh shyly, nervously, maybe like a prisoner on death row being teased with their choice of extrication. Or something less morbid. "Can you put on some boxers, at least?" I ask, practically begging for my sanity back.
He's stopped at the foot of the bed, seeming as if he had initially planned to pounce on me like a cat watching a mouse; but decided against it. He laughs deeply, his husky chuckle the ever-so-present reminder of how much of a man he is. A man with facial hair; laugh lines; and the ability to penetrate.
"It's not like you haven't seen it before." He points out, appeasing my anxieties when he pulls a pair of black boxer briefs over his thighs. They're thick and beautiful and look like they belong on the cover of a magazine.
While men may have fake boobs and bodacious derrieres that they lust over, I have big thighs and strong forearms. The kind of forearms that hold a man over you as his schlong penetrates your nether regions.
I shrug, not knowing how else to explain my discomfort of nudity other than to avoid it all-together. "I know. It's just different when we're..." I trail off, having no trouble with participating in the extracurricular (most of the time) but having difficulty when it comes to putting it into words.
"Making love?" He offers, his signature boyish smile beaming across his face as he comes back towards me. It's my favorite one; the one he wears when he's happy, carefree, and feeling good. In my head, I compare it to a golden retriever wagging its tail and climbing all over you as you pet him. In my head, I also need therapy.
I bite my lip, feeling a weird - but familiar, rush between my legs as we make eye contact. It's the kind of rush that says I want your schlong all over my interior crevasses. I want you to be inside me faster than a lineup of Black Friday shoppers at 12am.
"Yeah." I murmur, managing to answer just before he presses his lips to mine. This kiss is longer than the others; much like a drug addict, Erik seems to want more and more each time. His hand cups the side of my cheek, tilting my face so that I'm looking up towards him.
But the kiss isn't intense or sexual or him wanting to make a quick detour to fucking me. It's loving; and sweet; and feels like someone caressing the inside of my soul with a feather duster.
Like all the men that have ever kissed me before were just amateurs and he's an Olympic qualifier. Like I don't know if anyone else could ever kiss me as good as he can. Like I'm not sure if I would ever want them to.