Yes, I can imagine her voice. I think on what it might sound like. I feel it, smooth and seductive as her finger tracing my tattoos. Her pink lips dance, singing to me. What else can she do with them?
My cock is so hard. “Clayton …” It pushes against the inside of my jeans. I want to pull it out while her breath keeps touching my face.
I want to look up into her eyes and bury my mouth in her breasts.
I want to know what she smells like so bad. I want to taste her. I want to tear off her clothes and watch her gasp with surprise as the beast within me is unleashed on her.
I reach down for my cock, ready to release him.
Then I feel the subtle shake of a door closing and remove my hand, the dream destroyed. Fucking hell. I catch my breath and lift my head, only to find Brant standing over the couch holding a six-pack with a smug grin of victory stretched across his face.
Brant is the tall, slender type with the messy brown hair and blue eyes that all the girls go ape shit for, and he knows it too. He works out a third as much as I do, yet keeps a body that’s ripped and lean, no matter how much pizza he packs a day. I don’t know how the fucker does it. Brant’s come a long way since we were kids, that’s for sure. We’ve been the best of buddies since the day we fought and made up over bloody noses in an elementary school playground.
He wiggles the six-pack and gives me a lift of his eyebrows, offering one. I type, then lift my phone with a scowl:
WTF with the dishes?
Im not ur mom
Brant smirks, leans over the back of the couch and says it’s all Dmitri’s leftover mess from some friends he brought over last night. Then he adds something about how if I listened more carefully, I would’ve heard their ruckus and kicked them out.
I throw a punch into his arm for that remark, inspiring a laugh from him that I can almost hear with my mind. I’ve known Brant since long before I lost my hearing and we’ve cracked so many stupid jokes together that I know his laugh as intimately as my own. He’s the only person in the world who can get away with giving me shit for being deaf. Maybe it’s the only way we both can cope with it … even if he’s still shit at sign language and doesn’t seem able to retain a damn thing beyond the signs for “fart”, “poop”, “penis”, and “Cherry Coke”.
Brant comes around the couch and plops down by my legs, nearly sitting on them, and asks me if I’m still planning on coming to his thing. What I was planning to do was jerk off, you fucker. Truth is, I’m not even sure that’s what he asked; the sleepier I get, the harder it is to read lips. I have to think for a moment before realizing what he means: he’s got a bowling tournament next Saturday that he’s invited Dmitri and I to come watch. It’s an unofficial sort of local thing with the prize being free drinks for a week, but it means a lot to Brant. Also, he happens to be some weird kind of bowling ball whisperer.
I nod at him, which seems to satisfy him more than the supposed lady-sex he just had. I didn’t see her leave, but I know he never lets a girl stay over, so either her stealth level is top notch or he made her climb out of the window.
The six-pack appears once again and he rips one off, tossing it into my lap. With a snapping of its lid, I take a long, deep swallow. The cold beer runs down my throat and fills me with a comfort I’ve so craved. My eyes glaze over as Brant throws an arm over the back of the couch and flips on the TV.
I read the captions for two minutes before growing bored.
It doesn’t matter what’s on TV. Between the cold, wet can in my fist and the colors flashing over my face from the screen, I let the alcohol numb my incessant, invasive thoughts of that girl I shouldn’t be craving … a girl I can’t let stay over, a girl I’m letting climb out the window of my mind …
A girl still waiting for me on that stage with her jagged breaths …
A girl who finds me on this couch when my eyes finally close, her soft fingers dancing across my skin and sending currents of pleasure up my arms. A girl whose touch makes me so hard, my cock aches as it tents uncomfortably in my jeans. A girl whose pink, pouty lips hover tauntingly over my face, ready to make a slobbering, paralyzed idiot out of me.
A girl who is carefully, patiently taking me apart … one agonizing piece at a time.
DESSIE
I can’t contain my excitement, not even in acting class. My stomach’s doing cartwheels in the grass and my lips keep twisting into a smile that hasn’t gone away all weekend.
I don’t care if he’s deaf. He didn’t hear my song? No big deal. He felt it. I could see it in his eyes, which burned black with hunger, with need, with danger …