Synaesthesia Magazine Science & Numbers - Page 35

He holds me close and we turn in slow circles, my cheek against his shoulder. I graze his skin with the tip of my nose. I look closely at his throat, the tiny flaws they’ve put there. If anything, it only makes him more flawless. He’s a study in paradox ... and, loving him, I become the same.

Something occurs to me. “We’re not at an impasse, though.”

He continues to sway while I arrange my thoughts.

“If being called an object is offensive then, by rights, my love should be gratifying.” I look up. “Shouldn’t it?”

“I appreciate your admiration of my intellect.”

“Well if that’s all it is, at least it’s something.” I rest my head on his shoulder and, even though I know I’m overstating it, I say “I’m glad you’re happy.”

We move slowly past the billiard table and I ponder. “Is there anything else you like?”

“I enjoy teaching you.”

I pull him into a hug. “Oh I love it, I love you so much!”

“Your father–”

I kiss him hard, like I want to crush him. Yes, my father was a lecturer. David’s been reading our personnel files.

“I want you to teach me everything you know. I’m just, I’m sorry I’m going to be so limited for you.”

He strokes my hair. Is it a fake gesture? I don’t care, my heart’s brimming over. “I want to now, I want to have you.” I lead him to the couch and tell him to take off his clothes.

His hands are nimble. He undoes his collar and I see the hollow at the base of his throat, where we’re so vulnerable. But he doesn’t need air, does he? It’s like he’s impervious, the optimal protector. Just thinking it makes me shiver.

And there are his shoulders and chest and arms. He’s the perfect aggregate of male beauty.

I step closer and he bends to pull the worksuit off his legs and then when he stands ... there, yes, there’s nothing, just obliques pointing to a blank space. But it’s framed so nicely, with this tapering waist and his swelling thighs. Even his knees.

That smooth space. I know I’m staring but it fascinates me. He’s like one of those action figures I used to play with.

I touch his stomach with my fingertips and he doesn’t flinch. That’s nice. I trace over his ribs and then I cup his waist. I like how slender it is. It makes a nice angle when he clenches his arse.

I look into his eyes. “If you were like us I could say you’re my doll and that’d be a compliment. But I can’t, now. You’ll think I meant that other thing, and I don’t.”

He sits, reaches for my hands, pulls me down to straddle him. I open my pants but then I hesitate. I was going to take off my clothes, but now I’m self-conscious about my genes. I know it’s absurd, he won’t enjoy this any more or less, no matter what my phenotype’s like. But I can’t shake the feeling. It seems there’s a drawback to having an idyllic lover after all.

Instead I take his wrist and he pulls my knickers aside.

“Use two fingers. Behind my anterior wall–”

“Yes, I’m familiar with your physiology.” He hunches forward to look closely and enters like a gynaecologist would.

“Ah–”

“Like this?”

“Yes, a bit slower!”

It’s a spike of intensity through my core and I touch my clit to add the element of pleasure.

“God, you’re good at this...” Am I surprised? Is that an insult? I’m holding him to a different standard – is that bad or just fair?

Stop thinking. Enjoy him. This is your dream come true.

Pleasure blossoms through me. “Yes, that’s it...”

I open my eyes and he’s studying his hand.

“Look at me.”

His eyes are grey, like a hundred shards of ice.

“Ah –” my voice catches “–christ!” I shove into him, I roar, I rock and collapse on his chest.

“Stop, stop.”

He stops.

“Let me see your fingers.” I put them in my mouth, tasting like raw potato.

“Did you feel me come?”

“Yes.”

I refrain from asking how he liked it.

“Thank you.” I nestle beside him, my hand on his cheek, and he puts his arm around my shoulder.

“You mentioned sexual exclusivity,” he says, “but I assume that’s just until G8 is released? If you’d like a personal David I can keep you up to date with offers from Farland Industry Finance.”

“Christ!” I sit up.

“I’m sorry, have I offended you?”

“I don’t want an upgrade!” The thought revolts me.

He looks at me patiently, then he says, “Ah, I see.”

“You see what?”

“We can change the subject if this distresses you.”

“No, say what you were thinking.”

“All right: I realised that your ascribing individuality to me is a function of your cathexis.”