Sunday Sermon
On Sunday mornings, we sleep in. On rainy Sunday mornings, even more so. The only chore we have to take care of is letting the chickens out of the coop. Today, I let myself linger in half-waking, on the sleepy side of center. I stick a foot out from beneath the duvet, slide my skin against the soft cotton, flip the pillow over to cool. It’s Soren’s turn to deal with the hens. There aren’t any roosters here. They slip into galoshes and open the french doors. They’re surveying the landscape, rolling a delicate morning spliff with calloused, tattooed hands. They stand outside, just beneath the overhang. I watch them smoke; their hard, steely gaze, their dark rebel hair sticking out at odd ends, a little bit of grey streaked throughout. I laugh a little because, are they kind of a Harry Potter type? And roll over back to bed.
I know Soren by this landscape. They’ve always smelled like wet wood to me. When we first met, I noticed their hands. I had just moved upstate alone. Left the city after nearly a decade and wandered north to put some roots down. I met some hops farmers at a swimming hole my first weekend up here, they invited me to a party. I remember having a good time but I’m kind of introvert so I slipped away without saying much after exchanging numbers with a few locals; a weaver, a potter, a brewer. Everyone was cute and I was digging the bucolic charm.
This was just after a heavy rain, I got in my car to drive away but it was badly stuck in the mud. After spinning my tires for what felt like ages a cute, wiry queer in a sleeveless flannel came to my rescue; Soren. They said they could give me a tow in the morning but they were getting out of there anyway and did I want a ride. It was dark, their hands were perfect on the steering wheel. Strong, precise, totally genderless. I’m not sure if they really did smell like wet wood or if it was just the forest all around us. That was five years ago and we’ve been together ever since.
I hear the door click shut. Without stirring I watch them enter. Graceful, barefoot, naked except the oversized canvas work coat they slip out of. Cute butt. They come toward the bed, and quietly slip between the sheets, trying not to wake me. With my back turned to them, I wiggle my bare ass over to their side of the bed and press against their cool, misty-morning skin. They press against me to warm up, cocoon me, a hand on my thigh, which then lightly slides all the way up my side, over my hips, resting at the dip of my waist, then a little bit higher, just beneath the breast, “is this okay?” they whisper.
I take their hand and place it over my breast, give it a squeeze as if to say, “go on.” They fondle me in handfuls, pinch my nipple between their forefinger and thumb, roll it around. It makes my hips rock a little. I let out a soft moan.
They slide their hand back down to my hip. I roll over onto my belly and they lift one of my ass cheeks away from the other, which causes the lips of my pussy to gently part. They slowly drop my ass, the lips kiss shut, lift and drop, lift and drop, open and shut.
I start to rock against a phantom cock and they slowly, so slowly it feels like backtracking half the time, slide their hand down the curve of my ass, between my thighs, and trace up, dipping fingers into my warm, wet, pussy. Resting the heel of their hand on the low-ledge of my sacrum, they press down as their fingers find my clit. They kiss the back of my neck. They take their hand away and I can feel my body begging for it back.
They bend a knee so their thigh rests just beneath my ass. Under their gentle restraint I’m biting at a pillow, exhaling through a clenched jaw. With their fingers on the nape of my neck they say, “what do you want next?”
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