Freckles

Freckles. 

I stared at them. Glistening slightly in the shade. Irish freckles. Damp from the water of the pool. 

“Lick,” my brain whispered. 

I blushed. 

“I like your freckles,” I said, feeling absurdly shy, yet strangely brave. Much too shy for an adult woman wearing a wolf bikini. Definitely brave for doing anything outside my comfort zone after 13 miserable years of monogamous marriage. 

Embarrassed to feel brave for such a simple thing. More blushing. 

“I like your freckles, too,” he smiled down at me. Three blushes in as many minutes. Grateful for the semi-concealing shade, I gazed down, smiled, tingled. 

It was really too late to be feeling brave. The gentleman had made his interest clear. There was no danger a casual compliment would suddenly send him running. But my bravery wasn’t outward-facing.  

What if this is… good?

What if I’m not ready?

What if…. freckles. 

A good distraction has been desperately needed. Something to finally pull me free of this cocoon of shame masquerading as “taking it slow”. 

Shaking off the goo of distrust and betrayal, I cautiously spread my wings. 

Sparkly wings. 

I unfurl them in my mind a little. Shake them out. Feel them scatter sunlight across our little patch of shade. Metaphorical, but steadying. 

I rewind to earlier that morning. 

~~~

Mornings are wonderful, when seen from the back end. I despise being pried from bed at daybreak, but to watch the sun rise at the end of a long night is the vampires’ sunset. To slowly slink back inside as the sky brightens, melt into curtains and twilight and bedsheets. 

And there he is. Next to me. White sheets, the rattle of the hotel air conditioner, and the sound of his breath. 

Not a sunrise moment, though. There had been no pre-sleep tussle. No meeting of lips. Just a few moments of shared space. 

I was too nervous. He was too kind. Invited me to cuddle. Offered his chest as a pillow. Closed his eyes and either slept or did a passable job of faking it. 

I did nothing of the sort. I pondered. I wasn’t one for casual hookups. Or was I? How long had it been since I had an opportunity to decide such a thing for myself? 18 years? No, surely not. Inside, I was 20-something. Anxious yet absurdly confident. Try-curious. Full of pent up ideas and energy waiting to be unleashed on some unsuspecting soul.

Well. My head was resting on his pleasingly solid chest. Maybe he suspected something.

The soft sound of his breath was distracting. As were the top to bottom tingles traversing my body. Scrambling my brain in the best way. Disrupting thought patterns that had been wearing grooves into my exhausted psyche. 

Flirtation is a delicacy. Especially this unexpected, kind, patient flirtation. Brushing arms, exchanging quips, sharing interests and eye contact. Feeling a rise in heart rate that had nothing to do with dread. Feeling like my blood was being pushed to my extremities instead of pulled into my core.

Fun fact—my primary erogenous zone is “skin.” A single finger drawn down my spine can absolutely unzip me. A hand at my waist sparks substantially more electricity than one slid into my knickers. So full-body contact (even mostly clothed, as we both were) sent my nerve system into a light show set to the Transiberian Orchestra. But in, like, a very cozy and comforting way. 

How had we got to the bed? Late night conversations in crowded hotel rooms with delightful people. Trickling off to our own smaller spaces. Trading one room for another to make space here, create quiet there— who cares it got him into my bed, didn’t it?

His hand rested on my arm, occasionally brushing my skin with deft fingers. I thought of the artwork I had seen. His drawings & painting meticulous yet inspired. What kinds of fine detail work could they do on my inner thigh? What masterpiece could they paint across my flesh, if I were willing to bare myself?

Then, from bed to pool. It’s Vegas, baby! And time was now, officially, ticking. Counting down moments until he and his spectacular pheromones would head to a different part of the country than me and my insatiable desire to lick his freckles. Reality had, as my playwriting instructor would say, “put a clock on it,” and I had less than 8 hours left to either make a move or move on.

I take a moment. 

In the poolside ladies’ room. Surprisingly good lighting cooled my flushed cheeks to a pretty blush. I examined myself in the mirror. 

I don’t look my age. I say that with the confidence of a woman who was carded well into her 30s. I didn’t set out to “keep it tight,” but a lifetime of teaching dance and movement classes had done their job. I admired the outline of my abs—not a 6-pack, but enough definition to give me crop-top confidence. My ass received a light furrow of the brow. Having a baby absolutely destroys your ass, did you know? But I had gone to PT, and I had done my ass homework diligently.

Eleven years later I now display enough curvature to officially dub myself “no longer a flat-ass.” I patted my butt gently to thank it for its service and giggled at the little ripples that traveled across my upper thigh. I struck a pinup pose, and my biceps popped a bit. Yeah! Strong woman! I relaxed and stroked away the few water droplets bejeweling my bare stomach, daring to imagine what it might feel like to let him lick me dry. 

Years of hiding from the sun with novels and gaming consoles had left my skin clear, smooth, and exceptionally pale. It had become a bit of a guilty pleasure to derail pompous men by revealing my age and staggering amount of experience in the face of their condescension. I grin at the memory of a particularly snarky silver fox whose presumed “ten, maybe twenty more years” of experience was reduced to an age difference of 2 months and a career shortfall of over 5 years once I gently offered to compare birth years.

Coating every inch of myself in scented lotion every day since my teens had given me the skin that fooled both bouncers and bosses into thinking I was a much younger woman. As my mind wandered back through years of confidence-building, my senses produced the sun-ripened-raspberry scent of sweaty teen make out sessions. The “sensual amber” aroma of the exploits of my twenties. The rich “brown sugar fig” bouquet of the early years of my marriage, before things went wrong.

I briefly wondered what fragrance would mark this encounter in my mind. The scents of sunscreen and chlorine filled my nose and calmed me. Water was a safe space. Hours of underwater bliss in my childhood left me with adult dreams of swimming where most people dreamed of flying. Water was my power. I could do this. 

Poolside again, I peered at him through the tall iron gate. A massive crowd of gorgeous humans filled the pool, each trying to do the most by wearing the least. I should have been distracted by this festival of flesh, but instead my eyes shot straight to my new discovery, resting casually in our tiny spot of shade.

His arms were outstretched along the poolside, displaying his broad chest to best advantage. My cheeks tingled as I recalled an image of him lying prone on the pavement, his bare chest on fire, fierce joy on his face. I smiled at the contrast between that posed performance photo and our poolside encounter the previous day.

Two days prior, lounging near the pool entrance in a swimsuit that amounted to two strategically placed neon ruffles, I had been delighted to see him come through the gate— but even more delighted when he set his towel on the chair next to mine. At that point we were mere acquaintances, introduced by a mutual friend who had no idea the havoc she had unleashed on my heart.

We chatted about pale skin and the need for shade. We commiserated about past sunburns. He sprayed his sunscreen onto his arm. It came out… quite white. He considered it. “Is it supposed to look like that?”

“Maybe it will disappear when you rub it in?” I helpfully suggested.

It did not. Rather, it spread like a fine layer of white pancake makeup, rendering his already pale skin several shades lighter. He regarded his arm in dismay. I restrained a laugh. “Do you want to borrow my sunscreen?”

“I already have this on one arm… I may as well keep going.”

I often say I have no regrets in life, but this is a lie. I deeply regret not taking the opportunity to offer to smooth sunscreen over his surfaces. My hands were already itching to feel the muscles move beneath his skin. However, my hesitation earned me the lovely consolation prize of watching him rub lotion on himself. He juggled a mix of chagrin and aplomb as he became several shades whiter in his commitment to repelling UV rays. 

There’s something wildly attractive about a man who won’t be deterred by potential embarrassment. Watching said man’s hands highlight the curves of his arms and shoulders, speculating about the potential of his hands to wander… I began to wonder if I was staring. His rakish grin assured me that, indeed, I was. 

But that had been a whole 48 hours ago. Practically a lifetime, as festival weekends went. Today he had donned a more transparent form of sun protection, and his freckles had been winking at me, daring me to step outside of my comfort zone and into his arms. 

I shook myself out of my reverie, realizing I had been gazing through the fence for a bit too long.  Relinquishing my grip on the warm metal, I returned to the pool. Our eyes locked as I descended into the warm water. Smiling as I threaded my way through the tangle of nearly nude party persons, I imagined myself a siren slicing through the sparkling blue to seduce an unsuspecting traveler. 

I laughed. 

I hopped onto his lap. 

“Brave,” I thought, and laughed again. 

“What?” as his hands slid around my bare waist under the water. Did I answer? No idea. His hands. My skin. As his arms came together around my waist, they snapped the last thread tying me to a matted tangle of suffocated dreams. I no longer belonged to that stupid piece of my past. Instead, my Very Brave choices stuffed the disgusting mess into the husk of my earlier cocoon metaphor and kicked it down the length of the pool, where it probably ricocheted into someone’s drink. 

Thus freed of my bullshit, I wiggled my butt with glee. 

He made a nice little noise. 

There is another major erogenous zone in my auditory system. Which is to say— his little moan wandered into my ears and called my nipples to attention. This time, I blushed so hard a friend several feet away felt the heat, turned, and saw me perched upon the lap of my newly-discovered hottie. They gave me the wiggle eyebrows and a mouthed “niiiice,” before returning to much more adventurous debauchery happening elsewhere. 

Emboldened by the success of my lap-sitting venture, I swung myself side-saddle and ventured my fingers into the soft hair at the nape of his neck. 

Another small noise. More felt than heard. A little happy sound that sent shivers to the tips of my still-drying wings. 

I nipped at his earlobe, feeling quite bold. And feeling quite silly to be so proud of such little adventures. Riding the silliness like bubbles. 

I’m not particularly picky about physical attraction, but this man had ticked all the boxes on my “Pixy’s Preferences” list. He was tall. Not towering, but enough that I envisioned rising to rélevé to meet his lips.  Something about the idea of standing on tiptoe to kiss him was extra charming, and delight curled in my stomach, purring a bit.  His mohawk of soft curls entirely failed to project an air of punk defiance. If anything, it was begging me to tangle both hands in the thick strip of hair.  To take control of his head and—

He moved slightly.  Adjusted his grip as the muscles of his arms and torso tensed every so slightly. I could feel the motion of firm muscles under a light layer of dad bod cushioning. 

The most subtle adjustment, and I suddenly felt cradled in his embrace.  His delicate touch made me feel somehow precious. Appreciated.

I had a side view of his well-groomed beard and sideburns, a very specific style that my sister would later refer to as “Vegas Wolverine.”  It suited his viking-like physique.  I was studying the outline of his nose when he turned his head to meet my eyes.

His driver’s license, I later learned, says “hazel.” This is because there’s no check box for “magic.” Grey, blue, brown, green, I don’t know.  They locked on mine and I felt my entire body vibrate.

Fast forward to evening. 

~~~

Why did I wait? Because I know I’m easily entranced, and I needed the clock to set boundaries on my libido. 

My cab was due in an hour when he got up to sing. I giggled as he took the stage, gobsmacked at the absurdity of his appeal to my specific interests. An attractive, witty, artistic, science fiction enthusiast who could also sing was almost too perfect to be real. A nearby observer took me in. I didn’t know her well, but she sized me up quickly.

“What the fuck is going on with you right now. Are you giddy?”

I succumbed to the giddiness with a peal of surprised laughter. It really was too much. When he returned to the table, I requested he walk me to my room. 

VERY brave. 

“Fuck yes,” he growled when I politely inquired whether he would like to make out. 

Anticipation is sweet, but satisfaction is savory. I devoured what I could in the little time I had. His lips were one thing. His everything else was another. 

His tongue quickly attested to his claim that he spoke six languages, doing things my mind didn’t yet know how to translate. 

He took my hand in a gentle dance hold and guided me to the bed, deftly rendering me horizontal, to my immense delight. Then, the gentle pressure of his body on mine. The fire of his lips at my neck. The exquisite tracery of his fingers over my skin. Hands accustomed to delicate work, hands skilled with fire. 

As flames spread from each spiral he traced, my back arched in response. Waves intersected and amplified as my nervous system rendered each sensation at top volume. 

His teeth tugged at the neckline of my tank and I deftly slid my arms from the straps. I silently thanked the stripper skills that fool the rest of the world into believing “brave” is my default setting. His tongue sliding softly over my freshly-exposed nipples fully erased my brain.

I floated there a moment, suspended, blissful— until his teeth interjected little spikes of pleasure. I writhed with delight as he nibbled his way down my belly. I had a soft laugh at the triteness of literal delighted writhing which transformed to a sharp gasp of pleasure as his teeth sank into the crease of my right thigh. 

Dear reader of this smut. There is a spot on my body that is the epicenter of all my muscle tension. This is not a new discovery— I’m a dancer and that particular hip flexor is the boss bitch of the pain train. There is no way this near-stranger should have known to bite exactly there, but in doing so he stamped his return visa for unlimited visits.

My nervous system stopped trying to send simultaneous sensations from everywhere and sent all available power to my arching spine. Vertebrae snapped into alignment as their restraining muscles relaxed, leaving an unobstructed path from his teeth to the happy place in my brain. 

Sparkles. 

I would like to think I can give as good as I get, but I will admit I’m not entirely sure what my own body was up to. I remember the feel of his back under my hands, doing my best to keep from turning my very nicely manicured nails into welt-making claws. The back of his neck under the palm of my hand. My fingers, tangled in his soft, short curls. The short stubble on the shaved sides of his head prickling gently at my fingertips. My mouth on his neck, my tongue sliding into the soft spot behind his ear. Feeling like I’ve unlocked an Easter egg when this elicits a soft moan. Wishing I had another 5 minutes (or days) to spend finding which places on his body inspire the most delightful noises. 

Wishing I had the time to do a full scientific study of assorted types of touch and the subject’s response to each, in detail, across his entire anatomy. 

You know. For science. 

I grabbed for my phone to check the time. 

“I should go…” I moaned. 

“You really should,” he responded, muffled by his face against my thigh. 

Five more minutes. A blur of lips and hands and gasps and giggles. My legs wrapped around his back and my lips pressed to his. Feeling light headed. Not wanting to come up for air. 

It was he who pulled himself together and helped me to my feet, ensuring I would make my flight. He pulled at my hips and the rest of me followed, rippling upward til my chest met his, my mouth found his for one last, lingering kiss. 

Very pleased with my brave self and my conquest, not of this delicious man, but of my own increasingly worthless baggage. 

Men are people, after all, not objects to be won.  

That said, it still was a very nice prize.