Page 94 of Woman on the Verge

There is something tickling my belly. I squirm. Is he touching me with afeather? I can’t help but giggle—over the tickling and the ridiculousness of this.

“Shh,” he says.

He stops with the feather, or whatever he’s using, and begins to graze my skin with his fingertips, goose bumps following in the wake of his touch. He starts at the soles of my feet, gently stroking each toe. I try to enjoy it, try not to think about the state of my toenails, my cracked heels. He travels up my calves, traverses my knees, lingers on my thighs. I lift my hips again, but he pushes them back down.

His fingertips move over my lower belly, then up to my breasts. My breasts haven’t felt like part of my sexual being since I became a mother. Even now, nearly two years out from breastfeeding, I think of them as my retired saggy milk sacs. Elijah reminds me of the beauty they have on their own, detached from the service they provided. They are no longer perky and taut, but they seem to suit him just fine. He dances his fingers around my nipples, cups my breasts, one in each of his hands, massages them gently. They are tender and sore, and for a brief second, I exit the moment and wonder if I’m going to get an ill-timed period all over his sheets.

I forget about that as he makes his way to my shoulders, then down my arms, then back up to my neck. It’s nearly impossible for me to lie still as he works his way around my neck and up to my scalp. Every time I start to writhe around, he places his whole hand on my belly until I settle.

How long have I been wearing this blindfold? It could be ten minutes or three hours. I’ve lost all track of time. I’ve transcended time completely. Finally, he moves his fingers to my vagina. He strokes softly, seemingly without a next step in mind. I feel the wave of an orgasm approaching, starting way back at the horizon line, then moving toward shore, gaining in size and velocity until it’s bigger than any wave I’ve experienced before. My low, guttural groan increases in pitch until the wave crashes and my head arches back and I let out aneeeelike a hyena in heat.

I assume he will lower himself on top of me, take his turn, but he doesn’t. He resumes massaging me. He reaches inside me—one finger first.

“Is this okay?” he asks.

“Yes.”

He puts two fingers inside me. “And this?”

Before I can answer, another wave swells, and I come again.

“What are you doing to me?” I say.

“Shh.”

He goes on like this, stroking my body, then using his lips to kiss every inch of me, except for where I want him to kiss. I come again and then again. Four times in total.

“You are insane,” I say.

“Are you ready for the blindfold to come off?”

His voice is slow and steady. I’m starting to wonder if he does this professionally, if he’s some kind of male prostitute who specializes in making women come without actual sex.

“Yes, take it off,” I say.

He lifts it off my eyes and I look up at him. He is smiling, satisfied.

“How was that?” he asks.

“I’m pretty sure you could tell how it was.”

“I want to hear you tell me.”

“It was . . . ecstasy.”

There’s a word I never thought I’d say out loud, especially in my forties.

“Ecstasyis what I like to hear,” he says.

He is still hovering over me, on all fours. He dips his head to gently kiss my mouth. When I look down, I can see the erection in his pants and am impressed he doesn’t feel compelled to tend to it (or have me tend to it).

“Are you some kind of sex god?” I ask.

“We didn’t have sex.”

“Touché,” I say. Then: “Are you some kind of erotic massage god?”

He laughs.

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