Page 122 of Rev
We kiss, slow, soft.
“Never known anything like this, honey,” I say. “Not ever, not even close.”
His arms are tight bands around me. He’s shaking, panting into my throat. “If this is love, then I finally fuckin’ get it.”
“Get what?”
“What all the poetry and shit is about.”
I laugh at that, but the laugh turns to a soft groan because the laugh means I squeeze, and he slips out of me, losing our connection. “Me too, Rev. Me too.”
* * *
I wakeup in his arms. Nuzzled into his firm, warm chest, his hand resting on my bottom. Sunlight streams bright golden-yellow through my window, bathing us in warmth. He’s asleep, still.
Last night replays in my mind.
If this is love, then I finally fuckin’ get it.
Reading between the lines, he was saying he loves me.
It makes my heart squeeze, my chest burn. My eyes water, and because he’s still asleep, I let them fall. They’re not sad tears, not frightened. They’re tears of emotional depth, tears of intensity. How can I have come to feel so much so soon?
Whatever it was I felt for Darren took time to develop. He didn’t make me feel safe—but back then, that wasn’t the concern, since I didn’t know to be afraid. So what was it? I suppose he just seemed like the logical choice. He was attractive enough, he was smart. He went to church. He had a strong future lined up, career-wise. He was from my hometown, a known commodity. His family and friend circle overlapped with mine. On paper, it was a good match. When we were courting, he was respectful. He never pushed the line in terms of trying to do more physically with me than was appropriate. He bought flowers for me, on our second date. He got along with my brothers. He asked my father for my hand in marriage, after an appropriate amount of time spent courting.
There was nothing intense about it. When we held hands the first time, it was…nice enough. I wasn’t flipping out. A little excited, because I was eighteen and hormonal and eager to know what lay beyond the veil of marriage. Our first kiss was at the altar. And again, it was…nice. Dry, brief, respectful. A touch of lips, no more.
Our honeymoon was to Myrtle Beach. We had a nice dinner at a fancy restaurant on the strip. Walked hand in hand on the beach, both of us barefoot in our wedding attire, shoes hanging from fingertips. It felt romantic. Perhaps it was. I was more nervous than excited for sex. I knew nothing. There’d been no sex ed, no birds-and-bees talk with Mom, no secrets shared with Ana, Junie, or Mal. You didn’t discuss anything to do with sex, ever, with anyone. You just didn’t. So when our moonlit beach walk ended at our ground-level suite, and Darren and I ended up inside, I was antsy, unsure, and honestly scared. He was no better. He was obviously a virgin, same as me—it’s only obvious to me looking back, because I was too worked up and freaked out and naive to understand anything. There was some awkward kissing.
He was shaking, I was near tears.
After it was over—and it was quick, painful, and awkward—we’d lain side by side, naked, covered by the sheet, neither of us sure what to do, what to say.
It never got much better. Not for me, at least. He never really understood my body, or that I might want to feel pleasure. He’d once, inadvertently, touched my clit while fumbling for my opening, and it had sent a small jolt ofsomethingthrough me. Later, after he was snoring, I’d experimented. Discovered self-pleasure. At first, and for many months, it was my finger, figuring out what to do. Then, after he’d finished, rolled over, and gone to sleep, I gave myself what I needed.
There was a conversation over brunch with some of his colleague’s wives, most of them older, none of them as conservative or sheltered as I. They were talking about sex. It was…eye-opening, to say the least. I listened and learned. The conversation moved to self-pleasure. Vibrators. This was where my mind was blown wide open. Devices to make it feel good? Sign me up!
I’d become somewhat addicted to self-pleasuring. I found time alone to do it every day, sometimes more than once—and played around with various ways of making it better for myself. I’d discovered the enjoyment of putting my fingersinsidemyself, as well as touching myself up there. So when the ladies began talking about favorite kinds of devices and where they got them, I paidveryclose attention. I went home and bought one online—taking great pains to cover my tracks: I used a gift card I’d received, and had it shipped to the PO Box I’d had my mail sent to during college.
That vibrator had opened up my world. I never understood the big deal the world at large made about sex, because it was never good. I didn’t know any better, but I knew I never enjoyed it at all when Darren wanted sex. It was…a chore, I guess. He’d make a lazy attempt at kissing me, paw my breast. I’d take my clothes off, wait for him to put a condom on, he’d get on top, pump a couple times—and I was always dry, so it usually was downright unpleasant, if not painful. He’d finish, go to sleep, and I’d sneak into the bathroom to get myself off.
So, Rev is a revelation.
A whole new world.
His mouth, on me? His touch? Being aroused just from the way he spoke? Orgasming fromhistouch rather than my own? Insane. It’s all so new, still. I’ve thrown myself into it, eagerly, almost frantically hungry for everything.
I crave him.
Is it love? Or is it lust?
I lay in his arms, smelling him, feeling his chest rise and fall under my ear, hearing his heart thump. It’s both.
Why do I think I love him? Take out the sex. Why? I truly understand my family’s concern, the idea that I’m rebounding, going off to an extreme tangent because of the tumult and agony of my recent divorce. So, if I’m to believe that there’s more to my feelings for Rev than sex, what is it?
His emotions. His past. Who he is. I’m intrigued by him, freaked out sometimes by his intensity, puzzled by his guardedness. His hardness—not just physically, but the hardness of his personality. Even the violence in him—it’s not bloodthirsty, it’s not savagery. It’s simply what life has taught him. It’s so opposite of everything I’ve ever known, and it’s fascinating. It just…cracked something in me. I want to give him what he’s never known. I want to show him care, I want to give him softness, tenderness, affection. When I do so, he soaks it up. Responds like I’m literally saving his life, almost. Like he simply cannot believe he’s even allowed to feel it, receive it, have it. I crave him. But I also crave the feeling of giving.
Darren never showed it to me, and never really received it from me—any of that. We were not physically affectionate, nor verbally. We were friends, roommates, and he sometimes performed sex upon me. Otherwise, our relationship was…dry. Loveless.
