Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
Danny
? Watch pornography
Christina sits cross-legged on the couch as I resituate the tripod in the living room.
Thank Christ. It’s going to be difficult enough to film her first experience with pornography.
I definitely couldn’t do it in her bedroom, where she sleeps every night.
Where she cozies up in that beautiful corner to read.
Where she carefully displays the rocks and minerals we picked out together on her beloved bookshelves.
She flashes me a coy little smile as I adjust for the low lamplight. Even our brief history together has more than proven that I cannot hold any kind of distance with her. Maybe because she’s so sincere and open?
Either way, I already feel like I’m barely keeping the lid on my obvious attraction to her. And it’s not just that she’s devastatingly beautiful. It’s her humor, her bravery, and her playfulness. It’s her deep capacity for introspection and her profound empathy.
Being in her home and learning more about her daily life is doing something to me. Being the one she came home to after a shitty day is doing something to me.
“What do you think about me wearing my earbuds?” she asks. “I wanna get the full sensory experience, but I don’t want you to have to edit out those sounds.”
“That should work,” I say, my voice tight. When the mini boom mic is a go, I sit back on the couch beside Christina so we’re both in frame but still leave a good two feet between us.
She looks pointedly at that space and grins to herself, like she knows exactly why I did it.
“Now, we are supposed to do as many things together as we can,” she says, clicking through her phone to bring up the locked folder her friend assembled for her. “But this is obviously a consent issue that’s much bigger than the documentary. Would you like to watch any of these clips?”
I hesitate. Is it going to be better or worse for me to know what she’s seen? To know what she might think about or rewatch in the privacy of her bedroom …?
I swallow. “I would be lying if I said I wasn’t curious,” I say carefully. “And I do want us to experience as much of TJL together as we can.”
She only looks at me. She’s waiting for my explicit consent. I finally nod. “So yes, I’d like to watch.”
She nods back. “Would you like to watch before me, after me, or alongside me?”
“Umm …” There isn’t enough time for a detailed pros-and-cons list for each of those options. I go for the one that seems most efficient. “Alongside.”
Her eyes flare for just a moment, like she wasn’t expecting that response, but she scooches a little closer on the couch, folding her legs underneath her.
Her sweet scent envelops me, and I’m forced to pierce my own palm with my nail to not physically react.
Shit, having to be this close would have been on the con list if I had the proper time to think this through.
She reaches a hand up like she’s going to touch my hair—I stop breathing—but she delicately situates an earbud in my left ear, her fingertips barely brushing my hot skin.
I suspect that whispered touch is more erotically charged for me than any of the clips we’re about to watch.
She lingers in my space a moment, a delicate look of confusion on her lovely face, like the inferno slowly licking its way up my insides is palpable to her.
I could have fucking kissed her when she threw her arms around me with abandon, just because I said I was proud of her. As if no one has ever told her that. Her body was against mine, and the world righted. Like it had been a degree off-kilter my entire life, and then just click. Perfectly level.
I wanted to be touching her everywhere. I wanted to devour her. I wanted to make her feel every good thing she’s been denied.
But what kind of position would that put her in?
This woman who deleted all of her social media so her family could not access her is wearing her bravery like fucking armor to share this story with the world because she thinks it might help people.
I won’t do anything to jeopardize that or make her question her choice to do this with me.
Thankfully, she finally leans back and wiggles the other earbud in her right ear.
She displays her phone screen in the space between us so we’ll both be able to see. “Ready?” she asks, flicking her eyes to me.
Her shoulders are squared like usual, but there’s definitely a nervousness in the set of her eyes, in the slight waver of her voice.
“No shame?” I ask.
She exhales and smiles at me then. “No shame.”
“Then I’m ready.”
She nods and turns her attention to the screen.
The clips are about forty-five seconds apiece. She plays three of them in a row. I get flashes of bouncing tits and writhing bodies and lashing tongues. Moans and heavy breathing blast into my left ear. But I can’t make myself stay focused on the screen. I can’t look anywhere but at Christina.
She seems to be examining the clips with as much objectivity as possible. But I can see the rise and fall of her chest speed up. I can see the blush that flashes across her cheeks and down her neck. I can see her hips shift, just a little, like she can’t keep them still.
The thought that her pussy could be aching makes me feel utterly unhinged. I need to make her ache go away. I need to take care of her.
She finally blows out a long breath, lowers the phone, and pops out her earbud. I do the same, surreptitiously pressing the heel of my hand into my groin to take the edge off.
She doesn’t look at me when she says, “It’s a lot.”
“Indeed.” My voice is like fucking sandpaper.
“I didn’t … dislike it.” She still won’t meet my eyes. “It’s just a lot.”
“Right.”
She clucks her tongue. “Are most dicks that big?”
The start of a laugh slips out before I can stop it. Her lips twitch at the sound, even though she’s still staring down at her hands. “On average, probably not.”
“Hey, Danny?”
“Yes, Christina?”
She finally turns her head and meets my gaze with absolute mischief. “Those men were all waxed.”
I bark a laugh, and she devolves into giggles with the back of her fingers on her lips. This is what I’ve come to expect from spending time with Christina: ravenously overcome with lust one second, laughing comfortably the next.
“Okay, but seriously,” she says once we’ve settled. “Yes, that was hot, but it’s also … aggressive? Almost like sensory overload.”
“That’s understandable. I remember it feeling like that at the beginning too. And even still sometimes.”
She tilts her head. “Is it just so amateurish of me to wonder who these people are? Like, they are absolutely beautiful and they look like they are having a good time. But what’s their story?
And even if I did know their story, they’re performing, right?
Always the performance …” she trails off, frowning.
Of course, the performativity of pornography would be off-putting to her. I should have thought of that.
“It’s not amateurish at all,” I say. “You’re allowed to want story. You’re allowed to want connection and authenticity.” I lean in a bit. “It doesn’t make you any less of a Jezebel.”
She flashes me an appreciative smile, but then she sinks further into the plush couch, clearly disappointed. How can I fix this?
“Oh.” I sit up straight. She likewise straightens at my sudden shift in tone and stance.
“What?”
“I have an idea.”
“What kind of idea?” she asks.
“There might be a version of sexual stimulation you like more.”
“Oh?”
“And what if it involved reading instead of watching?
The smile that slowly brightens her face has my heart racing more than any illicit clips. “Tell me more, Maestro.”
“Have you ever heard of erotica?”
The cameras are still rolling as Christina and I read and discuss every thought piece comparing erotica and pornography.
They’re still rolling as Christina orders each of us matching copies of all the best-rated, women-authored erotic short story collections.
They’re still rolling when we get sidetracked by her secret online reader’s profile where she catalogs and reviews all the books she reads.
They’re still rolling as we point out our favorites, swap recommendations, and share our interests.
They’re still rolling when she orders each of us matching copies of more banned books to read together.
By the time they stop rolling, it’s officially late. But I’m still making a list in my head of all the books I’m going to buy her. It suddenly seems like the most important thing, buying this woman more books. I can install more shelves in her room …
“Thank you for today,” she says, staring down at her closed laptop. “You turned a really shitty day into a really wonderful day.”
My heart swells. She has no idea what a privilege it is to take on that responsibility. “It was wonderful for me too.” I would only call a handful of my days from the past several years wonderful, and it’s no coincidence that the majority of them have been in the three weeks since I met Christina.
The next step is to move my ass, get in my car, and drive back to Chattanooga. But we both seem stuck. I don’t want to leave her. Our next scheduled event is on Sunday—four days from now—and that feels very far away.
She turns her head to me, and in the semi-dark of the living room lamps, her hazel eyes are soft and sweet and so very Christina. And then they drop a tick. To my mouth.
The slight move is like an invisible line that forcibly tugs me closer before my brain catches up to my body.
The demand to kiss her is nearly overpowering me for the second time today, but I halt with less than six inches between our faces.
I need to know she wants this. I need to know this won’t mess things up for her.
I would beg her to mess things up for me.
“Danny?”
My hushed name on her lips nearly breaks me.
“Christina?”
Eyes still on my mouth, she whispers, “Are we gonna talk about this?”
Oh, god. It’s not just me. She’s opening the door to explore this overwhelming attraction between us. My breaths turn ragged.