The Yarn We Spin

You’re a close vastness, a far proximity: an immeasurable distance. I shouldn’t have tried. We’re under the same blanket but a wall doesn’t just divide us; it launches you up into the ink of space, blistering past the threshold, past our observable two-dimensional universe. I don’t claim to be more real than you but this elusive perpendicular axis makes you merely a character in my eyes. Distances can be broken down with time—the wall between reality and fiction can’t be breached the same.

What a paradox. You’re a character but your life couldn’t possibly be a story. Don’t take offense. Most people’s lives aren’t blockbusters. Good stories have a good arc with a good ending, or at least an interesting one. Yet absent closure, these stories will be written anyway because people will wake up, work, eat, then sleep, without a hand to author their plot. In addition, no matter how boring they might be, these narratives intertwine in their own unique way. Nobody’s life can be recounted without at least one other person.

You told me about your mother’s story after all. It’s not the same story as mine, but it’s a story we, and everyone else, have. There were tales about the rest of your family, your friends, and your coworkers. These minuscule strands define our lives, weave into the ropes of humanity then fray. Sure, people die but they also break up, they move away, maybe they just disappear. I’ve never found that sort of thing sad. Maybe its inevitability makes me too objective about life. If I don’t move on, then I’ll never move on, and then I’ll be stuck.

It’s dark. Even the light that passes my eyelids doesn’t make me want to open them. So I didn’t move on. So I am stuck. But I need these empty words, these preambular paragraphs of stories about stories that don’t mean anything. More than nothing, something that pretends to be anything is actually less than nothing at all. This something leads to a cruel, self-feeding doubt. No matter how much I want the silence, this story will be written anyway.

“Gyuri.” Your light voice and lighter touch on my neck breaks down walls, finally frees me from my somnolent musings. How indulgent of me, that’s all the wall was—an insecure construction—for now.

“Thank you.” The words clear a scratch in my throat.

“Thank you? What for?”

Spring air through the open window hits all my bare skin and makes me clutch the soft blanket fabric. An amused breath from my nose. “I dunno.”

“Well, you’re welcome.” Hug me tight, and I hug you tighter. The simple, obvious things you do keep me away from those rambling thoughts. They tend to devolve.

“By the way…” My voice peters out in a low fry. “You remember Jungmo and Yumi?”

“From the acting class?”

I nod and stretch my arms up. “Mhm. They broke up.”

“Oh.” Gather some blanket back for yourself. “I had no idea they were dating.”

“That’s why you should’ve stayed in the classes.”

“I dunno, it never really clicked for me.”

“Yeah. I figured.” A final squeeze in my embrace before I roll out from under the sheets and sit up. My hair’s a wavy mess. “I need to shower by the way.“

I see your playful sniffs. You’re just trying to get a closer look at my body. "Yeah, you smell like it.”

“Pfft, alright stinky, you’re one to talk.” A bit of evidence from last night spills between my legs. You run to get some tissues. “Thanks.”

When you kneel to help clean up, I love your little awkward smile, both corners half-raised. I love your face, your hair, your body, your personality. Without much thought, since those are what makes you, I’d be saying I love you.

I guess I do since no friendship exists without love. With a kiss on your forehead and a restored pep in my step, I head to the bathroom.

Sprinkles form from my fingertips as I let water find the trails of my body that it wants to follow, like little trains that forge their own tracks. The mist comforts me enough that I could fall asleep again, or at least my brain could. Not a good thing, I would start to overthink once more.

You don’t have to knock on the door, I would never be mad at you barging in. But thanks anyway. There is little pretense of washing ourselves. At once, we twist together, so that even if my soapy wet skin lathers yours, neither of us would mistake it for a quick clean.

“Fuck.” A simple utterance when you take one of my nipples in your mouth. The suddenness shuts my eyes then careful teeth lock our embrace tighter. For an ounce of air, sometimes we untwist. The pace is like our rope. Whenever one of us found a partner, the other kept their distance. Now we’re the opposite of distant, spinning our yarn together. It’d save water if we were bathing. Your tongue takes its precious time up my chest, up my neck, until our eyes meet. Your lips taste good, you know? It’s nothing so grand, just a bit salty, a tad addicting.

“So, should I clean you up a bit more?” you ask when you pull your head back. I crease my features, perplexed.

My perplexity slips like your two fingers inside my pussy, replaced by a soft instinctive whimper. That’s when I realize there’s still some of your sticky white still sloshing in me from last night. The fingers within me move like they’re stirring, while your thumb works on my clit to escalate the automatic sounds from my mouth, recaptured in your lips.

You make a loud “mwah” as a point when we separate once again. Your eyes promise the world in them. I can’t ever let myself be fooled. Instead, I fall into my body’s desire again, arms less active in holding your back. I don’t really need to since you’ve pushed me up to the wall now.

“You, nnuh, having fun there?”

A pointless question, your smile answers it. With the other free hand, hold me up by the waist. My limbs grow slack as you continue to circle and thrust at the same time. While the warm water washes away the increasing sweat, I still notice your hand getting messy with your own semen from my pussy. You’re so focused. Even when I look away, you’re still telling promises you can’t keep with that intense gaze.

“I think, I, I think, you’re gonna make me…” I shut up when you lean your head in, but instead you tip a bit to the side for a chaste smooch to the cheek. “Wha—”

Then I really shut up when your lips follow the trail that your tongue makes. “Have I ever told you how good you taste?”

“All the time!” I whine. I like to think it’s uncharacteristic, but the skill with which you touch me always pulls me out of my mind. It makes me think less of the real world, into some near dream state. My walls swallow you, as though they have a mind of their own, and they suck you in like your mouth does to my neck.

I have to. I need to. I reach for your cock. Wet with water, I try to spit on it but miss. You don’t seem to care though, like my fingers are just an added bonus to the replete pleasure you give me.

But only a few pumps in, and the dizziness that your fingers induce comes to its natural resolution.

This kind of story, some simple smut, is so repetitive, but fuck, I love it. You have so many ways to pen my climax.

“Gyuri, that’s it. You’re going to cum on my fingers.” Water bogs down our heavy breaths. The statement is sure as day, like my orgasm is a given.

This one flashes me between the real and the surreal. That dream state slams me back out of the deep, to watch your unfailing fingers. It was a quick lesson for you a while ago—when I’m cumming, don’t you dare stop.

My body reacts to the orgasm with every little sudden motion.

My cum and your cum (whatever’s left) flows from between my legs like a stream of consciousness. How apt; my brain drips out its thoughts and leans back to irreality as you press forth. Time is a timid thing, not allowing me to understand only seconds pass in real time. Your story orbiting mine is chaos like two incalculable pendulums, too sensitive to initial conditions.

Then, out of my own body, I see you. Trying to catch your own breath, while I throb all over your hands. I see the shower, my apartment, the city, Earth, space, then true space with its ever present vacuum. And like a vacuum, I’m sucked back and you’re holding me with a smile and a more delicate clutch. Well, not that delicate, your hands quickly lower back to my ass.

“That was good.”

It’s not as though I need you to praise me while you pat my head. If anything, I want to thank you for that climax, but you’ve heard enough of my gratitude.

Actions over words. Fingertips over the tip of your dick, a meeting of the most sensitive nerves. The simple act of wrapping my fingers already makes it difficult for you to stand.

I spit on my hands, taking wetness from my pussy. I try to tease your cockhead on my clit, but a sharpness shoots up from underneath. It’s too sensitive. I shouldn’t have done that.

So I spin you around—pretty easy to manipulate a guy when you have him cockfirst—until your back is flat against the wall.

One hand with a massaging, kneading grip, a thumb underneath the tip, the other hand massages your balls. Then we really start. This is where I have to take advantage of every advantage I have, because I know how much you jerk off with your own hands. My stiff nipples rub up against your chest, tickling you and moving vertically much like my fingers around your cock. Sometimes, I have both hands around the whole thing and you jerk your hips to pretend like my hands are my pussy. But they aren’t, so I give my whole eye contact—much easier to do when you aren’t filling me and substituting my brain with dick—as I spin and rotate and circle my thumb around your tip. A little more spit, a little more pre-cum and I have the texture to really make that dick shine.

Signals for your orgasm are clear to me. A higher moan from the top of your mouth and nose, I guess when you lose footing and slip that’s pretty obvious, but there’s also your eye contact shakier than usual, and your hands that grab onto whatever they can. Of course, even in the heady prelude to your climax, you still reach for my ass. It doesn’t matter where you grab on though.

When you cum, I almost have to hold you up by the cock. It’s like those spurts contain all your strength. You leave your own body, one arm around me, one hand behind you on the wall. Your words falter to primal noises too. It’s hypnotic, every streak that flies in there, the twinge and tingles and swells of your shaft as it sends those streaks and you release your sticky self onto my tummy.

“You’re the best,” you say breathily.

Your head reaches down to immediately kiss me while more of your cum drips past my tummy to the shower floor but I stop you. “Now what?” I ask.

“Hmm?”