He and I lie in bed. He strokes my inner thigh and grazes my pepa™ with his fingertips. My abdomen tightening with his touch. A warming sensation occurs in my neither region that can only be described as slow moving sparks of ecstasy.
His pink pout connects with my thin lips. I bite his lower lip. My tongue dances with his and licks his upper lip because he likes that. My pepa™ is now moist, calling for his penis to penetrate. It listens. A combination of pleasure and pain shoots through my body as my pepa™ is still adjusting to sex after 2 years of abstinence, still adjusting to his instrument. We find a rhythm. A nice and slow and sensual and sweaty rhythm.
My phone rings but we keep at it, ignoring the added melody to our beautiful symphony of moans and sweet talk. Seconds later, the relentless caller tries again. This time I climb off from on top of him and reach for my cell. I stare at the name in the dark and am surprised to see my boyfriends name.
“It’s from your house,” I call, still puzzled.
His eyebrows furrow before he grabs my cell phone. “You think it’s your daughter?” I ask, concerned. He shakes his head, says it’s probably his mom and that he will call back later.
Back in his arms to finish where we left off. He’s on top of me now, separating my legs and stretching my tight pepa™. As he kisses the nape of my neck, I hear four more beeps. Text messages, I think. We switch positions. He crouched, leaning against my bed; I standing on top of him, his groin and penis between my legs. While performing the switch, I notice a photo on the screen of my cell.
My sister probably sent me a picture of Nila, I assume.
Up and down, swerving left to right and round and round, he is close to climax. Excited, he grabs my legs and lifts me up, dropping me onto the bed again. He wants it from behind, he says. I give in though I know it will be painful. Ass in the air, he penetrates. I feel the pressure and wince. One, two, three pumps, and my phone rings a third time. He pulls out. I pick up the phone and do not recognize this new New Jersey number. My index finger reaches toward the screen to touch the green ‘Accept’ button and answer.
“No. Don’t pick up,” he states firmly. I oblige to his command and stare blankly as he takes my phone, let’s it ring, and then makes a call. Rambling in Spanish to his mother, he assures her of something I am unaware of. Conversation over but we don’t return to making love. Instead, he sits on my bed, sifting through my phone.
“I have to tell you something,” he murmurs, head bowed. I remain silent, terrified that this perfect courtship will soon be shattered. Those are six words a woman never wants to here as she sits there naked, vulnerable. I wait for him to say something but he continues staring at my phones screen. I try to grab it and he pulls away.
“Why aren’t you giving me my phone?”
He gulps and begins to tell me about a girl. A girl whom he was with right before he and I met. She is the one who called from the new New Jersey number. She is the reason his mother is calling my phone. This girl, this ex-something of his, is sitting in his home, refusing to leave until he arrives. I snatch my phone from his hand, knowing there is something he is hiding from view. I scroll down through my text messages and read her writing. Text after text of accusations and warnings from her, this girl before me, to me. In broken English, she says they lives together. She sends me proof of their “relationship”: a photo of them kissing, another of him holding her round ass, a third of them at a club. She says she is two weeks pregnant. I drop the phone. What is true? What is a manipulative ploy to ruin this new relationship of ours? I demand he call her in front of me. Now, he is the one who obliges.
“Why are you doing this to me?” She screams over the telephone. “You’re with Sujeiry?!” She interogates.
“How does she know my name?” I ask him.
“She knows you’re my girl…I told her…” He says to me before returning to the phone and saying, “I told you. This isn’t news. We were over before I met Sujeiry so it has nothing to do with her. We’ve been done.” The conversation is then over though she is still resistant. My boyfriend looks at me. The same man who only five days ago told me exes ruin the present. He looks at me and says, “I am so sorry.” He looks at me and explains it all. This girl, this ex-something of his who is sitting in his home, will not break us, he promises. I believe him, recalling all the ghosts from exes past that have haunted my former relationships. We return to bed. He embraces me tightly and returns me to safety.