Her legs are thinner than they should be. Yet her health is fine. A girl of her height—up to my chin—ought to have legs broader than my arm. Alternatively, legs that thin ought to be bone and little else. Not the case here. She’s a pretty girl, and as is the way with pretty girls, her legs are fine to the touch: toned, as the phrase has it. Kneeling, I blow along the inside of her thigh, drag my nose along her sartorius. Doing things like that makes sense when legs are fine. But boy, are these legs skinny. It takes me aback when my hand doesn’t close around her knee. I really thought it might.
Consider her breasts, her rear end (I’m too delicate to say ass right after breasts). Her rear end, or ass, is high, round and hard. Her breasts are high and round and not nearly as small as one might think; consider them against the width of her shoulders. I’d say, really, they’re large. I push my lips against them—all right, against one, against the nipple. I plant my lips there and duck my head forward. There’s the usual mystery of a high, round breast: that it’s firm without being hard anywhere.
Her hand glances over the top of my head, like she might ruffle my hair later on and wants to get in a practice move. I duck my head forward again and turn my chin a half-inch to the left. Her fingers play with my ear.
I raise my head and kiss her. She has a face like a long oval, and she’s prettier in profile than straight on. She’s pleasant-looking, fresh and pleasant. Legs thin, shoulders narrow, stomach like a rope, if a rope were something smooth that you wanted to touch. Body-wise she reminds me of a drawing I saw. A dope sitting about in a wise-guy hipster comic was thinking of girls, and what he had in the bubble over his head was a stick figure with big round tits and a big wide smile, items that were stuck onto the figure. My girl is like that. Physically, I hasten to say. As a body. As a girl, she might be described—accurately, I think—as cheerful, organized, energetic, confident and lady-like. I expect that professors and potential employers beam upon her. The mothers of her buddies are glad to see her drop by, or so I’d guess. I’m pretty sure her parents are proud of her. She’s a good neighbor, I know that much. On the other hand, she has a boyfriend, and he isn’t me. But am I complaining? No, I’m kissing her. I press my palms against her rear—all right, her ass—and wonder how someone can go about with a basketball attached to her.
The tip of her tongue wiggles against mine, like just the tips had something they had to work on, to figure out between them. Then we go to bed and do all the rest of it.
—Follow C.T. May on Twitter: @CTMay3