Season of the Peach
It's disgusting and so are we.
When I realized Joe was into disgusting things, I wasn't disgusted. It made sense.
He was sitting cross-legged in London Fields, wearing jean shorts and a black band tee. He was sweating. He told me it was 30 degrees Celsius. I was trying to learn the conversion, so I accepted this number baselessly.
I was wearing yesterday's clothes. I'd woken at his, not many hours before. We knew each other's last names, but weren't storing toothbrushes yet.
The park was sparsely populated with young people bicycling or drinking premium flat whites. Near us, men were playing rugby. I didn't know the rules, but liked the sound of people exerting themselves and contacting each other.
I laid back onto the cold grass alongside Joe, with my hands behind my head. The blades dampened the outside of my black denim shorts and white tank, but I didn't mind. Everything was damp, from the inside, anyway.
The sky was blue. It was August.
From above, Joe looked into my eyes with fondness. I was still unfamiliar with his face, but I knew what he was thinking. He wanted to kiss me. It surprised me someone would want that, given the dew and dew point. But it didn't surprise me he wanted that.
When his face moved toward me, I said, "Wait."
He stopped.
I said, "I'm disgusting."
He said, "I know."
And he kissed my sweaty, unbrushed mouth. A deep, wet, sloppy kiss in the middle of London Fields. I tasted his coffee and mouth biome. Our upper lip sweat mixed. I couldn't tell whose salt was whose.
Having someone consume my mouth, as such, hadn't appealed to me before. But I enjoyed it. I was into a man who was into disgusting stuff.
He called that summer 'the Season of the Peach.' We ate juicy ones and let the fluids drip down our arms. Every corner store in London had peaches on display. It cost a pound for a bag of eight. He'd eat six. I'd have two. We never had tissues to clean ourselves with. We sat on pub patios, damp from fruit juice and summer sweat. Then we'd have sex on his rug in front of open windows, baked in sunlight. I even let him spit in my mouth once.
It's been years since then, but that season is still with me.
We had sex this week that reminded me of that midday snog in London. Like then, it all began with me beneath him, looking up.
We were on our bed, not the grass, but it felt earthy. We were next to a window, which was next to a big Oak tree. The sun through the linen curtains speckled his face, which looked just as adoring, but also more tired.
"I'm shattered," he said.
"I can tell," I said.
"What is that look?" he said.
"You know," I said, with a wink.
He laughed.
I told him to lie down at the head of the bed. I wanted him to feel kingly.
"Kingly, you say?" he said.
I kneeled between his spread legs. I set my palms on his upper thighs. Then laid my stomach on my thighs, my toes were by my butt. I nuzzled my face into his underpants – the same brand and style he's always worn – not minding their cleanliness.
"I just need one thing from you," I said with my chin on his hip. "Ok, two."
"Yes?"
"First, can you tell me something good?"
"What do you mean?"
"You know… Tell me that you love me, yeah. Tell me that you like it, yeah?"
He laughed.
"I'm serious," I said. "I want some sweet nothings."
He told me I was a great mom. That I had a romantic figure. He said I was the ideal MILF wife. He said he was proud I was his.
I told him he was doing a great job by lowering my nose near his butt and licking him between his ass and cock.
