He used to try and open condom packets quietly.
Not sneakily, like he was going to slip one on without me knowing. Just quietly – like he didn’t want to disturb the moment.
We’d be lying on my bed, or his bed, or a bundle of cushions placed haphazardly on the floor. Or sometimes we’d be curled up together on an armchair, duvet covering us for privacy while our friends drank and smoked nearby. Occasionally scrunched in a dark corner at a party, my back cold against the rough carpet, his knees pushing my legs wider while we snogged.
He used to try and open the packet quietly.
At some point during a snog, when my wet lips against his weren’t enough, and when we were grinding harder against each other in eagerness to get it on, he’d sneak a hand down into the back pocket of his jeans. He always had one there – sometimes two. Occasionally two in each back pocket. I carried condoms too, but rarely got to use them, because his supply was almost infinite. I remember thinking he had a similar attitude to condoms as he did to rolling joints: he liked to be the one in control. It made him feel grown up.
The sticky heat of snogging and make-outs would build. His short, fat fingers would paw and poke at my cunt through my knickers, wrist angled weirdly to get around the pretentious chain-belt I wore once I’d decided to be a goth.
I’d run my hands around his back, under the t-shirt, feeling his taut muscles and the delicious dent where his boxer shorts gripped tightly against his skin. Sometimes I’d pull them down at the front – fumbling with the zip in his jeans and pulling them just far enough that I could wrap my pale hand round his cock. Sometimes even that would be too much – the logistics of undressing being less fun than immediate satisfaction. I’d undo his fly and rummage in the front of his pants, pulling his dick out and squeezing it tightly. Pulling the foreskin back slowly. Grinding against him a bit to tell him it was time.
That was when he’d reach for it. Never breaking lip-to-lip contact, he’d slide a hand back and down to the back pocket of his jeans.
At this point he could have sat up. Could have said ‘hang on’ or ‘wait’ and fumbled. But for some reason he was so, so scared of fumbling. He didn’t want to break the kiss, like it was a winning streak and if we split apart he’d lose.
With the condom in one hand he’d assume the position: face squashed against mine and hands behind my head. Elbows resting on the pillow so he could manoeuvre.
That wasn’t why I loved him, but it was definitely part of it. The ache in my cunt as I waited for him to fuck me, and the extra seconds that ticked by, with me writhing wetly beneath him and sucking kisses into his neck… all of that helped me to love him.
That we had so little in common, and so little to say to each other, mattered less than the small touches that were uniquely, oddly him. The way he’d keep lip-to-lip contact through an entire five-minute fuck. The way the waistband of his boxers dug so perfectly into his flesh. And the crackling sound behind my head that meant he was ready to fuck.