THE MOST INTIMATE CONTACT – DIMITRI ROGERS
My lips quivered above the white porcelain rim of the teacup, close enough that my warm breath left a fog of condensation on its cold exterior. Besides the slight trembling of my fingers, I remained motionless, frozen in time, committing the sensation to memory. I was excited, even though there was nothing in the cup.
Using my right index finger, I traced over the intricate floral designs slowly as if I was painting them myself. The way my finger weaved across the surface, up-and-down, fluttering, mirrored what was happening inside my own heart.
But I had stalled long enough.
My upper and lower lips made contact with the edge of the cup and gently enclosed it, the soft flesh of my lips giving way to it’s hardness. In one smooth motion, I tilted my head back, and the cup along with it, and took a long swig of the nonexistent liquid.
And for a split second, I tasted something that wasn’t a mixture of glass and cleaning product.
This must have been what Lisa’s lips tasted like. Of course, I didn’t know for sure. Even if I wanted to. It was an assumption.
When I was finally able to pull my own lips away, a clear residue was left to replace them. Not bothering to wipe it off, I opened up the cabinet and placed the cup back where it belonged among the other plates, cups, and bowls. Just a little memento. Some small proof that I had been here.
If Lisa had been present she never would have let me do that, even if she knew how I felt about her. So it was good that her family was out of the house for the weekend, which gave me the time to watch the place while they were gone.
Ever since we were little, back when our parents had been friends and my mother would bring me over to play with her, she had been something of a germaphobe, or at least she acted like one.
Very cautious about what she came into contact with, she knew she couldn’t completely stop people from touching things, but that didn’t stop her from trying. She was particularly picky about her own things, including her room. I noticed this because she never wanted to touch anything that I already had.
One day I came by to drop off some of her homework, because she had been sick that day. When I climbed up the stairs and walked into the room, she was sleeping, cuddled tightly in a ball of blankets with a moist towel over her eyes. Even in that state, she looked cute. Auburn curls that tickled the tops of her shoulders, and pale skin as white as paper. I resisted the temptation to lay there beside her and left the missed assignment by her side instead.
Before I turned to leave, I felt the urge to use the restroom and shuffled off towards the open door in the corner of her room. Inside, everything was spotless. I had never seen a sink glisten that brightly before.
My dirty shoes tracked muddy footprints over the tile floor on my way to the toilet bowl. When the small pool of liquid was staring back at me, I reached for my belt and unlatched the buckle. However, I didn’t go any further.
When I peered back through the door, Lisa was sitting upright, her back straight as a board and her green eyes as wide as saucers.
Ever since then, Lisa had been awkward with me and it was because of this I was never able to demonstrate how I felt about her. I wasn’t able to build up the courage to tell her about my feelings. Words never came to me easily. My language is through feeling, physical contact. A hug here and the sensual contact of two hands meeting there, but with her, this wasn’t possible. Lisa wouldn’t even touch the love letter I had written to her that held my blood, sweat, and tears.
But she wasn’t here now. And this connection with her, even indirectly through her own personal things, was like a warm cup of tea quenching my thirst. And with that, I realized that I needed more. I would confess the next time I saw her.
Now, I ascended up the staircase. With each step, I peeled off the layers of my clothing that clung to my body from the oils, each article leaving behind a trail that led to Lisa’s room. By the time I was there, the only thing that I had left on was my stained underwear.
I curled my toes on the carpet before dragging my feet to the bathroom.
There, at the far side, stood the toilet. Pure, white, and untainted.
Unable to wait any longer, I slipped off my last barrier of clothing and walked over to the bowl, the large gelatinous mass in the mirror doing the same, its greasy hair catching the light, and the white heads of the pimples on its back looking like they might burst at any second.
This would be the most intimate form of contact that I could have with her.
My breathing went shallow and my heart raced as I slowly stooped down, my knees squealing from the building pressure, until finally, a soothing ring of coolness.
My body deflated on the seat and the rolls of my flesh bunched at the stomach.
I don’t remember how long I sat there, but I savored every second, so much so that I didn’t even hear the footsteps thundering up the staircase and then into the room.
It was the clattering at the doorway that alerted me to the familiar set of green eyes staring back at me. They were as wide as saucers.
Drunk on my elation, there was a surge of energy within me.
Now would be the perfect time to tell her how I felt.
I opened my mouth and—
she screamed.
Dimitri Rogers is a writer based out of Southern California. A lover of stories of all kinds, he writes as a hobby in hopes of making others feel the things that he has felt.