syllables.

It was only in retrospect that I noticed your smile.

The first time I noticed, your face was inches from mine. Your palm was covering my parted lips, your torso hovering over mine, bare chest to bare chest, eyes with inklings of mischief.

A movement under our hips and I exhaled pleasure.

“Sh,” one syllable and this is when it happened, all at once, the corners of your lips tugged upwards and you placed your open palm over my music.

“Okay,” maybe I replied with my voice or eyes while you continued to pump into me. I remember a feminist sex educator once telling me, that if my clit wasn’t being stimulated during sex, it didn’t count as sex – just as a guy jacking off inside me.

I don’t know what this counted as; but I do know there was one syllable. My lips didn’t clamp as much as my throat did, keeping quiet the music you were strumming in me.

Your lips pursed; in retrospect, I notice how little you smiled.