Stitches

Title: Stitches
Author: P.A.N.
Summary: A whimsical combination of past, present, and fantasy.
Rating: R


The shelter of an umbrella swoops over my head unexpectedly. I glance up at its owner, a man about five years my senior, who beams at me. My natural instinct would be to just ignore him, turn my face back to the road, and continue waiting for the bus to part through a curtain of rain, but I feel that this would be ungracious. After a minute’s deliberation, I repay his gallantry with a small smile, and turn away.

I suddenly realise why he approached me: I’m not wearing my sunglasses. Of course. Sunglasses, from my experience, appear to be the difference between men attempting to catch my eye as I stroll past, and men leaving me to my peace. But, my bad luck, I had left my sunglasses on my desk at work. There is nothing to protect me from ice-breakers and random acts of gentlemanliness until I get home.

To his credit, my rain-shielding knight doesn’t attempt to strike up conversation. I feel very grateful and oddly indebted, but there is nothing I can do that won’t put me at risk of kindness.

So we wait, unified by nothing more than an umbrella overhead and the echoing thought between us of, Home soon…


I catch a reflection in the bus window as I stare outside. The rubber handles that dangle from the rail contort for a moment, and I could have sworn they looked like a row of hangman’s nooses.


As I cut up vegetables for dinner, he pokes his head around the wall and drawls, “You’re wet.” His voice is flat and almost too high, and I get the reference.

“And hysterical.” I comment dryly, even though I know he won’t get mine. He doesn’t, but runs a finger down from my shoulder to my wrist, and starts peeling a carrot without being asked. I press a small kiss to his eyelashes, and life goes on.


Later that night, I play “Mandy Goes to Med School” by The Dresden Dolls and put on a show. My shirt is white, crisp, oversized, and buttoned only in three places. My fishnets are red, as are my panties, and I have painted over my mouth with more red until it resembles something much more grotesque and secret.

I mime the words because we both know I can’t sing, but everything else gets a hundred and ten percent. I prowl over the living /dining room floor like a burlesque star, complete with hazardous high kicks that pull at my garters. Choreography developed from stolen moments here and there has come a long way as long skinny legs cross and uncross, split and strut, and I wonder vaguely if I’m having a better time than he is. By the time we’ve reached the end of the song, I’ve crawled into his lap and pretend to be surprised when I feel he’s hard.

He sits me down on the couch and slides down between my parted thighs. I flick off the music with the remote control as he unclips my garters – my fishnets slide down to my ankles as he pushes my panties to the side and pushes his tongue in.

After a few minutes, the panties are discarded of completely. I tangle bruised fingers into his hair, and he obligingly slips his hands under my thighs so he’s trapped until I decide to let him go. He plays games with me, developing choreography of his own that has me squirming. The feel of his teeth scares me, as though I’m afraid he’ll suddenly turn into a wolf and swallow me whole (it’s not the first time I’ve had such fears), but he remains quiet and attentive until I come. Good boy.

Then he drops his own pants and fucks me against the back of the couch. He’s naked and I’m still wearing the shirt. I hook my ankles around behind him (a definite increase in noise now) and pull him closer to me so I can press my lips against his eyes.

Unlike me, he moans as he comes.


I stay up too late painting, and he falls asleep without me. As I map out the shape of his body under the mound of lumpy doonas and sheets, I feel incredibly sad, having lost another chance for him to fall asleep in my arms. I remember the times when it was he who’d stay up late and I’d go to bed first, even though part of me would remain sentient and watchful, waiting for him to creep into the bed.

I undress and he doesn’t move. My legs are still sore and I think idly of having a hot bath, even though I will only have time for a brief shower come morning. I crawl into my allotted space between his body and the wall, stroke his hair one more time, and roll onto my stomach, one hand clutching at the pillow.

Slowly, as I drift away, I feel him shift behind me, like a snake rising from grass, or a statue coming to life.

He presses his lips against the shell of my ear, exhaling like a hiss, nibbling at the lobe. One powerful arm snakes around me

Wh's afraid of the big bad wolf?

and pulls me back against his body until we fit together like magic. I raise his knuckles to my lips and press a kiss to them – goodnight – before reciting a prayer.

“Dear God,

Let us die, here in this bed,
together
and then bring us back to life
as siamese-twins.”