It's Not the Size That Counts Ch. 07

"Can I make a suggestion?"

"Sure."

"Start by not laughing at him at inconvenient times."

That was J. Still teasing me on the phone.

"Thanks a lot, genius. I had figured that one out, all on my own even."

If I was writing this in an email, I would have inserted one of those little smiley faces with the tongue sticking out. As it was, I had to make do with sticking my tongue out at the telephone receiver instead. It wasn't quite as satisfying, somehow.

"J, you're really not helping me, are you? Look, I've got an hour to get ready before Steven comes to pick me up; I've got to go. I'll call you later, okay?"

Hanging up the phone and getting ready to swing myself out of bed, I completely forgot about my sprained ankle. Forgot, that is, until I tried to stand on it. The pain lancing through my leg was almost crippling, and I sank back onto the bed. 'These things always hurt more the next day, dumb-ass, ' I reminded myself. I reached over, grabbed my crutches, and swung out of bed again, this time keeping the sore foot off the ground.

I made my way into the bathroom and downed some Advil, before making the mistake of looking in the mirror. If I thought my hair was wild before I cried myself to sleep, it was tame compared to the extreme frizz and curls that wound their way randomly around my head. To add to the attractiveness of that, my nose and cheek were quite a dark blue after my little spill the night before. I had bags under my eyes, and the eyes themselves were bloodshot. What a sight!

I dragged my sorry ass into the shower, and allowed the warm water to wash away some of my aches, even if it couldn't wash away my bigger problems. I thoroughly conditioned my hair, hoping to detangle it when I got done in the shower. I hated having to stand on one leg in the shower; with my coordination, it just wasn't safe. But it was all coming back to me from previous injuries, and I finished getting clean without incident.

Shaving was a different story. I managed to shave the injured leg quite easily, by propping it up on the edge of the bathtub, like I normally would. My armpits were also equally simple. However, shaving my 'good' leg proved to be much more difficult. I tried again and decided I was not going to be able to stand on only the sprained ankle. I attempted to shave by bending at the waist and shaving my leg while I was standing on it, but it proved much more complicated than it looked. Not only did I feel like I would drown as the water ran down my back and over my face, I swore as I cut myself, not once but twice. I ended up turning off the shower, sitting on the edge of the bathtub, and shaving with just the bathtub running. Putting generous amounts of baby oil on my legs to prevent razor burn, I gingerly stood up.

I stepped out of the shower, carefully, and dried off. I wrapped the towel around myself securely, and hobbled into my room to consider what to wear. The cool air of my apartment made my nipples poke out, which had the added effect of rubbing them against the texture of the towel. I settled onto the edge of my bed, and the adjustment of the towel against my breasts made me gasp a little. After the frustration of the evening before, my body was more than ready, and began screaming for attention.

I considered ignoring it, but part of me was convinced that if I found the release I was craving, I might be more able to keep my head with Steven. That part won. I unwrapped the towel and swung my legs up onto the bed, my wet hair splayed carelessly across my pillow. A couple of gentle tugs on my now very erect nipples was all I could take, and my body demanded more. Almost unconsciously my hands slipped down, across my damp belly and between my thighs. I was desperate suddenly, my hips bucking up to meet my questing fingers. Ignoring the slow build up I usually needed, I spread my labia with one hand, while the other hand sought out the hard little nub that was so eager for contact.

Masturbation for me has always been more an exercise of the mind than the body; this was no exception. Images of Steven flashed through my head; I recalled the words he whispered into my ear in front of the television the night before, his breath hot on my neck. The memory of a half-naked Steven, above me, pressing me into the bed as he kissed me and we thrust our hips together sped up the process even more. I was already soaking wet down there - leftovers from the middle of the night activities or perhaps the shower, I assumed - and the slipperiness of my natural lubrication made sparks jump across my clitoris with even the gentlest of touches.

Gasping for breath and moaning his name, I came in a gush of fluid that would have left a wet spot on my sheets if not for the now-forgotten towel beneath my bottom. I continued teasing my clit lightly for a moment or two afterwards, enjoying the shudders that passed through me with every sideswipe. I rolled lazily to the side, and caught a glimpse of my alarm clock.

"Shit! Shit shit shit." I swore, swinging myself up and back onto my feet in a hurry.

I grabbed a pair of panties and a bra as I hurried - at top hobbling speed - into the bathroom. I ran a washcloth under the tap, and hurriedly cleaned up the remains of my orgasm, toweling myself dry for the second time in one afternoon. I slapped on some cover-up to try to pretend I hadn't face-planted myself on Steven's sidewalk the day before, threw on some antiperspirant, and jumped into my underwear. A pair of capri pants and a cute blouse went on over top, and I was working the tangles out of my hair as my buzzer rang.

"Hello?"

"It's me. You ready?"

"Not quite, Steven. Come on up and make yourself at home, okay?"

I buzzed him in, and limped back to the bathroom to finish my hair. A little bit of mousse and some scrunching, and it looked acceptable in my eyes. 'Thank God for curly hair, ' I thought, not for the first time. I quickly wrapped my now very bruised and swollen ankle, and grabbed one crutch as I headed out of the bathroom to see what Steven was up to.

Between the carpeted floor in my apartment and Steven's preoccupation with some of the crystal knickknacks on my shelves, he apparently didn't hear me approaching. I was almost glad; it gave me an opportunity to study him from behind, uninterrupted. I admired his short brown hair, his broad shoulders and the biceps I knew from experience were incredibly strong. My eyes traveled down to his narrow, firm ass that looked especially good in a pair of somewhat tight fitting jeans. The corner of my lips quirked upwards in appreciation, but I was frozen mid-smile when he spoke quietly.

"You ready?"

He turned and met my eyes. I blushed crimson, realizing he had known all along that I was behind him while I appreciated his rear. The corners of his eyes were crinkled in amusement, and his eyes danced merrily. It was so good to see him without the haunted look he'd worn when he left early in the morning that I breathed a sigh of relief, and couldn't help but smile even bigger.

"Where are we going, Steven?" I asked.

He sauntered over to me and took my arm, assisting me as I limped with my one crutch. He didn't lean down and kiss me as he usually did, I noticed. I was disappointed, even as I scolded myself for being so ridiculous.

'I'm going to break up with him. He knows it. That doesn't earn me a kiss, stupid.'

"Have you eaten anything?"

The question jerked me out of my reverie.

"Not since last night," I admitted.

"Pizza sound okay to you?"

I nodded agreeably. We ended up ordering pizza from my apartment, and picking it up on the way back to his house. We needed to be there anyway so I could try to get my car home later. I was happy for the delay in having a conversation that I knew would be, at best, uncomfortable.

********

The drive to Steven's house was uncharacteristically quiet, for us. Usually when we spent any time together we talked about anything and everything that crossed our minds. I think we both knew that once we started talking, the subject would turn to the break up, and by unspoken agreement we weren't going to bring that up until after we had supper.

Steven left me in the car when he went in to get the pizza, and I sat and despondently looked out the window. The realization I had come to that morning kept running through my head.

'Steven, I love you. I hope you believe that even after I break up with you, ' I thought to myself.

Back at Steven's house, we sat on opposite ends of the couch. I put my feet up between us, and we ate silently. The dog took one look at us sitting on the couch, and made himself scarce. My stomach was fluttering at about a thousand miles a minute, and I wasn't able to eat much. I nibbled on a couple of pieces, and downed them with some coke. I watched as Steven wolfed down several large slices of pizza, his appetite apparently untouched by nervousness.

When Steven had had his fill, he swiveled to face me, his eyes sweeping across my sore ankle, up my leg, and then further up to my face. He wore a peculiar expression, and I was hard-pressed to read it. Concern? Sorrow? Desire? I wasn't sure. I cleared my throat and looked down.

I focused on my wrapped ankle, and lifting my foot, proceeded to fidget uncomfortably with the bandage on it. Steven continued to stare at me. He finally broke the silence first.

"Not hungry, Sarah?"

I shrugged noncommittally, and continued to play with my ankle. My eyes watered at the kindness and concern in his voice.

"Look at me?" he pleaded.

Startled, I looked up and met his eyes. He must have seen the tears forming in my eyes, because his voice was soft and full of emotion.

"Sarah, how do you feel about me?"

I wasn't expecting that question. I was expecting him to ask why I was breaking up with him, or what I wanted from him, or even just to vent the anger he should have been feeling... anything other than this quiet, pained inquiry.

"I... I... don't know, Steven." I stuttered.

I was lying through my teeth, and I was sure he would be able to tell.

He was.

"Bullshit, Sarah!"

I jumped at the volume of his exclamation. I looked away and bit my lip. He lowered his voice just a little and went on.

"You are not the kind of person who doesn't know her own feelings, Sarah. Tell me the truth. If you hate me, I'd rather just know. Just tell me. Please?"

Startled, I glanced at Steven quickly, before averting my gaze again. I waited, as my heart raced. One beat, two, ten. Then I responded.

"I love you, Steven."

I answered so quietly I didn't think he'd heard me. One quick peek at his face showed me I was wrong. His eyes were wide, and his mouth hung agape just a little. I continued to look away, and a single tear rolled down my cheek.

I almost flinched when he suddenly sprang up off the couch, but he was only moving closer to me. He perched on the edge of the couch beside my knees, and gently wiped away the tear. It was quickly replaced by several more. He touched the somewhat covered but still obvious bruises on my face, so lightly it wasn't painful but rather enflamed the sensitive skin, making me shiver.

Steven's fingers under my chin gently but persistently forced me to look up and meet his eyes. I wasn't sure from his expression whether he was about to kiss me or yell at me. He surprised me by doing neither.

"Why, then?"

He asked it so softly I barely heard it. A sob which I'd been suppressing since he picked me up at my apartment finally welled up in my throat and escaped. The number of tears running down my face tripled, and I covered my face with my hands. Steven finally took pity on me and enveloped me in a bear hug. He pressed my face to his chest, his fingers gently stroking my hair. My tears soaked into his shirt, and I just cried and let him hold me.

"Because we just can't. I'm so sorry Steven. But we just can't..."

I whispered this into his chest, knowing he'd still be able to hear it, and continued to sob like my heart was breaking, which it was. I'd never planned this. I didn't want to be the one getting comforted as I broke up with someone. I didn't want to tell him I loved him. This was all wrong, and I had to get control of myself.

I pushed Steven away from me, gently, and wiped my face with the back of my hands. I ran my fingers through my now-destroyed hair, and tried to stop sniffling, with moderate success. I gave Steven a wry grin.

"This isn't the way this is supposed to work, you know. You're supposed to be angry, not consoling me."

"Would you rather I was angry?"

I laughed. So did Steven, just briefly.

"No, I wouldn't, silly. Just give me a second to collect myself here."

"Are you ever going to tell me why?" Steven asked.

He was still holding my chin, and he looked deeply into my eyes as he said this.

It suddenly occurred to me that I had a better way. I took a deep breath, looked him straight in the eye, and asked.

"Why don't I just show you?"

He looked confused, and didn't say anything. I tried to ignore my hammering heart, and took the plunge.

"Steven, will you have sex with me?"