Closed-Door Prose is a sex-positive feminist erotica column. You may not wish to read it at work!
Charo put on the white exercise pants, her favorite. Even just sliding them on up over her legs made her feel so good. And if Nick were not home, in the other room, head bent over his textbook in sexless concentration, she would have just lain back on the bed and brought herself to orgasm alone. No, but she had a plan. She pulled her shirt over her head and unclasped her bra, and the way her breasts rhythmically fell into their own natural state—that, too, was a provocation to desire.
“Nick,” she called. She tried to sound innocent of scheme.
The people who said that men’s sexual appetites were bottomless had not met a first-generation immigrant medical student in the weeks before his boards. He was devotional in his temporary celibacy. He had no time to spare. She, too, was a first-generation immigrant, but her job was writing for magazines; in her off-hours she had nothing to study for.
She heard his chair roll backwards, and then his footsteps. She couldn’t help it, she got excited hearing him approach.
He came in and frowned. “Charo,” he said.
Really he was chiding, but she had braced for this as a first reaction. He looked so sensual, with his electric blue shorts, his muscular chestnut legs, his face long with concern for his future, what kind of doctor he would get to be. “Just stay there,” she said. “I know you’re busy. This will just be a minute.”
She shook her hair off of her shoulders and felt it tickle her back. She took her breasts in her hands and touched her thumbs to her nipples. His expression lightened. Good. She kept her focus on the whites of his eyes, which were starting to glisten. He started to walk toward her but she quickly said, “I said stay there.” She slid her hand underneath the stretchy white fabric. “I know you’re busy,” she repeated, slower this time. She held her hand still, hovering over her thick warm hair. Something made her pause. It was that she’d never done this before—they’d never. But you had to find a way to make the life you had work. His eyes were fully twinkling. She pressed down on her clit and her neck responded, twisting, as if it, too, were being caressed. She let out a soft sound, and her breath was hot on her shoulder.
“I see you fucking me,” she said, and as soon as she said it she did see it, and her neck rolled again, more forcefully, throwing her inside of her fantasy, “with your long hard long sweet—sweet—” she couldn’t speak anymore, her hips were rolling up and back, finding something real between her legs although Nick remained across the room, lips parted in a smile.
Robbie Freid is a writer in Virginia.
Gina Canavan considers herself an "analog girl living in a digital world."
She stays true to the essence by hand-rolling 35mm film and developing it herself. Her upbringing in Los Angeles, an inspiring mecca of vanity and showbiz, piqued her interest in creating such iconic imagery herself. She draws inspiration from textures, psychedelia, haute couture, and cinematic lighting techniques. Some of her best work she feels is impromptu; whether it be created with found objects used to create a unique lighting scenario or the uncontrollable result of film chemistry. When she's not shooting, she works for an ad agency, Ayzenberg Group, as a Graphic Designer. She’s likely to be spotted strutting her signature celadon cat eye glasses in her current home town of Silver Lake, California.
Follow her on Instagram: @ginacanavan