The women in my family have a very unique trait, one that either endears us to our men or makes them jump at the slightest provocation, forced to live a life on the edge of fear. I have it, my mother, sister, grandmother, great-grandmother all have it. And we either got it from too much inbreeding in the family line or some fucked up mineral deficiency that will eventually make our eyebrows migrate north into our hairline and can only be cured by the introduction of a beneficial tapeworm.
We bite.
That's right. We like to sink our teeth into skin. We don't bite too hard and we never draw blood, but we like to bite our men. The hard, muscly part of the shoulder is good. Arms are the best. If there are some soft bits on the sides, those are lovely. And yes, one day while Partner Unit was washing his dick off in the sink post-coitus, I leaned into the bathroom and bit his ass. He was not pleased, to say the least (which brings up another discussion of why he feels the need to wash himself off. Maybe most men are disgusted by tidal marks, I will never know.)
I only do it once a week or so, and often while sitting on the couch in front of the tv. Partner Unit is sitting there, idly minding his own business, and I lean over and snap! Take a chunk of skin in my teeth.
He usually sits in a chair across the room now.
Biting invariably leads to problems in the household. I am going to start documenting how many times I hear the words:
"Dammit Helen! No biting! What have we said about that!" This said while the victim is rubbing on a cherry red spot on the arm, with visible tiny rectangular marks in a perfect ring.
Hey, baby. Love hurts.
We can't help ourselves. Seriously. We all came out of the closet about this in May, when I was visiting my family in Dallas. I heard a howl, and saw my sister running from the bedroom, a look of sheer, giddy pleasure on her face.
"I bit him." she said, a wicked gleam in her eye, lighting up her face a la Norman Bates.
"You bite?" my mother asked feverishly.
"I bite. He hates it." my sister said, "he" being her boyfriend.
I felt the saliva grow in my mouth and imagined my teeth becoming fangs. "Oh my God. I bite too!" I said ecitedly.
"All of you crazy bitches do." my Stepfather grumbled, walking into the room. He rubbed his arm, where I saw a perfect purple bruise. "What the hell is the matter with you lot? Need to drink more decaf? Is it estrogen? Perhaps you should stop drinking the stuff!"
But we were too busy sizing him up and wondering which chunks of him we could start gnawing on. Aware that we were beginning to think with a pack mentality as we circled him like wolves, he beat a hasty retreat.
We restrict biting to arms and upper torso only, but sometimes accidents happen. The other night, while I was reading in bed, Partner Unit came to join me. He reached his arm out to draw me close for a hug, and without taking my eyes of my book I bit his arm.
But I made a mistake. Instead of his arm, he had reached out with his erect penis in a hopeful attempt to procure one of my very excellent blow-jobs. I had not known this, and I simply reacted out of pure genetic instinct to bite.
And I accidentally wound up biting his dick. Hard.
He still isn't speaking to me.
And yes, before you have a go at me, I do feel very bad about it.
-H.
PS-Ladies, did you hear that? That thumping? That's the collective sound of men the world round hitting their knees on their desks as they jerk them up in a reflexive, protective action to guard their nuts after reading this. Now that's funny.
Posted by Everydaystranger at October 3, 2003 01:15 PM | TrackBack