WHAT LONG LEGS MEAN
I have long legs.
My boyfriend, short and stubby, once told me, “Your legs remind me of my mother. I hate her.” I told him I didn’t know what to say to that.
My mother does not trust short men. She married a very tall man and had three very tall children; she feels that she’s done her part to improve the overall trustworthiness of the world. She finds my boyfriend rude and unattractive. He finds her opinionated and intrusive. They are not incorrect in their estimations.
My boyfriend insists on missionary because he likes the way my long legs feel wrapped around him. He gives me explicit instructions—squeeze your breasts together and lick your nipples, bite my shoulder until I bleed, lock your ankles just above my ass. He likes me to squeeze him between my thighs until it hurts. “Harder, baby,” he’ll grunt. I’ll think that should be my line. I get bruises on my inner thighs from his bony torso. His body is a complex series of incompatible terrains.
“I fucking hate you,” he says when he’s close to coming.
I tell him “I fucking hate you too,” but I’ll squeeze my thighs tighter so that he’s gasping for air.
I give him exactly what he wants. He makes me come so hard, every single time.