©Evan Nichols, 2003
Each evening, we curl up together in bed so that she may have her nightly feast. Our bodies fitting together like puzzle pieces, we curl into each other’s warmth and breath. She lies on her back or side, in thick pajamas with the built-in feet, her legs sometimes gently resting on top of my thighs, but more likely, bending, stretching, or bicycling in the air. As we settle in, she eagerly eyes my shirt, waiting for the inevitable opening when she catches a glimpse of my bare flesh.
Once I’m in position, my arm resting above her head, she goes in for her treat, mouth wide and eyes bright. Her lips find my nipple quickly, and she begins her sucking, frantically at first, then gradually finding her rhythm and getting to business. Her attention span while on the breast astounds me. Twenty minutes of feasting with barely a pause or breath.
While her mouth stays focused on the task at hand, her limbs do their own thing. A wandering hand caresses my neck, explores my face and mouth, or makes a tiny, but nonetheless painful pinch on my free nipple. The hand pulls my shirt, raises it high, then grabs a small foot that happens to pass by. The hand never stops moving.
My redirection only leads to a more surreptitious approach. The hand sneaks under my shirt, behind her head and quickly into my unsuspecting ear. I feel her toes flexing against my leg, tracing a trail along my thigh. When things really get frantic, she pushes away from my body while pulling my breast along with her, then nuzzles back into me again.
Occasionally, and these are my favorite moments, she will catch and hold on my eye, staring at me as if saying “Thanks, mama, for this delicious treat”. I stare back, falling into her green pools, lost in my own bewilderment that she grew in me, came out of me, and now feasts from me. Inevitably, my stare breaks into a smile, and she can’t help but smile back, and just for a moment, her mouth loses its hold on me, and a wide grin takes over. The gratitude in her eyes in undeniable.
After she devours one side, with a little repositioning, she will attack the other, and the story repeats itself. Sometimes she feels like a nibbling mouse, while other times I feel that I’m on the wrong side of a strong vacuum cleaner. But most of the time, its simply feels like a really good, intimate cuddle. Sometime during breast two, her limbs settle into a calm pose, her body gets really still, and the only things moving are her little mouth, and the rise and fall of her chest. Her eyes are closed now. I can’t help but think of myself after a Thanksgiving dinner, and the tryptophane-induced sleepy happiness that takes over.
Eventually her sucking slows. Six sucks, then six seconds of rest, six sucks, six seconds of rest. I know soon she’ll simply not be able to hold on anymore, her suctioning skills falter, and her will to continue feasting is challenged by her will to sleep. Finally, it happens, the breast is released, the mouth falls open, the angelic face of a sleeping baby appears. She may, for a moment, continue sucking on an invisible breast, or maybe just roll on her back like a satisfied hound dog. As for me, I know that my work for the night is done.
I know that soon she will grow less interested in her nightly feast. And that I will tire of it too. But for now, I am savoring this feast of the body and heart.
©Amy Blackshaw
Rudolf's Diner 