Bratty SPH: Laughing at His Size

It was supposed to be a normal movie night. He came over with popcorn and that nervous energy guys get when they are trying to play it cool, and I was in my oversized sweater and nothing else underneath, which he definitely noticed and definitely pretended not to notice. We put on some horror movie neither of us cared about, and we settled into my couch, and for the first half hour it was all very sweet. His arm around me, my head on his shoulder, the whole innocent routine.

I got bored around the forty-minute mark. I am a brat, I have the attention span of a sparkler, and sitting still through a mediocre horror movie was never going to hold me. So I started squirming, just a little, pressing closer, letting my hand drift down to his thigh. He tensed up immediately, in the good way, and I smiled into his shoulder, because I knew exactly where this was going and he had no idea.

I slid my hand higher, slow and teasing, and he shifted to give me better access, which is always adorable, that little hopeful adjustment guys do. I slipped my fingers under the waistband of his sweatpants, and I wrapped my hand around him, and I froze. Because it was tiny. Comically, delightfully, unexpectedly tiny. And before I could stop myself, before I could be cool or polite or any of the things I am not, I burst out laughing.

Popcorn went everywhere. I mean everywhere, all over the couch, all over him, all over the floor. I was laughing so hard I could barely breathe, one hand still wrapped around his little surprise, and he just sat there, frozen, his face burning red in the TV glow. For one terrible second I thought I had actually hurt his feelings, and then I felt it. He was getting harder. In my hand. While I laughed at him. He was throbbing, pulsing, completely betraying himself, and that made me laugh even harder.

I looked at him, and he looked at me, and he had this expression like he had just been caught doing something filthy, which he had, by me, which was perfect. I told him not to be embarrassed, that this was the best plot twist of the entire evening, better than anything in the movie. I told him to relax and let me enjoy this, because I was going to enjoy it for a while. And he did. He leaned back into the couch cushions, and he let me laugh, and his whole body was trembling.

I kept my hand moving, slow little strokes, and I narrated everything I was feeling, because I am generous like that. I told him how small he felt, how my fingers wrapped around him twice with room to spare, how he was like a fun-size candy bar, all the flavor in a tiny package. Every time I laughed, he twitched, and every time he twitched, I laughed harder, and it turned into this perfect feedback loop of me giggling and him melting. The movie was completely forgotten. Somebody on screen was probably getting murdered, and neither of us noticed or cared.

If bratty sph had a highlight reel, this night would be the opening clip, and I knew it even while it was happening. I shifted so I was half in his lap, my sweater riding up, and I kept one hand working him while the other traced lazy patterns on his chest, and every giggle that escaped me made him jerk. I told him he was my favorite kind of surprise, the kind I never saw coming, and he laughed too, breathless and wrecked, which only made me laugh harder.

He started begging, this breathless pleading, asking me to keep laughing, to not stop, to be meaner, and I was happy to oblige, because a guy who begs for more is a guy who understands the assignment. I leaned in close, my lips by his ear, and I whispered all the bratty things I had been thinking, describing his size, describing how cute he looked squirming, telling him he was going to come from laughing alone. And he did. He came with this wrecked, disbelieving groan, all over his own sweatpants, while I giggled into his neck.

We sat there for a while after, in the wreckage of popcorn and the blue glow of the forgotten movie, and he was grinning like an idiot, completely dazed. He told me no one had ever laughed at him like that before, and he said it like it was a compliment, like I had given him something he had been missing. Maybe I had. I curled up against him, stole the last unspilled handful of popcorn, and told him he was lucky I found him funny, because funny guys get invited back.

He is coming over again on Friday. I told him to wear the same sweatpants, because next time I am skipping the movie entirely. He asked what we would do instead. I just laughed, and he turned that perfect shade of red again, and I have not answered him yet. Some questions are better left hanging, especially when the answer makes him squirm.