Written in Summer of 2015
One look was all it took. Before I knew it, it was hands on clothes, clothes on floor, hands on bodies, bodies on bed, bodies on floor, and back to bed again. I never thought I could have this much fun, being this intimate, not with someone like him.
I was lying on top of him, his fingers caressing my shorn hair. I simultaneously appreciated and regretted that I didn’t have more hair that he could run his fingers through, maybe just like all of the girls I imagined he did the same thing to.
We laid there, silent, a calm, post-coital bliss covering us from all of the difficult questions we knew we needed to ask, but were afraid to.
He went for it. “What are we doing?”
He stopped caressing me, when he asked, making me fearful that he’d kick me out of this bizarre paradise I craved for so long, no matter how fucked up it may have seemed. But after a few seconds, he started dragging his callused finger pads down my arms. “Maybe he’s wanted this too,” I thought to myself.
I took the chance to turn and look at him. His eyes suggested fear of the unknown and excitement that anything could happen, while his face was fixed in a cool posture, probably from years of mastering the art of hiding disappointment.
I sighed. “I’m having fun.” I kissed him, more calmly than before, relishing the way our lips fit together, hoping he’d feel the same. I went back to putting my head on his chest, touching his ear lobe, feeling the need to feel all of him, because it couldn’t be real.
As soon as he exhaled, I realized that he had been really tense that entire time. And he said, “Me too.”