I have a rule. One of those personal rules you never tell anyone but at a certain point you start living by. For some its religious like fasting before Ramadan or prayer before bed. For others its personal like no masturbating during exam season or wearing a certain pair of shoes on a first date.
My rule is that I can't do anything dirty on Sundays. Well, that's not quite right. I can't do anything sexual on Sundays. No masturbating, or watching porn, no reading, writing, or listening to erotica. Kissing is fine, so are hugs and grinding. But nothing is allowed below the waist or under clothes.
Now I'll be the first to admit it sounds silly. As most rules developed by sexually awkward teenagers with religious backgrounds and complicated feelings towards Michael Ealy tend to be. I'm sure most people would laugh if I told them. Which is why I don't. Look it's a compromise I found to assuage my guilt on masturbating when I was 13, and now at 22 it's become more of a habit than anything else.
Though now I've gone from a sexually awkward teenager to a sexually active woman, and the ways I choose to interpret my rule has become somewhat hypocritical. I could be fingering myself reading a very spicy story on Literotica all the way up to 23:59 on a Saturday night. As long as I finish or am about to finish as it hits midnight and crosses into Sunday, I count that as not counting. Sex with another person is still ambiguous in my mind as while I have been in two relationships, with one even lasting up to 3 months, somehow, we never ended up wanting to have sex on a Sunday. I think I'd probably allow it as its sex with another person and so less dirty, but part of me still feels a sense of guilt around the idea.
I know I shouldn't, and you're probably reading this either laughing or thinking I'm weird, but I am how I am and maybe one day I'll go to therapy but for now I just need you to understand. It wasn't just the masturbation itself, it's the fantasies I had. They could be dark and depraved and I used to feel like if anyone truly knew the things, I've gotten off either reading or thinking about they'd think I was sick. Worse than that was my inability to control myself. Once I started, I couldn't stop and was almost caught with my hands in my pants on more than one occasion in a house that wasn't my own. Thankfully I've balanced out, experience more things, mostly grown out of that way of thinking. Mostly. Still, I hold on to this small rule. Sunday is God's Day and as a Christian even if I don't go to church, I can show proper respect by staying away from sexual things. Sort of like my own personal weekly fast. You may not agree but it makes me feel better at least.
But then I met this boy, this adorable, lovely boy, who though a couple of years older, looks at me like a puppy dog begging for affection from its favourite owner. He's just so honest and straight forward about how much he wants me, and I just can't help but want to tease him a little. It boosts my ego every time he looks at me with those eyes like I'm a meal he's desperate to eat and I shiver a little because I don't ever think a guy has ever wanted me that much. It feels good, and it makes me want to make him feel good. Every time we're seated next to or near each other I can see his hand inching towards me. It's almost unconscious at this point, like his hand is lost unless it holds mine.
While having a conversation about the stupidest things his eyes remain rapt on me with focused attention, except in brief moments where he looks down, towards my hand, my face, my waist. In those looks I can tell he wants to be closer.
I don't make a move though. For whatever reason he's always hesitant at first, gradually inching his hand forward, as though awaiting a rejection no matter how many times I make it clear that I like it. But it's awakened a streak of wickedness I didn't realise I had. To force him to struggle, to watch as he tries to hide the question in his eyes on whether he's allowed to go those few centimetres further. The journey and tension feel like miles while we chatter away as if we both don't know the real game that's being played. Until finally, he takes a deep breath and either asks to have my hand, or if he's even bolder will simply reach out and take it. It always makes me smile deeper when he chooses the latter. Like a dog finally getting his need belly rub he seems to relax as soon as he has physical contact with me. A lopsided grin spreading across his face. He's cute and funny and just nice. His name is Walter and mine is Hanna.
Whenever I touch them, his hands are warm, drawing me in closer to him. I take a moment with the feel of his skin, the delicateness of his fingers compared with the callouses on his palm. Our hands interlock, squeeze, stroke and caress one another in soothing passion, and a small thrill begins to build in my chest. I want him to hold me. To pull me in sharply and envelop me in the warmth of his arms.
It makes me feel tingly all over. It feels safe, exciting, and playful. The way it's so obvious how much he wants to kiss me. The pure need whenever I pull back just before he can, before leaning in to kiss him instead. The games make my heart race and bring out a side of me I didn't know I had. I'd always been quiet and sensible, the innocent one of this group. But this boy and his reactions to everything I do, made me want to tease him mercilessly. To the point he's shaking with his desire for me. It scares me. It thrills me.
I met this boy on a holiday in Menorca, a small island off the coast of Spain. I'd ended up at a small café near the coast and was intermittently reading a book before deciding where I wanted to visit next. I noticed him as soon as he walked in the cafe, his deep brown skin contrasting with the skin tones of the rest of the restaurant's patrons. He was handsome, with a huge smile and seemingly travelling alone, as he carried a massive travel rucksack signifier of travellers everywhere. Once he'd settled in with a mug of hot chocolate our eyes met across the room. He grinned and gave a small wave which I smiled and returned. There was a pull there, that you can't explain but you know when you feel. It was only a few moments before he was asking permission to sit next to me, which I happily gave. I was on holiday by myself but had always struggled to start conversations with strangers. Thus, it had been difficult to meet people so was happy with the initiative taken. Even better than that was the fact he spoke English. My Spanish while passable can be immediately dt the Catalan accent made understanding difficult, so the conversation would've been stilted. Apparently, he was from Angola though he worked in the UK the same as me. We chatted for hours till the café closed and decided to spend the rest of the night together. Over the next few days, we explored various parts of the island, growing closer and more comfortable with each other.
I eventually told him why I was here. The pressures of my job, my subsequent quitting and running abroad to figure out what my next steps would be. He resonated with that. Having recently to move to a new city with no friends, or family nearby. He was struggling in a new town, and the loneliness was getting to him. So, he decided to come here where "at least they have sun."
I don't know when exactly things shifted but by week 2, we were both staying in the same hotel room, and some days we barely left it. Getting to know each other in a more intimate way. On this day we had done a particular gruelling hike, during a period where the sun was high in the sky, and after stumbling back into the room to change and shower, we had collapsed on the bed to rest for a few minutes.
As I blearily opened my eyes, I realised we'd dozed off and for more than a few minutes as the sky outside was now pitch black.
I reached for my phone on the bedside dresser. Oh, shit it's 23:25 on a Saturday. I still felt groggy, but I took stock of what was around me. The room hadn't changed while I was asleep. The curtains were still open, giving us a view of the pool and nearby beach. The lights were all off except the warm glow of the lamp on the desk. I rolled over to face the other side other side of the bed to face the comforting presence I could still feel, and there he was. Gently breathing, lost in a dream. One arm wedged between us while the other was casually draped over my waist. It seems I was the first to wake up. We were both wearing loose shorts with a vest and camisole respectively. One thing I'd noticed over the last couple of days was that he gets very warm when he sleeps. Under the duvet together it creates that kind of lazy heat that has you dozing off despite your sweat. I take a moment to look at this boy. My boy, as I had begun to think of him. Though maybe I wouldn't tell him that yet.
