Still shaking, now, after, even though in a few days it'll be difficult to recall your voice or face, for now it's still vivid. But I'll find ways. Even if I never email you, or see your band again, this story remains in honor of what we did early in spring.
It's been a long haul, the last months, the better part of a year, ending by half in a bleak winter of disquiet. When the ice on the river broke, so did the river of ice through my heart. It was time to purge, to prove something. Let's face it: I was in heat; I just hadn't realized it yet.
All that day, all night, restless. That's atypical of me. I had to get out, to go out for once, and rounded up a friend who was up for some adventure. Or not. You just never know. Uncomfortable, being so antsy. Sitting there, bored; at least I had company, my best friend, who'd originally nearly had to drag me along into this particular bar. "Our" place is just dead tonight. Hardly anyone's dancing. So we sit, and we watch. We play the "which one?" game. Jen and I start out liking the same band guy, but then she notices he's got tits, and I see he's too old for me, so we try again. I've not really had a good look at you, behind several cymbals and toms, with headphones on during any songs with programming. On the first break you walk around, looking around, and finally settle on sitting with your singer and his pick-up.
We rule you out. My friend cocked her head and pointed at you with her shoulder, to which I'd rolled my eyes. No--too young, too skinny, too shallow. She keeps flicking her eyes at you and I keep snorting. 'Come on, I'm twice his size!' Second break though, God knows how or why, you approach our table. Up close, your face shows a few lines around the eyes, like mine, and your squint has more beneath it than just empty-headed superficiality. You're talkative, made brave by alcohol, just as annoyed by this country music shit as we are, though you've got to play it.
So it comes to the point, as you sidle up, throw us a few experimental words, body-language your way into our little inner circle, where we just know. The correct type of eye contact, the tilt of head, the quirk of eyebrow...However it is that people signal each other, you're doing it & I, surprised, return it in kind.
After that, I won't leave, knowing you'll wander back and you do, right on cue, and invite yourself to sit. A slow burn chars the ashes of my time alone and awakens my female needs, which begin to claw to the surface of conscious mind. I finger your flowing silk shirt, let you touch my knee. That we don't know much more than each other's first names, city of residence, and preferences in music is irrelevant. Its better that way, actually. As the lights come up and last call approaches, you dare me to do a shot, buy it, and bring it over, so we drink. Cheers. To our upcoming consummation. There, I said it. I'm gonna get laid. L'Chaim. Arrangements are made with your band-mates. We all exchange sideways glances knowingly--two of us, my best friend and I, and four of you, West Coast-ers lost up the ass of the Mid-West. Everybody knows what's up; we've all been around.
We cruise from one end of town to the other and back again, experimentally talking about life. Forty minutes later, we arrive at my house. I make the standard remarks about being trailer trash, jokingly. For a while I show off my digs, and you flip through my art portfolio, lingering long enough to impress me. We admire my computer, my latest toy. Showing me your brother's work on your deltoid, an intricate Celtic knot, we compare tattoos and the philosophy of body art. Fairly safe topics for total strangers, these, with a few slightly off-colored remarks thrown in here and there.
All the preliminaries are attended to. Past history is discussed, as is typical. Your ex-girlfriend dumped you--why? "Well, the sex was great; I'm hung like a horse and can go all night, but the age difference..." Is that conceit, or a warning, I wonder. What or who have you been doing since? For a time, you question me on who, when, how long, have you been tested...and I answer in as general of terms as I can. The wheels are spinning while you process what I say, while you wonder if I'm lying or not. You said it yourself, the agonizing waits over tests can make you crazy. Do you really want to do it again? And do I?
So comes the look, the challenge, the dare; the time for you to pick at the buttons on my black satin shirt and expose me. Your mouth is warm, with strong mobile lips that tell me to loosen up, that you're OK with this. Just one thing you request, "Leave the light on, please, eh?" Before anything more happens, we are in my bedroom, sizing each other up.
It seems removed, strange, but totally cool, how we're basically strangers but can do this. You make the first move, kissing me first, while I watch your face dance into my space. Hands, then mouths start to slide across skin. Rather than fumble with clothes, we both just stop and strip where we stand. Trying to get comfortable, we're both standing there grinning like kids caught with their hands in the cookie jar. My shaved pussy catches your eye. I smirk smugly. Across the distance between us, you reach out to stroke it. Your scent drifts up my nostrils as I play my tactile-starved hands into your fine dirty-blond hair. I form an idea. You agree.
The shower is hot. I wash off the stink of the bar from us both. Now I look you over closely as you submit to my soap-and-hands ministrations. Such a little shit, wiry and ripped, hawk-nosed and pointy-featured. Like an elf, without the pointed ears. Your eyes are deep hazel, darker and muddier than mine. Freckles cascade down your body in uneven patterns, wrap a band of themselves around your left side, and descend the opposite leg. As I kneel in ankle-deep water I stare up at you, fixing you with my own distinct aqua stare. Your insinuation about being well-hung is not exaggeration. That needs to go into my mouth, but first I flick your foreskin back with the tip of my tongue and lap you all the way up and down as you lengthen and harden. While you close your eyes, drop your head back, and brace yourself into the corner, hands flat to the tiles, I try to swallow your uncut length but find myself out of practice. I take what I can, measuring my old prowess against your physical response. Your shaft points at my chest, then mouth, then between the eyes, and your testicles draw upwards in their sac. The room fills with steam. What goes on in my shower is hotter yet; I could stay forever on my knees, kneading your smooth round ass with your rigid sex pushing against my throat. Giving head is a joy, a treat. Watching you tense and pant makes me feel alive again. This, with you, is what I need.
