We saw each other at the same time when I deplaned. I didn't get to sneak a peek first, but neither did you.
You're even sexier than I imagined. Your glance has lived through a thousand lifetimes, easy. You've lived secrets I've dreamed. Maybe you think those sly dimples of yours conceal the bad boy in you, but I've been around too, and I know better. Still, beyond everything human you are, boy and man, you are truly the Love God, as I named you when you first contacted me on that dating site. The broad curve of your forehead is fitting architecture for the brightest mind I've ever fenced with. And your dark mane--will the dark tresses be my reins as I rule you? Or the rays of a masculine sun that burns me into submission? The bow of your sweet lips promises sensual power held in check, as does the lazy cant of your hips. You're teaching me already: I had no idea southern boys could drawl with their bodies. O my.
Your arms are crossed to showcase muscles. It's kind of redundant, since you are one beautiful, intricate puzzle of muscle. You probably don't know how much you are my kind of puzzle. You probably don't realize how much I love to caress bodies, learn where muscle curves to ligament to bone, where the sienna of your muscle gives way to shadow, the chiaroscuro of strength. You've seen my sculpture, but probably don't realize I never use models. I memorize the real thing with my hands. I could really get into memorizing you, my Love God. Your bleached jeans have enough holes in them for me to see the curve of a calf. I'd like to slide my hand in there... Was that a stirring in your groin? I don't focus there near as long as I'd like. Your stomach is so taut--all the energy you aren't showing anywhere else is right there in your solar plexus. Your wide chest is world class, powerful, full of heart and gentleness.
"Hello, " you smile. "Would you like me to turn around, so you can continue your inspection?"
I laugh, blushing.
"Namaste," I say. I smile into your eyes. I can't help it-- I lick my lips. "And yes." I motion with my finger for you to spin.
"Namaste," you reply, with a small bow. You smile down at me and slowly turn around.
I gasp just a little. The ratio of your wide shoulders to your narrow and beautiful round ass hits me where I live. As someone whose hourglass figure draws comments, I've never underestimated the power of the V of man's shape to startle me into subconscious appreciation. Your V is the ultimate QED. And the way you move, like a big cat. I can think of a few ways I'd like to feel you work out, with the silk of my inner thighs for starters..
When you face me again, I see you have a beautiful shit-eating grin, Love God. The pictures you'd emailed hadn't shown that.
"Would you return the favor?" You ask, your hands in your back pockets, chest arched toward me. There's something about your energy. Daring. Yeah, I think you're about to pounce...
I drop my carry-on, making the most of the drama. I smooth my skirt, smiling into your eyes. Then I skim both hands up the sides of my body, grazing flaring hips, tiny waist, breasts. I hear you aver "va va va voomm" when I get to undersides of my 34DD's. I think you like my shit-eating grin, too. I grab the mass of my sweet dark hair and, turning, bare my neck as I look back up at you over my shoulder.
You bend in for a kiss that starts on my lips, grazes my jaw, and ends with your teeth on my neck. My womb kicks like a mule. I feel your hand stroke my hair, brush my ear, graze my eyelashes. I am a guitar string, and you are sliding a riff of want from deep inside; blind with desire and wordless, I sing "I want to squeeze your cock " in a universal language.
I hear someone snarl, "Get a room." It's the heavy woman with the Prince Valiant hairdo who sat next to me and whined about her cat all the way from California.
My moan turns to chuckle. I say, "Nah. We'd need a room if I were doing something like this." I turn into your embrace and push you a few steps backward, onto one of the endtables built into the chain of airport chairs. Since you're almost a foot taller than I am, it's wonderful to have access to those soft lips. I kiss them briefly, kiss the dimple in your chin, kiss the pulse of your neck, reveling in the scent of you. Slowly, savoring the heat and smell of you, I squat between your thighs. Giving you a wicked grin, I lick your inseam slowly from knee towards that spicy cock. Is that a growl I hear? I arch my eyebrow and murmur, "What sexy noises you make." That's definitely a wet spot on your jeans... I reach to taste...
"There are children here!" This time it's a flight attendant.
"Yeah," I tell him, sitting on my haunches, "and they've seen more on superbowl halftime."
"Besides, these are special envelope jeans." You raise your voice to address a goggle-eyed kid who is almost dislocating his shoulder in his mother's wake in an effort to watch us. You stand, saying "You have to lick them shut," pressing the seam for the kid's benefit.
I laugh as I stand up. I love your whimsy.
I grab my carry-on. "This is all I have. Ready to go."
You take it from me, adroitly covering any evidence. You turn to face me, beaming those dimples down at me. "You smell amazing."
All I can do is smile and take your hand because I suddenly feel like an idiot virgin--would say choirboy, but we all know how often they're touched.
I stammer, "You're amazing smell too." I turn the most amazing shade of red. It probably matches my blouse. "I mean, it's wonderful to meet you."
We hold hands as we walk out. We are quiet. We have no need to fill space with chatter. Walking next to you, I feel an expansion of my bones. Like the apse of a church, my ribcage vaults open. Unaccustomed oxygen circulates, sharpens my senses. With sudden clarity, I know: all the rooms of my soul have opened to let my love for you echo. There is no need for compartments. The gypsy balladeer with the balalaika can slam dance with the body-suited Bavarian and fiesta with the entire town of Morelia. You've grown up in multiple cultures too. There is nothing we can't learn about each other. Even the way we look, you with your mix of Creek, Gaelic and Asian features, me with my Scandinavian, Slavic and Mediterranean features, we make up a mini- international convention. Passers-by probably think they just see two native americans. We'd never take each other for granted that way. We can appreciate each other's original arrangements, instruments, rhythms, idioms.
As soon as we get onto the parking level, I start swinging our hands to and fro, letting you know I want to play. I walk us to an unoccupied space and step up onto the parking block. I slide my bag off your beautifully muscled shoulder and let it drop. I lean into you, raising arms over your shoulders, and slide my fingers into your mane, lightly tracing your scalp with my fingernails. I grind myself against you--my nipples love your hardness. They'd been shrieking with need for pressure since you bit my neck. Your hands on my ass work my vulva on your thick erection. You are burning down there. I am streaming wet. My clit does its braille trick and confirms that you possess a massive phallus. I can't wait to see you rampant, see if you have straight black pubes, stuff you everywhere.
One good zing on my clit plus the thought of me impaled on your burning cock makes me moan from where I don't have vocal chords. Your breath catches. You pull your face out of my hair and put one hand on my heart. I put one on yours. Then we kiss, eyes open. Your eyes are such a deep dark color, I can't tell where your pupil is. I fall in. I've fooled around with tantra before and it's always been a thrill like sharing a rollercoaster ride, but this... this is like sharing a ride on the Hubble telescope spinning through endless fractal waves of Hawking radiation. It's not just a thrill, it's contact. It's creation. It's terrifying delight. Your tongue sings my body electric. I grab the best jesus handle I know, swooping my hand into your waistband and squeezing the wet head of your mushroom. So heavy and hot.
