This is a much shorter one than the last but no less enjoyable to write. As for reading it depends what you're looking for. The emphasis is on the aftermath of the first chapter but also features one hell of a quickie.
Yes! It's a quickie within a quicky. Fuckception!!!
Enjoy.
*****
Ever since we made love last week things haven't been the same!
Elated, ecstatic, out of my mind, I keep reliving that afternoon and I want it to happen again and again.
I can't think straight. My attention span has been burnt down at both ends. Like the highly sexed teenager I was all those year ago I'm aroused by the slightest touch.
I just have to see your name, to read your messages, to think about us back then, and I begin to harden.
And yet I have to respect your wishes, not to chase you, not to interfere in your life. It's left me at a dead standstill.
Just those words, though - Making Love - they drive me over the edge of this sad normality and into a mindless state of need and confusion.
Because making love isn't just animalistic fucking, physical need or just a slow comfortable screw. It's the closeness, the intimacy, the chemistry between us and that electricity and excitement that passes between humans at the slightest touch.
It's the declaration of a bond, a deep seeded connection. We already had love like family. Now we have something stronger. And your boyfriend isn't competing...
But our friendship will have to become an ordinary boring thing in order for it to survive; and for your own relationship with Lee to survive.
We spent half the day in bed together, wrapped up in each other, falling hard for each other, surrendering.
The smooth friction of our bodies crackling with electricity as we joined and melted together in a mess of orgasmic bliss, wanting to go deeper than was humanly possible. And yet our imaginations, our minds, had performed sex together for so long before our bodies took direction, I think we must have been heading to that point already for this to have happened.
The way we kissed after the first time, staring into each other's eyes, as if something was awakened within us.
I never wanted it to end. I woke up harder today than I think I'd ever been in my life, dreaming about us all night and yet I couldn't tell you; not then.
I wish you could have been there so we could have fucked it out of my system, because I think I've made matters worse for myself ever since.
A week passed by before I had to talk it out. 'So how do you feel?' I asked you over the phone when it was safe.
'I really don't know,' you said after a pause.
I felt trepidation. Where could I even hope to go with this?
'Well how did you feel? On the day...'
'Well and truly fucked,' you laughed. Well okay then, but it wasn't exactly what I was hoping for.
'Do you feel guilty?' I asked.
'No! Do you?'
'No, but I haven't been able to stop thinking about it...'
I hear a stifled laugh from you. It's devilish. Mischievous. 'What exactly?'
'You don't want me to say it,' I dismissed.
'But you'll tell me anyway.'
I wasted no time. 'I felt something special, sad as it sounds coming from me. But I'd do that again in a hurry.' Again, silence.
Maybe you're afraid to admit it, or maybe it's respect for Lee, or simply your relationship with him. But there's something you're not telling me and I have to stop myself from trying to draw it out of you for my own satisfaction.
'Yeah it hit the fucking spot, repeatedly,' you say casually.
'And we fit nice together too,' I add.
'Stop!'
I stop. But then I hear you laughing again. 'If only you'd told me how you felt three years ago.'
That doesn't surprise me. But I am elated by those words. They affirm what we have. Aren't I just a sad, sad creature?!
A week passes and it hurts but we care, so we do what's right. You go back to him and I go back to me. It is what it is. I can laugh about it, but we don't talk about it.
In fact we laugh and joke about everything but that, emphatically everything but that, and otherwise there's no distance other than the four miles between us.
Then I go for a walk up the canal one evening and I'm on my way home when you call and ask where I am.
I've passed you by, thinking little of it as my walks tend to be between me and myself. Some people think in the shower or at the bar. I think on the move, just trying to gain ground on my overactive mind.
I tell you I'm not far away. You ask if we if we can meet to talk face to face. Thinks aren't going great at the moment.
What can I do? Leave you alone to what I got you into?
We meet by the bridge by your house. It goes over the canal and towards the nearest road in and out of town. It's never without traffic by day, but at night the odd lone car stops and waits by the traffic lights in an all but deserted area.
At the side of the bridge is a low concrete wall, just by the traffic lights. The road is dead and it's a bit chilly, so there appears to be nobody else but us. The silence all around us is palpable and frankly dead still.
When I meet you, we hug and kiss as always. That hasn't changed. Maybe it's habit, but maybe it stops me from otherwise sscaring you away.
We sit, shoulder to shoulder, looking over the black water, glimmering and rippling that golden streetlight glow, hands in pockets when we're not smoking cigarettes. And there's the slightest awkwardness, but not because of how we now regard each other. It's because of the way that we can't.
I sparingly look into your eyes, inches away from you, because I want to kiss you. You break my stare often because five seconds into every moment, you're magically transported back to one most obscenely romantic moment.
It comes into the conversation, inevitably, because the elephant that seems to fill every room can now apparenly fill wide open spaces too.
'What's on your mind?' you ask.
'You.'
'Not in a bad way I hope.'
'Hell no! I just don't know how to go about it,' I sigh.
