I am sitting within the eye of a storm.
People surround me; talking, eating, drinking, laughing, all loud, all vulgar. I feel sometimes as though I'm an old soul, surrounded by utter, utter children; yet I am younger than them, all of them. I used to think that you were like me, an old soul, but then it happened. You left.
You're here too, across the room. We never went public, never told everyone that we were together, never even tried to make you and I become an us. Tonight is one year on, since that one time, one night, and my god, I cannot help but still want you.
I don't understand theme parties. It seems that these days, one cannot throw a pea without hitting a theme party; an alien here, a M party there. Tonight is a Wild West theme, and I am not playing along. They say you should play like a joiner, but I can't be like that, even at a work thing.
You are sitting between two people, the two people most opposed to us. Your mother; as if she would have a lesbian for a daughter. And your boyfriend, a less than perfect rendition of what a girl might want.
You're an indian squaw, and a slutty one at that. Your dress is short, but not too bad; your hair is done in twin braids, and I would like to touch them, feel them. I imagine what doing so would be like, as I look away.
You keep looking at me; whenever I look, as much as I try to avoid it, you are. I drink, more than I should, looking back; whenever you see me watching, you get all lovey dovey with your boyfriend, which leads me to take another shot of vodka. Lucky the business doesn't skimp on alcohol, because I am intent on drinking myself under the table.
You come over to me, with him. You ask me, how I am; I say, good; my eyes say, how do you think, as they pointedly look at him, the boy. He is, as they mostly are, oblivious; smiling vacantly, his ears full of those stretching earrings, so large that one could fit a sausage through them. You flinch, a little; you always lived on the extreme outside of your skin, always saw how I felt within mine.
It wasn't really your fault, when we woke up the next day a year ago. When you smiled at me, and kissed me awake. When we made love again, and gasped the humid air of my apartment in the morning, and spoke of us.
I asked you, are you really interested, or; I let the question hang. You paused, your hands ceasing as they trailed my shape; you say you're curious. Before tonight, you said, I was only into boys.
Perfect, I said, rolling over; I didn't want you to see how hurt I was. I knew there were enough impediments between us without boys as well.
And that became a problem, for us. We dated, if one can call you coming over to my apartment and being shagged senseless dating. But I knew you weren't exclusive, never even tried to have that conversation with you.
How've you been, I ask you, smiling. You nod, and smile, but it doesn't reach to your eyes. Good, you say, but you don't mean it. You sit down; your beard finds another chair, and another conversation.
I forgot just how captivating you are, up close. You smell like cinnamon, your hair is glossy in the dimness. Your top is low cut; I want to sink myself lower, and to nibble between them, before pulling the material further down, and suckling you as you come.
I think my mood is contagious. Your eyes are huge, swollen as I have never seen them. Your nipples stand hard to your shirt; your finger flicks idly at my wrist, as you lean over to catch what I'm saying. You want to fuck me, I know it. I want it, but fuck you if I'm going to make it easy for you.
You ask me, like you did last year, do I want to get out of here. I respond, quickly, what about him, as I look over at the laughing man, and the other men gibbering away. You flush, and you look raw; you get up to leave, and I take your wrist, unable to stop myself. You look down at me; god help me, as I smile, and say yes.
You lead me outside, and drag me away, into welcome relief from the ruckus upstairs. It's late, and the street is poorly lit. Your eyes glow feverishly, your mouth open, as you push me none too gently up against the wall.
The impact is enough to wind me, but the air is caught, held from leaving my body by your lips. I could never have forgotten how you tasted, but the reality is an unfair comparison to memory.
For a moment, I'm lost. Lost in you, revelling in your shape, your touch, your desire as I hear you moan into my mouth.
Then, I'm angry.
I shove you off, and push you away, against the wall opposite. I can't be too loud; the walls are thin, and a screaming match would probably be overheard.
What the fuck, I ask you, as matter of factly as I can. You're still hot, and I can hear your breathing, and your taste is still in my mouth. You look a bit lost, as you ask why, was I not into it as well. I shake my head; not when you damn near assault me, scarce minutes after leaving your boyfriend.
You flush; even in the dim light, I can tell. You don't quite know what to say; you wanted simple, you begin with. We weren't simple. So you left, and went out, and forgot as best you could, I responded. I am so not turned on right now; it is as though you've upended a bucket of ice cold water over my head.
No, you say, almost plaintively. No, it's not like that. How long have you been seeing him, I ask in response. Fuck; my hurt is making me hurtful, the fractures in my heart too close for either of our comforts.
Almost since then, you say. I nod, and start to walk away. Nice knowing you, I say; you take my wrist, hard. You pull me back, and push me against the wall again. I'm not scared, until I see your face; I not anything, until I see your face.
You're desperate. I don't understand; you've been smiling, laughing, happy, all year, when I've seen you. I talked to the boy; he's actually alright, I think. I mean, a genuinely nice guy; or would be at least, if he wasn't yours.
I need to say something, you say, your voice a broken, ragged whisper. You lean in, and put your mouth close to my ear, so close I shiver, feeling the chill of your breath on my neck.
I've been a bitch, you say. I've tried, I've fought it, but I can't anymore. I love you. So much it hurts.
You draw back, your eyes glowing; I can see it, all of it, luminous.
It is as though I was carrying a great weight, such is the relief. Not just relief, triumph; I knew it, I fucking knew it.
You look scared, as though you're about to flee; I must've taken longer thinking than I thought. Slowly, I raise my hands; I place them at the back of your head. I lean you forwards, and draw you back towards me.
I love you too, I whisper to your nose, the only part of your face I can see. But you knew that already; I had come damn close to telling you when we tried, earlier on.
You almost laugh, a relieved sound, half a bark or a harsh breath.
You make a good indian, I say, lift my hands back up to your head, playing with your braids. Now you do laugh, and it is like the air got warmer around us; it feels good even to just refer to we two as us.
And you make a good... what are you exactly, you ask me, leaning back to look at me. I blush a bit; I only found out about the bloody thing three days ago, and I'm not the most proactive person you would meet. I'm wearing a tee shirt that clings to my chest, that's light metallic blue. It's got a symbol on the front, that kind of looks like a keyhole, and it's got a lower than normal neckline for a tee. Jeans for the bottom, that had nothing special to say for themselves; I had brought a hat, like a cowboy hat, but that was the only concession I made. I had left it inside.
I take your hand, and place it at the front of my shirt; shut and work, squaw, I say, affecting the worst western accent I have ever heard.
You snort, but you lower your head to my level, and you kiss me, softly. Your hands lift my shirt; I'm too happy to care, your fingers on my skin so hot, making me gasp. You bite my lower lip a little, your fingers inside my bra now, toying with my breast. Your fingernails are too long not to scratch me a little, but it doesn't hurt. I feel your shoulderblades through the fabric of your dress; you're a little thinner than you used to be. I feel every rib, before lowering myself, and kissing your collarbone, and spinning you around to plant you against the wall.
I hold your wrists by your sides, as I kiss you, hard. I want you, as though every missed opportunity, every fantasy unfulfilled welled within me. I lift your dress up; your eyes are glowing, mad. My hands look for your briefs, and find nothing but warmth and moisture. I look up at you, smirking.
"That sure of me, were you?"
I bite you, just above the knee. You gasp, but I soothe the marks with my tongue. I draw away, until only my lips are just touching you, teasing, tickling. Your hands are in my hair; you're not forcing me to rush, or directing me at all. I look up at you, and you look down, your mouth open. Your lips quirked, between one breath and the next.
"I'm meant to be seducing you, Rory, not the other way round."
I just looked up at you, completely satisfied in my time and place; I like my name in your mouth.
You stand up; the fringes of your outfit first brush, then press against my stupid teeshirt. Your hands found my stomach, as your lips find mine, and you turn us around again, me against the wall. You unbuckle my belt; you don't pull them down all the way, but just enough to get your fingers inside.
I am in my lips, then in the skin you kiss as you mouth my name into my flesh, making me yours by osmosis. Your body is shaking, whirring, purring, around me, and my awareness sinks lower, to where your fingers are ungently feeling their way into my underwear, but I don't mind, because I want you to be fierce, determined, animal. You can be soft later.
I'm trying to think, but I can see patches of red and white over my eyes, through my eyelids. I think I'm holding your wrist, gripping it; I'd be begging you not to stop, but the words are not adequate to the feeling; licking along my bones, swelling like pools of warm water, swirling. I'm moaning, or screaming, and I'm kissing into you, and I'm not sure it's your mouth. I might even be whispering, but such a whisper. I'm burnt ashes, twisting into dead coals, but the fire was so glorious that I simply didn't care.
You back off, and momentarily I'm scared; I'm too raw to see you leave. Even if I can intellectually realize that both of our parents are upstairs, I just can't. You smile; I can't see it, but you come to me as softly as I want you to.
"Let's fuck off," you whisper to me. "You still living in Clayton?"
I nodded, but I retreated a little.
"Can't be like last time. You need to actually be willing to come out, properly, and to do this right."
You sigh, and nod. "Do you want me to break up with him tonight?"
I smirk, picturing it; him, all hurt and angry, but surrounded by mine and your family, and our bosses, and their families. I even see your mother's face, when you tell her why. I can't help smiling.
"No; we'll do it tomorrow. Meanwhile, we can't go back to mine, at least not yet. He'll wonder where you went, as will everyone else, and they know I'm gay."
