I blame the papers for this. I read the local rag that day- and I never read the paper- to find his face pressed to another woman's. At a seafood festival, no less. Oysters. It figures, I know.
When I had him, he was just... a child. Being two years younger in high school together shouldn't have made him jailbait, but he was. He wanted and clung to me, but a Cockney man had claimed me (sort of) before he arrived out of nowhere (if nowhere is Queens). Why should I want to possess this boy ten years later, a man now? The dark, tumbled mess of hair he'd grown made me want to pull it, pull him by it into an alley and teach him what all those boys (and a few girls) had taught me.
I tracked him down. He let his phone number tumble out one night, and half-conversations flew between us for weeks. Not enough, really. Is there ever enough before complete surrender?
He got hold of me Sunday morning before Yule, about to board the train a track over to Manhattan. The normal wary smiles, teasing words, and predators' games struck sparks in me like I'd never felt from him before. The lips I found obscene at 16 had a man's voice behind them. He invited me back to his place for what we knew wasn't coffee.
We toured his apartment, the one I'd seen in his girlfriend's photographs, under the watchful, devious eye of their small spotted kitten. The tidy well-stocked kitchen, the bedroom, the Christmas tree in the heart of it hiding the view of concrete streets. The conversation we had in his living room started to make my head hurt- "I don't know who you are now," more of that filler. Important, but filler just the same. We had some very unfinished business and we didn't have to solve it by talking. So I took a gamble and kissed him, fingering the box of mistletoe in my pocket to keep my too-eager hands busy. I'd convinced myself it was appropriate as a housewarming gift: "for your new life with a sweet girl" my clever little card read. Now as I relearned lips I last pressed a lifetime ago, wicked things sprang to mind. He tasted sweet, still young as I'd thought he might. The full mouth I remembered, with more blissful urgency to it, more force. Less asking and far more demanding. Luscious. He gasped first as I bit his bottom lip. We'd circled around each other before, and in that moment I knew why. A kind of spreading fire took to my legs, made us both shake.
"I should have done this years ago," I mouthed into his neck, and lay him out slowly along the couch. Stupid pull-over jumper, ridiculous shirt and prep-school winter layers. I worked up under them, down his belt. He let out a low moan, a yelp really, and jumped up to take refuge across the room in a desk chair tucked by the tree.
"She'll be home soon, I can't... I can't do this," he whined. He wasn't telling me, though, he was pleading. Weakness and lust; irresistible.
"Of course not. And you wouldn't do this now if you had ten years ago. She'll just have to play along with us if she does come back," I shrugged, loping over to spin his chair to me. I wove one leg and the other into the chair's arms, the way I'd played on swings with him. He couldn't move. I kissed him again, teasing this time, refusing argument. Laughing, I pulled back his shirt to kiss along his shoulders, ran my hand along his arm. He was so light for Italian, a pale Northern boy with muscles gently firm under his smooth skin. Not a virgin, but damn near virgin skin. I liked this.
