I think back to May, 2009.
I remember a secret I kept from everyone I knew. A secret I keep, still. I think about the fear I felt at exposure, and the joy of gradual acceptance that would never come to be.
I think about the way her face looked in the dim light of the computer screen, her deep eyes racing over letters as her lips hung just barely apart, soft breaths echoing from her chest even as my fingers grazed over her lithe belly.
Her attention firmly on the screen, one hand on the mouse, she would scroll along and for a moment, Id always consider that maybe I had been forgotten. But a psychic cue would find her other hand on my thigh beneath the covers, long nails raking back and forth, pulling at my hairs.
Id sit there a wonder why I was so lucky. And then Id recall that I wasnt, because a secret isnt meant to be shared. And to share something, to break that confidence would have her know more than shed assumed about me.
I hated her when we first met. She hated me too. Its a stupid cliche, but there really was a fine line there between our distrust and the eventual affection. Im the type to fantasise about how things could be.
She was the type to bring my fantasy to life the first time she reached across me for something on the table, and let her cheek graze over mine. When her eyes lingered on mine, I felt a flicker in my heart unlike any I had before.
But she took it away, just as fast. She went back to her writing, and I resumed my hatred.
When I knew she wanted me, we were on the phone. I miss her voice more than I miss the warmth of her body. Her sultry tone, her scathing call and the way her lips maneuvered around the piercing in her tongue.
I want you to say all my favourite words for me, she told me. Say them. Again. Like last time?
Rain. Id reply, and wait a moment to her her soft exhale against the receiver. Leaves, Id say soon after, and she always followed it up with a girlish giggle that hardly suited her demeanor. Fuck, I would finish, and her ragged groan makes my heart beat harder still.
Then shed tell me to say them again. And I would.
She probably misses my voice, too.
When I fucked her, shed coil her hands at the back of my neck and pull at my skin with black painted nails. Shed bite her bottom lip and pant in my face, and her eyes were either on mine, or rolled into the back of her head.
The enjoyment was wavering. Distracted with thoughts of expected sexual knowledge, and the prospect that I felt I would wake up at any moment from some succubus nightmare made it hard to focus on the vixen in my lap.
But once she was done, shed press her pert breasts into my hairy chest and whisper sweet words in my ear that made me move like no hands or mouth or cunt ever could.
She was coy. She was arrogant. Physically, I was below her and she knew that. Shed flirt with other men when we were out. Shed take calls from her male friends, and speak to them with that same voice she spoke to me with. But shed always have her eyes on mine, waiting to see my reaction.
She wanted my grey-green orbs to flare with jealousy. Because she wanted to be wanted. I hate being jealous, and she got off on it.
Im flawed, I told her.
Why? She asked.
Im jealous because Im selfish.
She moaned first, just quietly. A noise somewhere between a chuckle and sigh of refreshment. I like that flaw.
I feel like she made me sick. I wasnt me when I was with her, because I couldnt afford to be. I couldnt expose the secret to her, anymore than I could expose her to anyone else in my life. If she knew the truth, if she knew she was born nearly a decade before me, she wouldnt want me anymore.
I love the beginning. The beginning is the best. Exploring one another. Touching for the first time, and not knowing where exactly everything is going. Thats the excitement, the electric buzz beneath your fingertips that reminds your life isnt all bad.
But the beginning always ended. And with her, I wanted to keep it. I wanted to kiss her for the first time every time. I wanted to argue with her as if I didnt know what her natural retort was. I wanted to meet with her at one of our secret places and be presented with the same wonder and familiarity time after time.
But she didnt want that. She was a lioness, a cruel baron of sexual violence who liked to play with her food. She liked to sink her claws into my chest cavity and clench my heart to see how many times it would beat before I told her I didnt love her.
She got off and playing with me, and like some foul, shameless boy I kowtowed to her.
But when I didnt, she didnt like it. Not in social norms. Not in verbal bouts. Not even when we played computer or board games together. She wanted to be on top.
The only time she dipped her head and looked as if she were about to cry was when she was under me, begging me to slide my hands around her throat and press my thumbs into her wind pipe while our sweaty hips slapped together.
When we were there, she was mine.
And after, wed sigh, and wed shower. And still damp, wed crawl into her bed and shed drag the laptop over, and shed read her articles, and watch her funny videos.
And Id lay next to her, my lips brushing her shoulder, my hand on her belly. Waiting for that sign. And when Id feel her finger nails on my thigh, Id smile in the presence of being wanted.
Id go to sleep, dreaming about fairy tales.
Because life isnt a fairy tale.
Life is a series of moments you love, strung together by ones you hate.
So I think back to May, 2009. And I smile. But then my heart beats harder, and the cold winter nights a long for fingers on my lips and hands on my hips.
I long for memories, cherished for too long, but experienced not long enough.
Love and Kittens,
Brian
I remember a secret I kept from everyone I knew. A secret I keep, still. I think about the fear I felt at exposure, and the joy of gradual acceptance that would never come to be.
I think about the way her face looked in the dim light of the computer screen, her deep eyes racing over letters as her lips hung just barely apart, soft breaths echoing from her chest even as my fingers grazed over her lithe belly.
Her attention firmly on the screen, one hand on the mouse, she would scroll along and for a moment, Id always consider that maybe I had been forgotten. But a psychic cue would find her other hand on my thigh beneath the covers, long nails raking back and forth, pulling at my hairs.
Id sit there a wonder why I was so lucky. And then Id recall that I wasnt, because a secret isnt meant to be shared. And to share something, to break that confidence would have her know more than shed assumed about me.
I hated her when we first met. She hated me too. Its a stupid cliche, but there really was a fine line there between our distrust and the eventual affection. Im the type to fantasise about how things could be.
She was the type to bring my fantasy to life the first time she reached across me for something on the table, and let her cheek graze over mine. When her eyes lingered on mine, I felt a flicker in my heart unlike any I had before.
But she took it away, just as fast. She went back to her writing, and I resumed my hatred.
When I knew she wanted me, we were on the phone. I miss her voice more than I miss the warmth of her body. Her sultry tone, her scathing call and the way her lips maneuvered around the piercing in her tongue.
I want you to say all my favourite words for me, she told me. Say them. Again. Like last time?
Rain. Id reply, and wait a moment to her her soft exhale against the receiver. Leaves, Id say soon after, and she always followed it up with a girlish giggle that hardly suited her demeanor. Fuck, I would finish, and her ragged groan makes my heart beat harder still.
Then shed tell me to say them again. And I would.
She probably misses my voice, too.
When I fucked her, shed coil her hands at the back of my neck and pull at my skin with black painted nails. Shed bite her bottom lip and pant in my face, and her eyes were either on mine, or rolled into the back of her head.
The enjoyment was wavering. Distracted with thoughts of expected sexual knowledge, and the prospect that I felt I would wake up at any moment from some succubus nightmare made it hard to focus on the vixen in my lap.
But once she was done, shed press her pert breasts into my hairy chest and whisper sweet words in my ear that made me move like no hands or mouth or cunt ever could.
She was coy. She was arrogant. Physically, I was below her and she knew that. Shed flirt with other men when we were out. Shed take calls from her male friends, and speak to them with that same voice she spoke to me with. But shed always have her eyes on mine, waiting to see my reaction.
She wanted my grey-green orbs to flare with jealousy. Because she wanted to be wanted. I hate being jealous, and she got off on it.
Im flawed, I told her.
Why? She asked.
Im jealous because Im selfish.
She moaned first, just quietly. A noise somewhere between a chuckle and sigh of refreshment. I like that flaw.
I feel like she made me sick. I wasnt me when I was with her, because I couldnt afford to be. I couldnt expose the secret to her, anymore than I could expose her to anyone else in my life. If she knew the truth, if she knew she was born nearly a decade before me, she wouldnt want me anymore.
I love the beginning. The beginning is the best. Exploring one another. Touching for the first time, and not knowing where exactly everything is going. Thats the excitement, the electric buzz beneath your fingertips that reminds your life isnt all bad.
But the beginning always ended. And with her, I wanted to keep it. I wanted to kiss her for the first time every time. I wanted to argue with her as if I didnt know what her natural retort was. I wanted to meet with her at one of our secret places and be presented with the same wonder and familiarity time after time.
But she didnt want that. She was a lioness, a cruel baron of sexual violence who liked to play with her food. She liked to sink her claws into my chest cavity and clench my heart to see how many times it would beat before I told her I didnt love her.
She got off and playing with me, and like some foul, shameless boy I kowtowed to her.
But when I didnt, she didnt like it. Not in social norms. Not in verbal bouts. Not even when we played computer or board games together. She wanted to be on top.
The only time she dipped her head and looked as if she were about to cry was when she was under me, begging me to slide my hands around her throat and press my thumbs into her wind pipe while our sweaty hips slapped together.
When we were there, she was mine.
And after, wed sigh, and wed shower. And still damp, wed crawl into her bed and shed drag the laptop over, and shed read her articles, and watch her funny videos.
And Id lay next to her, my lips brushing her shoulder, my hand on her belly. Waiting for that sign. And when Id feel her finger nails on my thigh, Id smile in the presence of being wanted.
Id go to sleep, dreaming about fairy tales.
Because life isnt a fairy tale.
Life is a series of moments you love, strung together by ones you hate.
So I think back to May, 2009. And I smile. But then my heart beats harder, and the cold winter nights a long for fingers on my lips and hands on my hips.
I long for memories, cherished for too long, but experienced not long enough.
Love and Kittens,
Brian