Meeting O Again
The way he stood was familiar.
With his arm up, his hand resting on the back of his head, elbow out wide. Id seen him make that gesture before, on the day we met. I was leaving and had turned at someone elses goodbye, to see him watching me, puzzled, arm up, elbow wide.
I wonder if my own gestures are so revealing and memorable. I begin to move my hand in front of me, palm up, trying to mimic myself, to replicate my own unconscious, signature movements. I give up when he moves his hand down to the base of his neck, his arm resettling so close to my face that I can almost see its hairs moving with my breath.
I want to reach over and touch him. Run my fingertip from the inside of his wrist, across the soft vulnerable underbelly of his forearm, tracing the blue veins that run into the crease of his rolled up shirt sleeve.
I had almost forgotten what he looked like. My eyes alone are unable to etch him firmly into my memory. I need to sketch his body with my own on clean white sheets. To trace the velvet curve of his ear with the tip of my nose. Outline his lips with my tongue. Paint in the shadows of his cheeks with soft short sweeps of my eyelashes.
He is speaking and Im not listening.
Im holding my hands, knuckles white, to stop them from boldly measuring his torso, underarm to hip. Palms parallel as my thumbs shade the hollows of his pelvis, hitting that spot on his stomach that will make his breath hiss.
Experimentally, I dig my nails into my palms and try to remember what it is like to sink them into male shoulders, resilient and warm. When I prise my nails away, my own milky flesh gives up its shape in dark red and white crescents.
I can see three small hairs that have escaped from the soft grey shadow of his beard, and I imagine the way his morning stubble would rasp against the inside of my thighs if they rose against his cheeks.
It is my turn to speak.
And I want to ask him to come to bed with me. Ask permission to find the thumb-sized dimples at the base of his spine. Ask if the curve of his bottom will fit against my groin as I lie behind him, and if he will reach out to hold my hand against his chest as he sleeps.
Ask if he wants to etch my body with his too.
The way he stood was familiar.
With his arm up, his hand resting on the back of his head, elbow out wide. Id seen him make that gesture before, on the day we met. I was leaving and had turned at someone elses goodbye, to see him watching me, puzzled, arm up, elbow wide.
I wonder if my own gestures are so revealing and memorable. I begin to move my hand in front of me, palm up, trying to mimic myself, to replicate my own unconscious, signature movements. I give up when he moves his hand down to the base of his neck, his arm resettling so close to my face that I can almost see its hairs moving with my breath.
I want to reach over and touch him. Run my fingertip from the inside of his wrist, across the soft vulnerable underbelly of his forearm, tracing the blue veins that run into the crease of his rolled up shirt sleeve.
I had almost forgotten what he looked like. My eyes alone are unable to etch him firmly into my memory. I need to sketch his body with my own on clean white sheets. To trace the velvet curve of his ear with the tip of my nose. Outline his lips with my tongue. Paint in the shadows of his cheeks with soft short sweeps of my eyelashes.
He is speaking and Im not listening.
Im holding my hands, knuckles white, to stop them from boldly measuring his torso, underarm to hip. Palms parallel as my thumbs shade the hollows of his pelvis, hitting that spot on his stomach that will make his breath hiss.
Experimentally, I dig my nails into my palms and try to remember what it is like to sink them into male shoulders, resilient and warm. When I prise my nails away, my own milky flesh gives up its shape in dark red and white crescents.
I can see three small hairs that have escaped from the soft grey shadow of his beard, and I imagine the way his morning stubble would rasp against the inside of my thighs if they rose against his cheeks.
It is my turn to speak.
And I want to ask him to come to bed with me. Ask permission to find the thumb-sized dimples at the base of his spine. Ask if the curve of his bottom will fit against my groin as I lie behind him, and if he will reach out to hold my hand against his chest as he sleeps.
Ask if he wants to etch my body with his too.
VIEW 15 of 15 COMMENTS
You had any trouser action yet?
narr just a scene in my bedroom heh
no more fiction?