Reasons to be Sidetracked

I liked the date. In fact, I like him. I didn’t think I would this much. He’s fuzzy-chested, big-headed (as in literally), blunt-fingered, and BEARDED—Chance is simply not what I’m used to, or go for. Different can be good though. Like now. Maybe different is what I need. 

The details I normally file away in my mind for later, written records are uncharacteristically scant this time. I don’t even remember the color of his eyes. I usually would, for such an important, descriptive detail. But I do recall them being dark and glossy, trailing over my face and across the dress I had carefully chosen for the date. They stayed on my own eyes most of the time: friendly. Steady. Open. As a result, I often looked away; sustained eye contact like his makes me feel vulnerable and examined. I wasn’t quite ready for that. 

Dinner was fine; I chose a nondescript restaurant for a nondescript meal. The conversation (among other things) had been what I was truly after. He’s a smart boy—sarcastic, witty, and with a never-ending supply of quips. His voice was unusually resonant, projecting far beyond the small borders of our table space. He smiled more than he laughed. I forgot to ask him about that. When the appropriate amount of time had passed, we split the check and left. The car ride was equally uneventful, apart from us exchanging additional, personal morsels about our lives. 

His apartment was painfully neat and spare. I liked that too. 

In his room, he was very careful to let me set the pace. He started when I started, slowed when I slowed, stopped when I stopped. Our discussion about books stretched longer than need be, but the fault lay with me, not him (alas, the shortcomings of someone with a nervous disposition.) He took the cues I gave him in small, acceptable steps. His hand, although not broad, slid well enough over the crook of my waist to settle his fingers on my hip. Lightly tracing my collarbone in the few moments before he bent over to kiss me was a nice touch too. Books were then dropped altogether.

I’m more present than I have been in other encounters. Even though I notice things like the freckles on his arms and the way his hair is wetly slicked back, they quickly get lost in a fog of want that’s been clouding my head for months. I hold in a gasp as he spreads my legs open, hands to my mouth when he dips down, knuckles clenched bone-white on the sheets as his tongue darts out. A frisson—or bolt, more like—runs through me when he praises my taste. It’s secretly my favorite thing to hear, and I’ll be replaying this for weeks to come.

His grip is sure and firm on my legs as he moves me. I’m filled up, and it hurts, but suddenly it doesn’t, and then yes, it does hurt, at that slant, at that pace, at that—no the pain rounded the corner again back to yes please. Soon, I’m too confused to disentangle the two so I keep my eyes closed, which is a shame because more than anything, I like watching the way he looks at me—a clear-eyed gaze that’s crinkled at the corners, silently asking me to stay in the present with him instead of floating away like I always do. 

The question’s laced with honey and good fucking. I can’t say no to that. Even after he comes, and we’re still on the bed with parts of myself carefully angled away from him while I rub circles on his chest, how can I leave? That would be rude. It wouldn’t be something I want to do. I’ve done so before though, very easily and with little fuss. I’m forever thinking of my escape plan from the room or car or other enclosed area, often prior to the meeting, or during. 

No plan this time. I’d be lying if I said that my mind is completely blank, but the music notes—green and vivid on his arms— warm to the touch of my fingertips. It wouldn’t hurt to stay.