That Last Time

The last time I saw you was after a brief gig your band played in the basement of your friend's house. I had thought the night would end with me driving home from there, not from your room again after unexpectedly leaving the event early. All pleasantries were promptly skipped as soon as we were inside.

You grabbed my hips and pulled me to you; the clothes came off quickly because I only had an hour before I had to drive back home. Despite the initial brusqueness of our encounter, the moment slowed deliciously as you peeled off my underwear. The dark-eyed look on your face floored me, as did the way you dove between my legs, my period having at last ended for that week. You tongued as deeply as you dared, one hand cupping my breast, and my knees could have buckled from when you turned me over to slip two fingers inside while your lips kissed my other entrance. To throw me off balance even more, you landed several stinging slaps on my ass, a hit to accompany every subsequent moan from my mouth.

No surprise then, that you slid in embarrassingly easy as I propped my legs on your shoulders, your flushed face framed between my ankles--an image I'd revisit often once I returned to my own home. The harder you pushed, the tighter I clenched, my fingers gripping the bedsheets to the point of tearing. At one point you bent down to kiss me with both my legs fully trapped between your flesh and mine. Before the pressure became too much for me, I felt completely...covered, if that's the right word. Held down, the way I was to the bed and by you. You and that glazed expression and parted mouth. I felt like I didn't belong anywhere else but there.

Like I was yours.

[insert wine analogy here]

What I enjoy about (much) older men is that they explore every available inch of skin with a painstaking slowness I’ve never found with anyone else. This one was no different. Tall and lean, almost gangly were it not for the subtle musculature of his chest, he kept his head down to press kisses along the length of my legs, rubbing circles on my knees while I pushed my head back into the pillow. The bed was wide and indescribably soft, as soft as the sound I made when he buried his face between my thighs as if it called him home. 

He crooned about the perfection of my body in a low-toned, quiet voice. I wish there’d been a way to record them, but “You feel so good” loses its impact through a speaker rather than the whisper in my ear that it was. Still, his murmurs and muted groans were my favorite part of the brief hour I had in his room. The second favorite came when he spent himself across my chest and belly, and leaned to lap up every drop. I kissed him deep right afterward; his tartness lingered in my mouth. I rather liked it. 

So appreciative. Kind. Sweet. Traits I’m unexpectedly describing a 35 year old man who had initially lied about his age before I found out on my own. Age gaps become less of an issue the older I get though. I also have very little room for concern or complaint, considering the post-hookup discovery of ages for two of my past men: Ben, and Shane from my cousin’s wedding. Do three (nonconsecutive) occurrences make this a trend now? I’m not sure how to feel about that yet, haha.

For now, I intend on seeing him again. He’s too kinky to discard.

The Mind and The Senses

I’ve apparently chosen the perfect day to have a date. The sun is out, the breeze is crisp but not too cold, the Atlanta skyline towers as a lovely backdrop to the moment the boy turns his head to greet me: a dark-haired, blue-eyed, 6’ frame that solidly fills the button-down shirt and slacks he has on. 

He’s an excellent conversationalist too. 

It’s been a while since I’ve had to keep my mind this alert while talking to someone so the quips fly as quickly as the sparks. I only need a few minutes in the Starbucks we’ve convened in to decide that I want to ditch a later appointment I’ve made with someone else. The want becomes more concrete once he kisses me in my car two hours later, and I drive to the restaurant with a slightly sped up heart rate. To make matters worse, my phone buzzes intermittently throughout the dinner, and though delicious as the food was, I make my excuses and leave as early as possible without seeming rude. As I practically run across the parking lot, my phone bounces in my coat pocket, its inbox littered with various men pressing their suit and only one clear victor. 

I have but an hour and some odd minutes to spend at his home, an allotment I make full use of as soon as he shuts the bedroom door. 

Aha, I’ve forgotten how fast my head starts to ache if I keep it tilted too long to kiss someone tall, but I like that I have to stand on my tip-toes while pressed against the wall until he finally takes pity on me and moves us to the couch. At one point, I sit up on my elbows to catch him pressing a kiss on my knee, his hands large and spread-out on my hips. I swallow hard—size-difference kink: another new discovery to file away for later. His lips move to the space between my legs—I swallow harder and tip my head back. It isn’t long before I’m tensing and jerking into his mouth, my thighs locked around his head. 

To my great surprise (and subsequent satisfaction), he’s the perfect size for me. I usually can’t stay on top until the other man finishes due to his substantial girth/length, but I ride the true, razor-thin edge between pleasure and pain with this one. I wish there’s enough time to indulge, but he comes, I sigh, and we disentangle. My hands can’t help but wander over his arms and chest while we chat about things completely unrelated to what we’ve just done. 

I’ll see him soon. Light and fun is exactly what I need right now.  

Over the past few weeks, I reflected on how we ended our last phone call. I realize I threw down that ultimatum out of anger and misplaced pride. I needed the distance in order to pull back and think more clearly. Now I’m done and in a better headspace. What I would like is to start over and resume talking to you again. I probably never emphasized this enough (certainly much less than you have with me), but I liked our discussions—on everything. I enjoyed hearing your perspective on various issues despite my disgruntled, wary wall you kept running into when the topic turned sensitive.

There’s value in our conversations, the lack of which I’ve felt keenly. I want to drill that point home.

I remember what I told you that night. “I’m done putting myself out there.” Apparently not so, because I believe that it’s worth having you around in my life. I’ve missed being friends with you.

The risk I’m running is that you might not feel the same way, but I wanted to open the floor for any possibility of a redo. Perhaps that makes me foolish for daring to try. The only reason I would even bother attempting, however, is because I see something good in it. All I ask is for you to let me know that you’ve received and read this message.

Thanks.

I'm turning 23 tomorrow. I know what my birthday gift to myself is.

An odd choice for a gift, something that's meant to bring joy, but fitting for me. Because it's still what I want.

I suppose that's what counts, ultimately.