Friday, 25 February 2011

One Last Time Again, Part 2

You say nothing, just take my hands in yours as you look at me. I am too exhausted to say anything. I'm vaguely aware I must look a mess, windswept hair and tear stained face. I cannot feel enough to care. Sorrow envelops me as I gaze at you, and I break down into tears once again. You gather me up into your arms and hold me, rubbing my back in firm circles even though I am still soggy from my run. I cry into your shoulders until my tears run dry and then I sob for a while, too tired to think, not even sure why I am crying. You pull away and I want to cry again because I cannot bear the thought of losing you again, of empty arms and my empty chest. You take my face in your hands and thumb the remainder of my tears away from my eyes. I feel fragile in your presence, as if I am a cub and you are a lion. I am a little afraid.

You pull my face towards you and suddenly you are kissing me, your mouth urgent as it meets mine, so much left unsaid now expressed without words. I am unsure how to respond, except that I don't want you to stop. My body is numb, my mind overwhelmed.

I let you consume me for a while as I try and take this in, and then emotion rushes over me like an unstoppable tide. Fire crackles through my veins at your proximity. Relief washes over me that you are not gone, that it is clearly not over. So much frustration is relieved with this one kiss that I cry all over again but you do not stop, you put your arms around me and pull me closer. I feel secure in the circle of your arms, free to let go. I did not realise I had been bottling up so much until now. As your fingers massage my back I wonder if I am dreaming, if your kisses of voracity and fire are just some figment of my twisted imagination. My thoughts are all pushed aside as my body responds to you, as it remembers why it was that I wanted you, why it is I stubbornly refuse to forget about you. My fingers find the back of your neck, trace it upwards towards that daft beanie you're always wearing to cover your lack of hair. I never thought I'd find that sexy in a man but it suits you so well, and now I find the smoothness of your head erotic, perhaps all the more so than other men because it feels so queer.

I am trying to fish my car keys out of the pocket in the back of my trousers. Your fingers cover mine, relieving fumbling fingers which are shaking too much to be of use to me, tugging gently against the cord of my trousers, slipping your fingers against my skin, which goose pimples at your touch. Your hands are cold but the shock of the sensation is arousing.

In a flurry of kisses and ungraceful movements we step up from the ground, shift around the side of the car, where you pin me against the door and continue to kiss me as you try and put the key in the lock without looking at it. I have to stifle the urge to giggle. Romantic encounters like this are always much smoother in the movies but we are all fingers and thumbs, awkward and clumsy. The car unlocks with a click but you are still holding me against the door, the full length of you pinned against me, your body a long lean line against mine. You rake your hands down the sides of my body, rough and hungry, greedily trying to get as much of me in as short a time as possible, not caring about savouring the moment, just trying to consume as much as you can. I try to wrap my arms around you but you take hold of my hands, hold them by my sides so that it is just our bodies touching. My body is beginning to respond, my skin prickling as you touch me and moisture pooling between my legs as I imagine what you could do with me now, wicked thoughts about public exposure only heightening the arousal of your touch.


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