Caleb's on a roll. We were listening to Missio's Loner album, from a band which always has a wonderful pendulum that swings between making you want to dance to making you want to tear someone's clothes off. We had a good balance of the two going, frankly, finishing a bottle of wine neatly while doing so but not being even remotely lit, just a little warm, just a lot of fun.
Soon he lets muscle memory take over, pulling me into his lap, wrapping me in his buttoned-down french-cuffed shirt that should probably be whisked away to be cleaned, pressed and hung perfectly somewhere instead of crumpled around my form, falling off my shoulders, down over my elbows to wind up underneath us somewhere. Like my phone. His watch. Something else that's probably going to hurt later. Like most things here do.
When the song changes he leans me forward, away from him but coming with me, until his weight crushes me into that shirt. One hand around the back of my head, one around my neck he brings me with him, climbing to nirvana harder and faster than I like, slower and more gently than he prefers.
His lips are bruising mine, his breath ragged but quiet against my face, his hands squeeze the air from my throat and I drift into the dark alone before he comes thundering in against me, strong thighs working to keep mine apart, sharp hips grinding into my existence. Always sure I might die this way, maybe inadvertently, maybe not, I begin to catalogue all of the good things I have experienced in my life. I don't have enough time for it, as the memories stack up, building a wall between us that even his need can't climb. I build and build until I'm too tired and eventually he is through, letting go, letting the cold air rush in around my bones, insulating it until the new room is warm. I fail to answer whatever question he asked there, at the end and he is angry, turned silent in the chill, removed from me as I have removed myself from him. What generally begins as fun, as progress, time travelled since the past into tonight ends in a stark reminder that we're still on the starting line. That we've made hardly any progress at all except to confirm to those around us that we are stubborn, broken and depraved.
He lands one final kiss against my lower lip, loathe to let go completely but determined to keep his composure in the face of total and utter rejection. No matter what I say or do he knows he's in last place. No matter the number of I love yous or the depth of my demonstrated commitment change the fundamental result. I can't talk myself into this.
She won't let me.
You need to-, I tell him in the dark. My voice is so small. I hate it.
I'm going. He nods and suddenly I'm alone.
Soon he lets muscle memory take over, pulling me into his lap, wrapping me in his buttoned-down french-cuffed shirt that should probably be whisked away to be cleaned, pressed and hung perfectly somewhere instead of crumpled around my form, falling off my shoulders, down over my elbows to wind up underneath us somewhere. Like my phone. His watch. Something else that's probably going to hurt later. Like most things here do.
When the song changes he leans me forward, away from him but coming with me, until his weight crushes me into that shirt. One hand around the back of my head, one around my neck he brings me with him, climbing to nirvana harder and faster than I like, slower and more gently than he prefers.
His lips are bruising mine, his breath ragged but quiet against my face, his hands squeeze the air from my throat and I drift into the dark alone before he comes thundering in against me, strong thighs working to keep mine apart, sharp hips grinding into my existence. Always sure I might die this way, maybe inadvertently, maybe not, I begin to catalogue all of the good things I have experienced in my life. I don't have enough time for it, as the memories stack up, building a wall between us that even his need can't climb. I build and build until I'm too tired and eventually he is through, letting go, letting the cold air rush in around my bones, insulating it until the new room is warm. I fail to answer whatever question he asked there, at the end and he is angry, turned silent in the chill, removed from me as I have removed myself from him. What generally begins as fun, as progress, time travelled since the past into tonight ends in a stark reminder that we're still on the starting line. That we've made hardly any progress at all except to confirm to those around us that we are stubborn, broken and depraved.
He lands one final kiss against my lower lip, loathe to let go completely but determined to keep his composure in the face of total and utter rejection. No matter what I say or do he knows he's in last place. No matter the number of I love yous or the depth of my demonstrated commitment change the fundamental result. I can't talk myself into this.
She won't let me.
You need to-, I tell him in the dark. My voice is so small. I hate it.
I'm going. He nods and suddenly I'm alone.