You sit across from him or her and try to hide the shiver that starts at the top of your spine and ends somewhere under the skin and between your thighs. You don’t necessarily know this person all that well. They are articulate. Intelligent. Playful and serious at the same time. They take their time with things. The way they watch the manner in which you carefully offer yourself in smiles and laughter tells you that they can be patient. The way they recklessly steal a kiss (somewhere between lips and cheek) tells you they aren’t afraid to be.
So you do not know this person, and yet you do; in the way you know something you want, the way you feel when envisioning that set of diamond earrings you’ve been promised or dreaming of that stormy-colored silver convertible you’ve sworn to own one day.
And this is the kind of knowledge that doesn’t rest easily; it shivers and burns and chills in nervous anticipation of something that won’t be – can’t be – as perfectly necessary in reality as it is in that moment you realize you want it.
***
There was a moment there, when my arm brushed your breasts, where I wanted you to know. To know how well I can bring teeth and lips to play against your skin. To know well the tightness inside, drawn to hardened nipples that are teased with teeth that are cruel in the aching 10 remembrances left behind. There was a moment where I wanted you to push back, to let go and see how far it could take you, to dare to be bad enough to feel my hand between your legs and against you. A moment where you could want more than you fear, and then match it with needs of your own. And there was a moment where you did, where you said fuck it and closed your eyes to feel it and think of how good it felt to be bad, to taste it just to know…and in knowing be lost in something that threatened to take you under and leave you submerged in a glazed heat that would turn your skin to parchment and leave me drafting your existence in bursts of lust both autobiographical and metaphorical.
There are few things I don’t strive for simply because I feel they may pale in reality against the fantasy I have in my head. One of the things I did pass up was to have an affair with my first love.
I was 14, he was 16. We meet against two years ago, talked, remembered a more innocent time and contemplated seeking a bit of refuge together.
Ultimately. I just didn’t want to darken that memory of childish exuberance. I knew, I just knew, it couldn’t, wouldn’t, be worth it.
reading this makes me feel it – exactly as you describe. and it makes me want more..rubyprincess