A kiss like those

The treacherous night of our reunion, we take careful steps towards each other. Choreography of uncertainty: I inch forward and you push; I push and you come closer; we wax and we wane; we are the phases of the moon, we are the ebb and the tide. Merging and receding, endlessly. There is a small taste of some kind of relief, so we step back looking at each other just to make sure it’s there. We question this comfort between us; it’s just too good to be true.

And you are too silent, taciturn lips on a guarded face. Awkward silence. First time you keep such silence. I was certain it was a foreboding of some sort, the end of something enveloped in that quietness of yours. I couldn’t have possibly imagined it was your insecurity locking your mouth shut and sad. Insecurity for what and whom I might have pursued here while you were away; insecurity for what I might have found in order to replace you and fill the hole of your absence. You not being here is always my best of excuses to become the worst kind of person I can be. So I become mean, and jealous and worst of all, unfaithful. You were saying I would never be able to push you away. Yes, I can. You know that know.

The end of the evening is the end of our make-believe. Our bodies are close. They come together. Our lips touch. First it’s with the hesitation of renewed familiarity – of our re-acquaintance. Then we remember. We remember the touching and the teasing, the passion of lips and muscles intertwined. Our mouths become greedy. Yes, as they should be. We use them to feed on each other, to devour.

Your hand, your palm soft and smooth is coming up my back, pressing skin and bone between my shoulders. This simple and intimate touch is enough to make things rewind back to what they once were. Or not...

There, your hand, between my shoulder blades, oh God…relief, promise, plight, the knowing of my body, of my flesh. My hands on your face, stroking chin and neck, fingers that caress smooth sleek angles, the contour of your face, sharp and soft. And you drag your palm there, you learn the ridges and pits of my spine; imperative contact of skin on skin, you’re trying to graft yourself into me.

I grab you, I bite you, I bite your lips open to my onslaught of teeth and lips and tongue. I want you so much. The Bach variations on. Your hands are restless, they are insolent, they sink inside my jeans and pass my underwear. I wear no belt. It’s easy for you to get down there, and your fingers plunge into the meat of my ass. You squeeze now, you knead, you pull. You pull me to your body, as you moan gruff and low under the pressure of my tongue. Your fingers are buried inside me. My mouth eats you up.

My hands fumble for the hem of your T-shirt, we kiss hard and break for air only to bare your torso. I take off my shirt, you push my jeans down around my thighs. I tug it lower and am released completely from it.

A few hours ago you were saying: you’re so skinny. I wanted to reply, it’s because of you, because I can’t taste you, because I can’t eat you, lick you, drink you, because I can’t feed on you taut and delicious against my sheets. I will spread your thighs upon my bed tonight, and make a feast out of you. I will banquet on your flesh and I will gorge myself with you, and I will keep you lodged inside my intestines and between my teeth and gum. I will regurgitate you forever.

I unzip you and drop on my knees, pulling with me the fabric that hides your legs. I cling my face to your crotch. I cleave to you, I am and breathe between your thighs. You cup my hair as I pull you in my mouth. I love the sensation of having you crammed down my throat, it makes me feel warm and fuzzy and safe.

I get up. Our mouths press together again. I want you. You want me, you pull me to climb up behind you.

“I want to see your face,” I cry, yes, there are tears clinging to my cheeks.

“Not now. I want you inside me, deep inside.”

Your voice comes out choked and pleading. I fuck you on all fours on the bed. You scream, you moan; you call me inside you, as deep as I can go. You cry with pain. With pleasure. I’m hurting you. I fuck you so hard you lose your mind. I leave marks on you, and inside you.

We fall, we crumble. Together, against each other.

Inside our sweaty embrace, we rest until desire stirs us again. We make love all through the night. I drift asleep and I feel your hand caressing me. You play with my cock tenderly and drowsily. I go into you again. Face to face. We manage to keep our eyes open as I make love to you. Leisurely, hyperextended thrusts that make you shiver to your core. Our eyelashes twine, our breaths become a knot.

This time we are lovers of equal terms. I let you be inside me just as many times as I ask to be inside of you. I like it. Being yours in such an intimate way. I love feeling your breath behind my ear as you fuck into me, slow at first, then all the more violent as you bite down on my shoulder. Yes!

I urge you to hurt me, to punish me. We both deserve this madness, my love.

And now, I hold you like a baby. You hide your sweat-drenched mop of hair against my sternum. You murmur something underneath your breath. You become mine again; my boy, my child. My innocent. And I fall asleep, asking for forgiveness, praying for absolution.