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Short skirts, french knickers

Friday, October 07, 2005

"Fucking is never sublime enough"

It’s raining outside and I’m full of the happy nostalgia of a boy I once knew who made fucking look like a joke. He told me once, “Fucking can be boring, can’t it? The pleasure is never sublime enough.” A rainy quiet day like today reminds me of the many afternoons spent lying next to him in my underwear, stroking his arm, his hand upon my bare thigh, his feet wrapped messily around mine, and him throwing laughs around the room.

He was soft (if ever a man can be soft, and no, I don’t mean in that way), his skin like a petal. He was tall, but not too tall; slender in a way that was almost lanky. But he was also surprisingly strong and his arms had the sort of definition you wanted to touch all the time (hence the stroking). He wore those cute rimless glasses that made him look like a little kid, and he had these sloping eyebrows that filled him with a sleepy, dreamy air all the time. And he was dreamy - the sort that daydreams at work and loves being cheeky pulling imaginary stories and scenarios out of nowhere.

We would talk of irrelevant things and he would smile, decorously, deliciously, deviant if you caught him at the right angle. He would tell me totally innocent things in a beautiful way about a silly childhood or his first kiss in kindergarten; and then he would also tell me totally dirty things in a beautiful way so that foreplay was entirely in his voice.

He took the time to touch me in all the right places and to spend an agonizing amount of time tasting my skin with his tongue. I loved his kisses, full yet barely there, which he would scatter around my neck, tracing his lips in that space just above the neck and below the jawline. He loved stroking the length of my legs, thighs, arms with one finger, watching the shuddering that it sent down me with his bright eyes. He loved turning me on my side, or face down on my stomach, to touch me from behind – one hand pressed against a breast, while his tongue ran down the small of my back to make me arch and whine from the pleasure. Sometimes, kisses down the shoulder while his fingers worked me between the legs from the back, from the front, or both at the same time.

I remember it was storming outside once and the thunder and lightning made me desperate for fucking. He leant into me firm and quieted me down with the strength of an arm while he traced rings round my nipples and moved downwards to lick my inner thighs for such a long time that I was almost made to scream from the desperation. He put a finger inside me and upon taking it out, made me watch him while he licked it. It was the height of being teased. You don’t think you can get so worked up from being touched so little, but apparently, you can.

It was his thing to keep his fingers working me, while he moved his body to lie alongside me, his face pressed close to my face, whispering, licking, pouting against my earlobe; and the full length of his body pushed heavy against my side, a trembling, swollen cock and bristle leg hairs brushing up to my skin. He would stop just before I came, and just ply me with kisses to distract. He would do this over, 3, 4, 5 times until when he finally let me come it was only from the single feather stroke of a forefinger.

He would let me suck on him after, but only for awhile. He preferred to work his cock himself, while I kissed his face and stroked his balls or thighs and pressed myself against him like he did to me. He would come silent and slow, almost deliberate like no other guy I’ve seen does. Then we’d lie back, he’d roll me a cigarette and we’d listen to his old Annie Lennox CDs while he told me more stories and asked me about mine.

It would go on like this for hours, and whole weekends where we wouldn’t get out of bed for anything except baths and chocolate from the kitchen.

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