He dropped to his knees on my doorstep, and clutched me
around my waist, burying his face in my stomach. That was
the day before I was to leave.
He held me in his arms, in an awkward embrace of
unfamiliarity. And he said, in a voice just as green and
faltering, “I missed you.”
I struggled with unleashed mirth, knowing that the wild
outburst I was capable of at that moment would be
inappropriate. I hadn’t laughed so freely for years.
When we touched that night, it was with the electricity of
a circuit desperately needing to be closed, but we only
managed a bright, intense flicker before the light died out.
You were the smallest thing I had ever felt beneath me. I
felt domineering, masculine against your tiny, withholding
lips. It was an intense, overpoweringly sexual feeling
that I wasn’t entirely sure I liked.
I couldn’t stop giggling. I suddenly felt as I had several
years earlier, at the moment of my first kiss; awkward,
afraid, uncontrollably excited. But this time I had to be
the one to take charge, it was my turn to lead another as I
had been lead. So unlike my smooth fantasies, I crouched
over you on my bed, covered your eyes with my hand, and
laughed into your lips.