Wednesday, March 5, 2008

8/14/04 - "A story."

This is the story I started working on last weekend. I added like two sentences to it today, so I'm obviously a bit blocked. Or distracted. It was supposed to be a dirty story, copying a friend of mine because his stories are gloriously hot and I always wanted to write that sort of thing, but I'm kind of nervous about starting the dirty part, I'm not sure why. The non-dirty part was easy, because I actually carry a lot of sentiment around for this person, and I think part of my fear of getting to the dirty stuff is cheapening it? Because this whole night is one of my favorite romantic memories. Anyway, read what I have so far and let me know if you think I should finish it.

It's warm, it's dark, it's Summer. We're in the guest house on his grandmother's property in Maine. Yes, she has more than one residence. Now she even has more than one guest house; at this time the larger, more grand one was still being built. He's from one of those families. They're old money, and they have manners, in public anyway. This guest house is modest, but very comfortable. The wooden, whitewashed walls are scattered with paintings and family memorabilia, bookshelves hold pictures and nautical reference manuals. The couch easily doubles as a bed, built into two walls and meeting in the corner, with removable cushions covered in a charming and efficient blue-and-white-striped canvas. His father sleeps in the bedroom on the other side of the house, separated by a hallway, the bathroom, and the kitchen. His father is a sound sleeper, and with both sets of doors closed we're mostly safe from being interrupted. Mostly.

It hurts to be in love with someone when you know that they're leaving the next day and there's no guarantee that you'll ever see them again. The concept overwhelms me and my vision fuzzes with tears as I watch him walk around in what to me is his natural habitat, but to him is only Summer vacation. It's hard to imagine him in rooms other than this one, wearing clothes that aren't these, talking to people that aren't me. He puts on some music, and coaxes me to dance with him. He's tall, and broad, and strong. I wrap my arms around his neck and bury my face in his shoulder, breathing him in. I let him flood my senses, my whole awareness becomes his hands on my hips, his breath on my neck, his words in my ear as he softly sings along to the song.

"I'm going to miss you so much," I manage to choke out.

"Shhhh," he soothes, his deep voice in a low whisper, "we'll be fine, don't cry."

I cling tighter. He pulls back, catching my teary gaze in his sharp, blue eyes.

"I love you, sweetheart."

"I love you." I consciously leave out the common "too", because it isn't just a knee-jerk response, it's a factual statement.

He grins and leans in to kiss me on the mouth. The kiss is passionate, and moist, and we mean it. My whole body reacts; the spark of desire pulses once through my vascular system and settles in the pit of my stomach, its warmth radiating outward. He calmly leads me over to the couch. This time there are none of the giddy excitement and word-games that plagued our first sexual encounters, just desire, resolve, intimacy, need. We lay down lengthwise and kiss again, our probing tongues meet and I'm reminded of how much I love his taste.

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