New Story. Sobriety I (Times in between)
Title: Sobriety
Author: Scotianova
Beta-fairy: Carol38
Disclaimer: I don't own them and writing about them is just for fun.
Genre/Moods: Insecurity, hurt, illumination leading to COMFORT :)
Pairing: Of course this journey is about Luke and Reid, however Gideon Masterson,
Reid’s assistant, and some other characters are joining them.
Warning: Noah is there - but less narrow-minded as I usually picture him.
Rating: sexual contents in some chapters
AN 1: This is my first attempt to write a multi-chapter story in the first-person-perspectives. It’s kind of a
correspondent-story to ‘Farouche’, because there I tried to explore Reid's 'inapproachableness' and here I focus on his 'sobriety-
calmness-desurgency'.
AN 2: And it's kind of homage to a very special man, my best friend!
AN 2: Gideon is NOT Reid’s love interest!
Summary: “I thought I was in control of everything. Structure, strategy, methodology meant almost everything to me; I had figured out my whole life - my professional and my personal. Then I met fate - face to face - I met it several times. But only the last encounter made me
understand: There is an elemental force out there. Call it fate, call it God, call it coincidence - whatever name you put on it doesn’t matter,
but it’s there and you are powerless to fight it. You are supposed to go with it.”
(Reid S. Oliver, MD, professor of neurology at Harvard Medical School)
The prologue is here: http://scotianova.livejournal.com/46369.html
I Times in between
I saw you for the first time for real and afterwards I could never look away again. It was as if my eyes were connected to you from then on, regardless of whether I was with you or many miles away.
I couldn’t even point out a special thing, a special feature. At least I tried to convince myself you weren’t as special as my guts never ceased to tell me. I mean objectively you’re of average height and on rather sub-standard weight. You don’t look younger than you are - neither older. I told myself over and over again that nothing about your looks are unique, well maybe your gorgeous curls and the unidentifiable color of your mane, yeah, that’s something very special. … And your lips. Precisely shaped, perfectly shaped, firm but tender and soft. … And that tiny crook between your front teeth, where I always try to slide the tip of my tongue through, when we are kissing. Well, then there are your hands, yes, your hands are unusually beautiful, your long lean fingers, soft but strong, skilled, neat. When we were on the plane to New York the first time I couldn’t stop looking at them, noticing the way they held a magazine, griped the arms of your seat, the way you pinched the bridge of your nose or rubbed your temples.
As for your body, it is not the body of an athlete, yet muscular. You don’t have a six-pack but your front is delectable. You’ve long legs, but they are a bit bandy, well - of course I don’t know what’s inherent and what the crash had caused.
The crash, you’ve mentioned it twice, but I know it’s always on your mind. It changed your life fundamentally. Funny, isn’t it? I say ‘fundamentally’ … although the crash did exactly that, it wrecked your fundaments, your personal and professional ones.
How could you ever forget it
You’re wearing its imprints on your entire body - conspicuously, accusingly. Accusing the observer to not have a clue what has happened to you. There is this scar where they extracted your ruptured spleen; then there is the one incised across your belly…”It’s a miracle that my balls weren’t ripped off”… you’d told me once sarcastically grimacing. Another scar looks like a long borderline reaching from above your elbow down to the carpus of your right hand. And the zigzag line reaching from your hip bone down to your ankle finally took my breath away. Something sharp must have cut open your right side almost from top to bottom. But there are more, many more scars, traces, you wear them with dignity, they’ve become a part of you, they’ve changed you, or more precisely the events connected to them have changed your life irreversibly. You’ve said that very, calmly, carefully considered, as if you weren’t talking about yourself but someone else.
I read an article once about which features people consider to be pretty, handsome or beautiful and which not. And that ‘beauty’ isn’t connected with prettiness necessarily. An artist said that he’d consider faces that would tell a story being beautiful. And that the most beautiful man he’d ever seen had a deep cut from his temple to his jaw.
I remembered that story while watching your nakedness the first time and I had to agree with said artist. Your body tells a story, a painful story - as your eyes do, when you aren’t covering them with your well-rehearsed sobriety. And both are just beautiful. I fell for them instantly; I fell for your eyes and your body. Does that make any sense? Can someone even fall in love with another person’s body without being a shallow ignoramus? Well I did, I fell in love with your body and I don’t consider myself ignorant. It just happened.
The first time I saw you naked you stood there in the middle of your bathroom, upright, with your head held high, your expression challenging, provoking. You were utterly totally calm, no muscle trembled; you had a strange, unreadable smile playing around your lips.
No, you aren’t ashamed of the scars branding your body. But you watched my reaction thoroughly - maybe it was a test. I passed it; the witnesses of your injuries didn’t scare me away.
Your body, your face, your eyes.
Your body has burnt itself on me. I can still feel it; I can feel YOU even if I haven’t touched you for over a year.
You’re a sensitive, deliberate, taking your time kisser. “Kissing is an evolutionally important achievement.” You’ve once muttered while eating my neck.
“I like kissing, sex without kissing is like masturbation to me, so if you are only interested in an impersonal fuck, I advise you to go to a gay bar with a darkroom and look there since I am not available for that stuff.”
That’s what you stated in this unique Reid Oliver style when I was very reluctant with my kisses in the beginning.
You’d been very clear about that. I’d avoided kissing on the mouth and you put your index finger under my chin and lifted it. Your gaze had been scrutinizing but not unfriendly. You looked me in the eye as if trying to read my thoughts. And I didn’t know how to answer, how to react.
“If this is supposed to be a one night stand, then it ends before it’s started!”
Then I lifted my eyes and answered your gaze: “I am 26 and have kissed only one man and he doesn’t like it very much, so sue me if I am a bit scared.”
You didn’t comment on my confession but let go of my chin and shrugged.
“Huuhh, I am not sure if this is a good idea after all! Maybe we should forget it, you go home and we’ll both leave it on a professional level.”
“No, please, Reid. I want this, I want you!”
“You know, you’ve got an awful lot of baggage …I don’t know if I can handle it.”
“Look, I’ve told you, I don’t expect you to fix my dysfunctional relationship, I only want you to help me…”
“To fix your sexual frustration… I got that.”
You looked at me frowning, doubting what to do.
“I am a big boy, Reid, a grown man, and I have a handle on my life. The only thing that really stinks is that the man I love is not interested in ‘exchanging body fluids’. (“What’s the point here, Luke? Do you really reduce yourself to a creature reacting to urges and instincts? We are human, Luke. Human beings define themselves as capable of renunciation of instincts…What counts more? Our love or primal urges?”)
With that I approached you, stood close to you and looked you straight in the eye, your clear, deep-sea-blue mirrors.
“Please show me how it could be…” I whispered.
And you showed me. Or rather you let me see, feel, explore it myself.
You nodded almost perceptively but didn’t move and then I couldn’t help myself anymore and cupped your face firmly and kissed you, keeping my lips closed but I didn’t let you go until you responded with uttering a long soft sigh before you slipped your tongue between my lips that opened up willingly - totally forgetting my former hesitation.
“So here’s the deal…whatever arrangements you’ve made up in that tousled little head of yours …is up to you. But this is my place - my bedroom and here we’re playing by my rules!”
With that you dragged me into your bathroom.
“Rule number one: I only eat clean asses!”
“I’ve never done this before…” I managed to stammer.
“What? Take a shower? ” You chuckled.
“No…you know…”
“Say it!”
“Anilingus!”
Then you simply laughed out loud.
“You know, Luke I really like a precise terminology … but given that we are in this room together, to get ready for you to experience what men can do in bed to enjoy each other I think calling a very pleasurable activity ‘anilingus’ is kind of a little off. It’s called ‘rimming’ Luke and thinking of the sensual way you enjoyed your dessert a few hours ago - I am positive you’ll like it!”
With that you started to undress yourself, slowly but not in a teasing way. You’re not a stripper, of course. Even if you’re about to strip out of your clothes there is something graceful about you. So you unbuttoned your shirt, your cuffs and just like I’d assumed - you didn’t wear an undershirt.
I uttered a hissing noise noticing the scars where they had extracted your spleen and the doctors had stopped internal bleeding.
It was such a relief that you were already half hard. So my presence had an impact on you.
“Do you need help or is the big boy capable of undressing himself?”
Of course I blushed and tried to hide it, bowed my head and started to open my shirt.
“I have a thing for chest hair.” You commented and given your approving smile you meant it. Noah shaves his chest and armpits and even his crotch. I never got the point why. But he likes himself better that way, he tells me and he wouldn’t mind if I did the same. But I don’t want to. I might have a quirk when it comes to my hair, but this whole-body-shaving-fashion, I don’t know.
So hearing your compliment made me smile. I liked the sound of your voice, a bit husky, a bit chuckling, a bit wanting.
“Don’t you think, it’d be weird if we shower with you still having your briefs on?”
But it wasn’t so easy to follow you; it wasn’t easy at all to face you - just as naked as you were. I felt like a milksop compared to you. Sure my chest is covered with hair and yours is not, my body is broader, stronger, my dick is definitely bigger, but yet I felt shy and insecure. It was then when you took over. You felt my lack of experience, reached out and stroked my arms, very gently you rubbed your thumbs up and down the skin of my lightly shivering upper arms.
“Goosebumps…that’s good!”
“Do you like that too?” You whispered slowly raveling from my shoulders down to my nipples.
“Tell me, do you like it?”
“Hell, yes!”
“Wonderful because I like them too.” You smiled and gently twirled the little nubs between your pointers and thumbs.
It wasn’t a tweaking ministration; it was a very soft, tender touch.
Watching what your hands were doing to me you seemed so concentrated as if nothing else mattered. When you moved on and caressed my shoulders and my neck I was already trembling with anticipation. Your touch is light, but firm enough to feel the most delightful pressure. Then you held my neck with one hand and cupped my cheek with the other. Looking me in the eye you asked softly:
“Well then would you please let me taste these desirable lips of yours for real?”
But before you leaned in and kissed me I took a step back and said in wonder:
"You aren’t naked….you know, even when you have no clothes on you aren’t naked.”
I was amazed that you instantly understood what I meant.
“Then make me, make me naked, undress me…”
“Why?”
“Because we have to be, both, we have to get naked to come to know each other, to learn what we want and need in bed.”
Again I almost attacked you, grabbed your face and kissed you with all I had. And you kissed me back and pressed your scarred nakedness against my smooth nudeness
“I haven’t held a man like this for ages.” You whispered and gently pushed me under the water-spray.
You bent my head back and shampooed my hair and the intense fragrance of your favorite product filled my senses, that earthly, warm scent.
You were so tender, careful, not to pull at my strands. Then you soaped my face, my front, everything. I almost lost it when you lathered a washcloth and pulled me even closer so you could reach behind and massage my cheeks with firm rhythmic circles. I knew what was coming and as shy and inexperienced as I was, I simply leaned into you, and you carefully spread my cheeks and slowly and carefully beyond imagination rubbed the soft fabric over my opening. You circled the closing muscle patiently and benevolently chuckled when I rubbed my erection against your belly.
“Now, do the same to me!”
And I did and never had I expected it would be such a pleasure to wash and soap somebody else.
I took my time and explored each and every inch of you, tracing your scars carefully but I wasn’t afraid of them. I had understood they were a part of you. When I reached behind and got finally to your most private spot you hissed a bit.
“Sorry” Does it hurt?”
“No! No. It’s just that it’s been such a long time since someone else touched me this way.”
You didn’t make a big deal of that but hearing your statement felt like a confession. Only I didn’t know what kind of confession.
Well, we both didn’t last long; we both ended up kissing, rubbing, grinding, stroking each other’s erections and finally climaxing in the shower.
It was the first time I experienced something like this, an unrestricted physical joining, unashamed, natural, and I didn’t feel embarrassed at all.
Later you sprawled out on your bed and smiled:
“This is all yours for tonight. Come on, and get it.”
Whatever I’d fantasized about rimming, penetration and other things before, I forgot it. Not because sleeping with you was an otherworldly, heavenly experience beyond description.
In fact it was exactly the other thing. It was like being deeply-buried-into another human being, it was like harvesting a ripe field, it was like burying your nose in warm summer-meadows, inhaling the scents of seed and yields altogether.
Feeling you inside of me, well it wasn’t an amazing feeling in the beginning, but you were careful and gentle as gentle as penetration could be and after I got adjusted to the feeling and held back the initial urge to screw that thick throbbing something out of my body and the head of your penis touched and brushed my prostate I finally knew why so many gay men were doing it. Of course there are other ways to be close, to satisfy each other, but this, this was definitely the most intimate one.
Of course I noticed that you held back, that you concentrated on satisfying me first. But when you finally climaxed yourself and let me hold you in my arms, while you were calming down - that was the best thing of all. You let me hold you. Why did that affect me so much? Honestly I still don’t know, but it never ceases to touch me to the core. The way you accept my waiting arms, even cling to me while your pants slowly transform into steady breaths again hits me each and every time.
Afterwards we lay in your bed, I on the left side and you on the right; you let me snuggle up to you and lazily stroked my sweaty strands. And when I lifted my eyes up to you, you smiled, your expression relaxed, mild:
“You okay?”
“At best.”
And then you bent down and laid your lips on mine, only brushing them, halting at the corners of my mouth periodically to leave almost chaste kisses there. But they felt like the most erotic thing I ever experienced
How am I supposed to move on from all this?
Author: Scotianova
Beta-fairy: Carol38
Disclaimer: I don't own them and writing about them is just for fun.
Genre/Moods: Insecurity, hurt, illumination leading to COMFORT :)
Pairing: Of course this journey is about Luke and Reid, however Gideon Masterson,
Reid’s assistant, and some other characters are joining them.
Warning: Noah is there - but less narrow-minded as I usually picture him.
Rating: sexual contents in some chapters
AN 1: This is my first attempt to write a multi-chapter story in the first-person-perspectives. It’s kind of a
correspondent-story to ‘Farouche’, because there I tried to explore Reid's 'inapproachableness' and here I focus on his 'sobriety-
calmness-desurgency'.
AN 2: And it's kind of homage to a very special man, my best friend!
AN 2: Gideon is NOT Reid’s love interest!
Summary: “I thought I was in control of everything. Structure, strategy, methodology meant almost everything to me; I had figured out my whole life - my professional and my personal. Then I met fate - face to face - I met it several times. But only the last encounter made me
understand: There is an elemental force out there. Call it fate, call it God, call it coincidence - whatever name you put on it doesn’t matter,
but it’s there and you are powerless to fight it. You are supposed to go with it.”
(Reid S. Oliver, MD, professor of neurology at Harvard Medical School)
The prologue is here: http://scotianova.livejournal.com/46369.html
I Times in between
I saw you for the first time for real and afterwards I could never look away again. It was as if my eyes were connected to you from then on, regardless of whether I was with you or many miles away.
I couldn’t even point out a special thing, a special feature. At least I tried to convince myself you weren’t as special as my guts never ceased to tell me. I mean objectively you’re of average height and on rather sub-standard weight. You don’t look younger than you are - neither older. I told myself over and over again that nothing about your looks are unique, well maybe your gorgeous curls and the unidentifiable color of your mane, yeah, that’s something very special. … And your lips. Precisely shaped, perfectly shaped, firm but tender and soft. … And that tiny crook between your front teeth, where I always try to slide the tip of my tongue through, when we are kissing. Well, then there are your hands, yes, your hands are unusually beautiful, your long lean fingers, soft but strong, skilled, neat. When we were on the plane to New York the first time I couldn’t stop looking at them, noticing the way they held a magazine, griped the arms of your seat, the way you pinched the bridge of your nose or rubbed your temples.
As for your body, it is not the body of an athlete, yet muscular. You don’t have a six-pack but your front is delectable. You’ve long legs, but they are a bit bandy, well - of course I don’t know what’s inherent and what the crash had caused.
The crash, you’ve mentioned it twice, but I know it’s always on your mind. It changed your life fundamentally. Funny, isn’t it? I say ‘fundamentally’ … although the crash did exactly that, it wrecked your fundaments, your personal and professional ones.
How could you ever forget it
You’re wearing its imprints on your entire body - conspicuously, accusingly. Accusing the observer to not have a clue what has happened to you. There is this scar where they extracted your ruptured spleen; then there is the one incised across your belly…”It’s a miracle that my balls weren’t ripped off”… you’d told me once sarcastically grimacing. Another scar looks like a long borderline reaching from above your elbow down to the carpus of your right hand. And the zigzag line reaching from your hip bone down to your ankle finally took my breath away. Something sharp must have cut open your right side almost from top to bottom. But there are more, many more scars, traces, you wear them with dignity, they’ve become a part of you, they’ve changed you, or more precisely the events connected to them have changed your life irreversibly. You’ve said that very, calmly, carefully considered, as if you weren’t talking about yourself but someone else.
I read an article once about which features people consider to be pretty, handsome or beautiful and which not. And that ‘beauty’ isn’t connected with prettiness necessarily. An artist said that he’d consider faces that would tell a story being beautiful. And that the most beautiful man he’d ever seen had a deep cut from his temple to his jaw.
I remembered that story while watching your nakedness the first time and I had to agree with said artist. Your body tells a story, a painful story - as your eyes do, when you aren’t covering them with your well-rehearsed sobriety. And both are just beautiful. I fell for them instantly; I fell for your eyes and your body. Does that make any sense? Can someone even fall in love with another person’s body without being a shallow ignoramus? Well I did, I fell in love with your body and I don’t consider myself ignorant. It just happened.
The first time I saw you naked you stood there in the middle of your bathroom, upright, with your head held high, your expression challenging, provoking. You were utterly totally calm, no muscle trembled; you had a strange, unreadable smile playing around your lips.
No, you aren’t ashamed of the scars branding your body. But you watched my reaction thoroughly - maybe it was a test. I passed it; the witnesses of your injuries didn’t scare me away.
Your body, your face, your eyes.
Your body has burnt itself on me. I can still feel it; I can feel YOU even if I haven’t touched you for over a year.
You’re a sensitive, deliberate, taking your time kisser. “Kissing is an evolutionally important achievement.” You’ve once muttered while eating my neck.
“I like kissing, sex without kissing is like masturbation to me, so if you are only interested in an impersonal fuck, I advise you to go to a gay bar with a darkroom and look there since I am not available for that stuff.”
That’s what you stated in this unique Reid Oliver style when I was very reluctant with my kisses in the beginning.
You’d been very clear about that. I’d avoided kissing on the mouth and you put your index finger under my chin and lifted it. Your gaze had been scrutinizing but not unfriendly. You looked me in the eye as if trying to read my thoughts. And I didn’t know how to answer, how to react.
“If this is supposed to be a one night stand, then it ends before it’s started!”
Then I lifted my eyes and answered your gaze: “I am 26 and have kissed only one man and he doesn’t like it very much, so sue me if I am a bit scared.”
You didn’t comment on my confession but let go of my chin and shrugged.
“Huuhh, I am not sure if this is a good idea after all! Maybe we should forget it, you go home and we’ll both leave it on a professional level.”
“No, please, Reid. I want this, I want you!”
“You know, you’ve got an awful lot of baggage …I don’t know if I can handle it.”
“Look, I’ve told you, I don’t expect you to fix my dysfunctional relationship, I only want you to help me…”
“To fix your sexual frustration… I got that.”
You looked at me frowning, doubting what to do.
“I am a big boy, Reid, a grown man, and I have a handle on my life. The only thing that really stinks is that the man I love is not interested in ‘exchanging body fluids’. (“What’s the point here, Luke? Do you really reduce yourself to a creature reacting to urges and instincts? We are human, Luke. Human beings define themselves as capable of renunciation of instincts…What counts more? Our love or primal urges?”)
With that I approached you, stood close to you and looked you straight in the eye, your clear, deep-sea-blue mirrors.
“Please show me how it could be…” I whispered.
And you showed me. Or rather you let me see, feel, explore it myself.
You nodded almost perceptively but didn’t move and then I couldn’t help myself anymore and cupped your face firmly and kissed you, keeping my lips closed but I didn’t let you go until you responded with uttering a long soft sigh before you slipped your tongue between my lips that opened up willingly - totally forgetting my former hesitation.
“So here’s the deal…whatever arrangements you’ve made up in that tousled little head of yours …is up to you. But this is my place - my bedroom and here we’re playing by my rules!”
With that you dragged me into your bathroom.
“Rule number one: I only eat clean asses!”
“I’ve never done this before…” I managed to stammer.
“What? Take a shower? ” You chuckled.
“No…you know…”
“Say it!”
“Anilingus!”
Then you simply laughed out loud.
“You know, Luke I really like a precise terminology … but given that we are in this room together, to get ready for you to experience what men can do in bed to enjoy each other I think calling a very pleasurable activity ‘anilingus’ is kind of a little off. It’s called ‘rimming’ Luke and thinking of the sensual way you enjoyed your dessert a few hours ago - I am positive you’ll like it!”
With that you started to undress yourself, slowly but not in a teasing way. You’re not a stripper, of course. Even if you’re about to strip out of your clothes there is something graceful about you. So you unbuttoned your shirt, your cuffs and just like I’d assumed - you didn’t wear an undershirt.
I uttered a hissing noise noticing the scars where they had extracted your spleen and the doctors had stopped internal bleeding.
It was such a relief that you were already half hard. So my presence had an impact on you.
“Do you need help or is the big boy capable of undressing himself?”
Of course I blushed and tried to hide it, bowed my head and started to open my shirt.
“I have a thing for chest hair.” You commented and given your approving smile you meant it. Noah shaves his chest and armpits and even his crotch. I never got the point why. But he likes himself better that way, he tells me and he wouldn’t mind if I did the same. But I don’t want to. I might have a quirk when it comes to my hair, but this whole-body-shaving-fashion, I don’t know.
So hearing your compliment made me smile. I liked the sound of your voice, a bit husky, a bit chuckling, a bit wanting.
“Don’t you think, it’d be weird if we shower with you still having your briefs on?”
But it wasn’t so easy to follow you; it wasn’t easy at all to face you - just as naked as you were. I felt like a milksop compared to you. Sure my chest is covered with hair and yours is not, my body is broader, stronger, my dick is definitely bigger, but yet I felt shy and insecure. It was then when you took over. You felt my lack of experience, reached out and stroked my arms, very gently you rubbed your thumbs up and down the skin of my lightly shivering upper arms.
“Goosebumps…that’s good!”
“Do you like that too?” You whispered slowly raveling from my shoulders down to my nipples.
“Tell me, do you like it?”
“Hell, yes!”
“Wonderful because I like them too.” You smiled and gently twirled the little nubs between your pointers and thumbs.
It wasn’t a tweaking ministration; it was a very soft, tender touch.
Watching what your hands were doing to me you seemed so concentrated as if nothing else mattered. When you moved on and caressed my shoulders and my neck I was already trembling with anticipation. Your touch is light, but firm enough to feel the most delightful pressure. Then you held my neck with one hand and cupped my cheek with the other. Looking me in the eye you asked softly:
“Well then would you please let me taste these desirable lips of yours for real?”
But before you leaned in and kissed me I took a step back and said in wonder:
"You aren’t naked….you know, even when you have no clothes on you aren’t naked.”
I was amazed that you instantly understood what I meant.
“Then make me, make me naked, undress me…”
“Why?”
“Because we have to be, both, we have to get naked to come to know each other, to learn what we want and need in bed.”
Again I almost attacked you, grabbed your face and kissed you with all I had. And you kissed me back and pressed your scarred nakedness against my smooth nudeness
“I haven’t held a man like this for ages.” You whispered and gently pushed me under the water-spray.
You bent my head back and shampooed my hair and the intense fragrance of your favorite product filled my senses, that earthly, warm scent.
You were so tender, careful, not to pull at my strands. Then you soaped my face, my front, everything. I almost lost it when you lathered a washcloth and pulled me even closer so you could reach behind and massage my cheeks with firm rhythmic circles. I knew what was coming and as shy and inexperienced as I was, I simply leaned into you, and you carefully spread my cheeks and slowly and carefully beyond imagination rubbed the soft fabric over my opening. You circled the closing muscle patiently and benevolently chuckled when I rubbed my erection against your belly.
“Now, do the same to me!”
And I did and never had I expected it would be such a pleasure to wash and soap somebody else.
I took my time and explored each and every inch of you, tracing your scars carefully but I wasn’t afraid of them. I had understood they were a part of you. When I reached behind and got finally to your most private spot you hissed a bit.
“Sorry” Does it hurt?”
“No! No. It’s just that it’s been such a long time since someone else touched me this way.”
You didn’t make a big deal of that but hearing your statement felt like a confession. Only I didn’t know what kind of confession.
Well, we both didn’t last long; we both ended up kissing, rubbing, grinding, stroking each other’s erections and finally climaxing in the shower.
It was the first time I experienced something like this, an unrestricted physical joining, unashamed, natural, and I didn’t feel embarrassed at all.
Later you sprawled out on your bed and smiled:
“This is all yours for tonight. Come on, and get it.”
Whatever I’d fantasized about rimming, penetration and other things before, I forgot it. Not because sleeping with you was an otherworldly, heavenly experience beyond description.
In fact it was exactly the other thing. It was like being deeply-buried-into another human being, it was like harvesting a ripe field, it was like burying your nose in warm summer-meadows, inhaling the scents of seed and yields altogether.
Feeling you inside of me, well it wasn’t an amazing feeling in the beginning, but you were careful and gentle as gentle as penetration could be and after I got adjusted to the feeling and held back the initial urge to screw that thick throbbing something out of my body and the head of your penis touched and brushed my prostate I finally knew why so many gay men were doing it. Of course there are other ways to be close, to satisfy each other, but this, this was definitely the most intimate one.
Of course I noticed that you held back, that you concentrated on satisfying me first. But when you finally climaxed yourself and let me hold you in my arms, while you were calming down - that was the best thing of all. You let me hold you. Why did that affect me so much? Honestly I still don’t know, but it never ceases to touch me to the core. The way you accept my waiting arms, even cling to me while your pants slowly transform into steady breaths again hits me each and every time.
Afterwards we lay in your bed, I on the left side and you on the right; you let me snuggle up to you and lazily stroked my sweaty strands. And when I lifted my eyes up to you, you smiled, your expression relaxed, mild:
“You okay?”
“At best.”
And then you bent down and laid your lips on mine, only brushing them, halting at the corners of my mouth periodically to leave almost chaste kisses there. But they felt like the most erotic thing I ever experienced
How am I supposed to move on from all this?