All I can remember is his lips in my neck and the soft bristles of his hair against my throat.
Behind me, bare arms wrapped about my bare waist.
Nobody does that anymore.
All I have with me right now is the smell of him as we kissed goodbye, nearly knocking ourselves over, and parted ways on Sunday morning.
Amidst BDSM parties where I left with the roaring urge to be broken, please please please, be broken, take the power away for just a little while... amidst a sit-down-and-talk party where even the South Park jokes were funny, where "The Happy Snake Game!" was a fond memory of a Christmas with a man who no longer exists, but the reassuring presence of his brother had me shaking with laughter
where "Why did Jesus die on the cross? Because he forgot the safeword!" was the funniest thing I'd heard in my life and singing the little goblin song from BlackAdder II was the best workout that my abs have had in a while.
And all I can remember is how his gentle maneouvering of my waist, how his utter lack of teeth or roughness or anything but short, sweet, ragged breath and the desperate tenderness to his fingers...
Is the strongest demand I have ever had to fight.
But I have my wish and the hunger in his kisses still have my heart thundering two days later.
Two days, of no sleep, parties piled upon parties, upon Steven's concert (wrought with chaos but infitnitely more fun than last year's) upon the new opening of Redemption, a home that was taken from us by a bomb scare a year ago and is suddenly back again, the atmosphere, the charged air, the music where every word had me wanting to cry only I was too happy for anything but leaning back and falling into it, one hand stroking his arm, or dance.
And dance.
And forget, forget loneliness, forget pain, forget wanting, forget anything but the freedom of the release
and then the song would end, eventually a bad mix or a tune I was tired of hearing would break the reverie and I would glance over at Kaff's sinewy romance with the dance floor, or Maria's austere gracing of the corner table, I would look over to the faces of friends I hadn't seen since the last club, and I would grin at Fatima, still the most beautiful bartender even after a year, and she would grin back
and I would be lost in atmosphere until his worn-down fingertips would brush the hair back from my forearm again.
And today I am caught behind my desk, afraid to approach him
And I know that he's out of town this weekend, and that with the chaos of this week and next week's activities
I will have time to get over this strange little man
and his kisses.
I remember what happened last time I let someone be this nice to me.