10/31/11

(note: this is smut after the set of asterisks.)

The boy’s frame was thin, he seemed unused to the length of his limbs, as if puberty was still a recent memory and he hadn’t had much time in the new body it had given him. Of course he wasn’t actually a boy. As a second semester freshman he’d have to be at least 18, right? But the gangly adolescence remained. He didn’t seem to realize that he could add to his meager muscles. Instead, what was there just stood on end when he moved. This is not to say he wasn’t fit. Though he moved as if uncomfortable in his body, he moved well, each joint sliding as it should under all those wiry muscles. He was not confidant, but not hesitant either, just steady; pacing down the sidewalk.

I was observing from my dorm balcony, sipping cocoa with Irish cream, watching people pass as is my wont. Studying one so long is a rarity, though. But I couldn’t not. He was fascinating.

He ought to be cold, walking outside in only a tight t-shirt in April. But all the better to observe how wonderfully he was put together.

Many people would look at him and note his spare frame and obvious youth. They might distain his flaming orange hair and the freckles that were splattered across his face and, likely, everywhere else. I distained none of it.

In twenty seconds he had walked from the right, to just under my balcony. As he passed, his eyes flicked my way. His intelligent, alive, jade green eyes glanced off my own and slid away. My stomach flipped.

I wonder if he’d even been aware of me. And if he had, did he see my interest? Surely he felt my eyes following his retreat, settling on his backside. His jeans didn’t hug it – there wasn’t much to hug- but I could imagine it. Suddenly, I needed to be somewhere private…

For the few hours before my next class, I thought about that boy. I memorized the angles of him. His posture. That keen glance. And I mentally undressed him. Several times. I couldn’t get farther than that though. I could visualize his legs, lithe, lightly covered in ginger hairs. And I could see his thin chest, with its delightful trail leading… somewhere. It was actually a bit frustrating.

***

I looked into those eyes, the deep green flashed longing and I felt the same as I had when we’d first shared a glance. My hand came up and touched his hair near his ear, pushing it back and burying my fingers against his scalp. His hand was on my arm, resting in the crook of my elbow. I pulled him in and brushed my lips against his. As usual, he was neither confidant nor hesitant, he met my kiss and followed my lead as I parted his lips with my tongue. The touch of our tongues was like being dowsed in boiling water. The pace changed instantly.

I pulled him close, kissing him messily. He arms encircled me as I clung to his head. Then I ran my hand down his chest, feeling his pulse. He gasped as I tweaked a stiff nipple. I pinched a bit harder and he bit my lower lip sharply as he squirmed. My hand continued lower, squeezing his hip and sliding under the hem of his shirt. He pulled his middle in at my touch, making all of his ribs stand on end. I moved my hand to his back, feeling up the length of his spine inciting sheet after sheet of delightful goose bumps. My hand slid back down, finding the hem of his boxer briefs and sliding under. At this he pulled away, stared at me, breathing heavily. His gemstone eyes unsure, yet eager.

I used my eyes and the tips of my fingers to reassure him. He grinned that wide, goofy grin, and came back in to kiss my neck.

My hand found his waistline again and I plunged under, gripping his lean behind. He rocked onto me and did some ass-grabbing of his own.

I toke the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head smoothly, exposing his clear white skin, patterned with clusters of auburn freckles. I began to kiss his chest while pushing him down under me. He allowed himself to be reclined, but looped his arms around my neck to ensure that I accompanied him. I sprawled next to him, still kissing his chest and neck. He gripped my shirt, pulling eagerly at it. I decided to allow its removal. It’s only fair. But before I could return to administering to him, his hands were on my chest, sliding across and down my sides.

With some effort, I pushed him back down onto his back and straddled him, running my hands along his chest as I slowly kissed down the center of his chest. And lower.

I slowly undid the button of his jeans feeling the hardened bulk underneath. He gasped and gripped the headboard with one hand and my hair with the other.

I drew his penis out of the top of his boxers and sat upright to admire it. It reached his belly button and twitched with anticipation.

A sound like a whimper escaped him as I gently kissed the tip and moved my lips along the length. But I wasn’t ready just yet. I wanted to draw it out more. So I gripped his jeans and pulled them down. Then I lay along side him and met his mouth with mine again. As we kissed he fiddled with my jeans and caressed me through my boxers. One arm was around his shoulders, holding him close to me, the other hand trailed down and found his erection again. Slowly I began stroking, feeling the veins bulge, stifling his gasps with my lips.

Then in a surprising burst, he was on top of me, straddling my erection with his own. I bucked my hips, seating him further up on my chest instead of my waist. Close enough so I could get his cock into my mouth. He wasn’t expecting that at all, and wide-eyed thrust it deeper in response. I didn’t gag of course, but used my hands to move his hips back and forth until he got the rhythm and I could put them to use elsewhere. My fingers found his crack and I heard him moan to the ceiling. I felt along the crease, spreading his buttocks and touching my fingers lightly against his anus.

His knees were in my armpits which gave me leverage to roll him over. I lay between his legs, sucking away, using one hand to help in that endeavor while the other entertained his backside.

The remainder of that session is now a blur to me. It has happened to me once before, my first time ever in Jim’s grandparents’ hot tub. (All I remember from that session is nearly drowning and having a sore ass for days.)

But this was as different sort of blur. Even in his inexperience, he sort of took over and moved himself and me to all the appropriate position. I remember sucking him and dry, but also watching him spray me from my navel to my neck. Condoms and lube were broken out. I’m glad that’s a subconscious habit now, though I only know because of the wrappers. I remember the overwhelming euphoria that was far more than just orgasmic. Everything was right. As right as it ever would be.

I just wish I could remember how he sounded when I entered him or when he entered me, as I am assured that both occurred. I wish I could remember the feeling of his tonsils against the head of my cock.

I guess we’ll just have to do it again, without the blur. In the meantime, I’m safe in his embrace. I can feel his breath on my back. Our fingers are entwined.

Novemeber is at its end. And so is my desperate drive to write. I did fairly well with writing every day. Hopefully tonight or tomorrow, I'll type out all (or most) of the things I've written in my notebook. Fairly exciting.

Sleep tickles the edges of my mind. Clouding my head like miniscule cobwebs. Dusty. Stuffy. Cloying. My lungs seem not to be able to take in the proper amount of air. I feel stifled. My limbs are heavy. Moving is arduous. Yet my muscles jitter faintly. Never letting me forget they are there. Limp yet restless.

Yet for all that, my head refuses to quiet and give in to the lull of darkness, of the soft pillow and warm blankets.

I am reluctant to turn of the bedside lamp. Reluctant to succumb to sleep. And dreams. Never remembered, but tickling the edges of consciousness. Haunting vagueries. Remnants of an overactive brain. The faint memories of those dreams are more stifling than my sodden lungs.

Frost like shards of glass. Or fuzzy and friendly looking. Dead footprints across the grass. Breath that hangs in a shroud.

I don't know how to alleviate stress. My own or others'.

I've been really off lately.

Sometimes that means I write more, but as you can see, this time it means I don't want to write.

I don't want to turn this into a journal blog, but I'll speak a little about my funk.

I feel very isolated. I don't talk to new people well and it seems I don't keep in good touch with old friends either. It makes me sad. Even the ones who are near are infrequent. And I dislike talking on the phone. And as much as I realize I'm not a great friend, I often wonder why it is always up to me to initiate most anything. Sometimes I want to be surprised. Invited. Spoiled. Anything but ignored.

I'm going to work on friendships. It's essential. I don't want to become a shadow to everyone but by boyfriend and my roommate.

I exist in silence
in the space between words
cut off from the art of speaking
limited to the arrangement of letters on a page

it's lonely here
between the light and the dark
a liminal space

Thanksgiving has traditionally been my favorite holiday. I like it because it's supposed to be about fellowship and love. Not about giving or receiving gifts. It's also not particularly religious, which lately is an added bonus.

Usually, it's the holiday I like to spend with my family. Often not on the actual day of Thanksgiving, but usually on one of the weekends near it. This year, however, I wasn't invited to my parents' to celebrate. I recently found out that this is because my parents aren't formally celebrating. They're going to serve food to the local homeless people. I think that's great! Though, it is sad not to spend some time with them and eat some of my mother's wonderful home-raised turkey. And all the other great food she prepares.

Two years ago when I went back for Thanksgiving, I had just come out to my parents as queer. I was worried about their reactions. But my parents often do a maddening silence bit before a discussion. So for the first two days I was home, they acted as though nothing were different. I was freaking out inside and became very drunk before and during dinner. It was not the best year.

This year, I was slated to have dinner with some grand friends of mine. I made some chocolate chip whiskey pecan pies. However, my friend is now in the hospital and Thanksgiving with them is postponed. She'll be fine, I'm assured, but it does leave me a bit adrift this holiday.

I wish I was spending this holiday with my boyfriend, but he is with his family. I was told I could go with him, but I would have to be careful about everything. I didn't want to worry about whether or not I'd inadvertently make his parents angry at him.

I've been invited to accompany my roommate and some friends, but I do not know the host, though I do know many of the other attendees. I'm uncertain how I feel about being one of them.

It's very warm here today, around 70 degrees, and through my open window I can smell various neighbors cooking deliciousness.

This ends my Thanksgiving ramblings.

I hate that I'm tired always. Lids heavy and eyes unfocused. I hate that I have to attempt sleep earlier than him. Shutting him out behind my back. Easily ignoring the light and small noises.

My favorite is when he closes his laptop. The soft click rouses me from my light slumber, but I do not fully wake until he flips the light off and climbs back into bed. He wraps an arm around me and kisses my ear. I make small movements and noises, acknowledging him. He whispers "I love you." And I mumble it back to him with a smile. It's easy to sleep in his embrace.

Today, I am sad.

The news makes me sad. World news. Egypt. Domestic news. Occupy. Presidential Campaigns.

Sometimes (most times) I just want to run away somewhere and hide. Or, barring that, hide for days in a book.