He traces the back of my spine and he turns me on the way one might turn on the lights on a Christmas tree: a soft touch ignites fluid energy, and dozens of lights go off in an explosion of electric power.
Before I know it I’m his. If a few hours ago I timidly dreamt of a chaste kiss, now I want him whole. He’s dangling a juicy steak in front of a starving woman and this woman has claws to fight. I want to bite into his tan; will he taste like the sun? I feel my skin melting and I wish it would blend into his. Let us be one fierce burning fire. Let our passion howl into the night and leave nothing but silence behind.
However our silence screams what we hold back and are too afraid to say. We both know, but neither of us wants to hear it. I then trace the lines of his face, of his torso, so that I will remember. So that I can enjoy the feeling of being so close to someone for a few precious minutes. He rises from the bed. I know he’s leaving. He’s going home. Home to his girlfriend.
Sometimes I feel a little pang in my stomach when we get to this stage, but I can never tell if it’s guilt or love I feel. I’m a good lover: I never demand more than what men are ready to give; I never ask questions that I shouldn’t; I give them my full attention for the few moments we spend together, no less and no more. Don’t get me wrong, it’s an arrangement that suits me just fine. I enjoy the hot excitement that comes with such a brief relationship. It often resembles more a dream like love story than a serious relationship would. But sometimes I can’t help but wonder: when will it be my time to meet someone that I could call mine?