He greeted me, stiffly, tall, unable to find a way to comfortably arrange his arms, and waited as the conveyor belt spit out my luggage without fanfare.
I asked him in the car, "Are we going to fuck in your bed tonight?" His eyes met mine briefly, and then slid uneasily away. I was impertinent, goading. I loved his discomfort.
We put away my things and settled onto the couch. I crept closer, placing my cheek on his shoulder, my hand resting on his knee. We were the picture of a high school couple and I glanced up at him. His glassy eyes stared at the television he wasn't seeing.
Shifting, I stretched out and put my head in his lap, my hand following. I traced slow lazy circles into his thighs, daring farther up with each pass. I did not get very far.
I sat up suddenly. "Is that . . . I can hear your heartbeat from here!"
He gave me a withering look and a flippant comment about torture.
I grabbed his hand and headed towards the bedroom.
With each step forward, we left the fumblings of adolescence and into an adult realm with which I am completely familiar. He nervously undressed in the sullen reticence I grew to love.
Our lips affixed themselves onto foreign territories, our embrace encompassed strange shapes, and he awkwardly searched to be inside of me.
A few strokes and we were known to one another.
A few strokes and it felt right.
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