I could feel my attraction to him grow when he was around.
He was like a young Bacchus, full of smiles, a wonderful quip, a cutting sexual insight, a fiery half-kempt stubble. Before I gathered up my resolve to admit my attraction, he announced that he was moving in with his girlfriend.
My ardour cooled. I hesitated; I lost.
I befriended his female companion, trying to redirect my emotions. In fact, they were quite inseparable. Where I had wanted one, I got two.
Over vegetarian dishes and comedies, smoke breaks and candy breaks, illicit and offensive conversations, our friendship deepened.
Then, love beckoned from a distance. Curious how the binds of love loosens ones tongue; I dangled a lust/love confession in front of him, tightly wrapped in a web of duty and faith for another.
My last days there were spent with them. We ate, we watched a film, we lounged on a couch on the porch, talking, laughing. At one point I rested my head on her lap and snuggled my legs onto his. Quite coquettish, really.
It started as a relaxing ankle rub. He was very smooth as he moved upward. After a year without anyone, every touch was delicious, every caress stirring. He worked his way up and inward, encompassing the center of my jeans with his hand. He was gentle yet insistant, petting my sex with iron command.
I thought I was doing a superb job in being worked over by him and making light conversation with her; perhaps I was deluding myself. I don't remember what was said, what topics we covered, which punch lines we delivered, what memories we shared. But I remember every swirl, every nudge and grope he made.
My whole body was shuddering lightly with lust. Hot blood was pulsating through my veins in such a way that I was sure any passing bat may have received false pings from my wanton and quivering self. Clearly I was deluded.
The late hour came and we all stood and made our goodbyes. I hugged her and gave my broken promise to stay in touch. As she walked to her car, I embraced him tightly.
"I wish I told you earlier that I liked you," I whispered in his ear.
"I wish you had too," he told me.
And then we kissed. A kiss dreams are made of, a kiss that launched a thousand orgasms, something to be remembered, romanticized, and relished.
We broke apart and he turned to leave, walking into my past. I stood and watched their retreating tailights and murmered a regretful goodbye to myself.