I think, remembering now, he must have been incredibly nervous.  There was an icy wall that first day we were together that I shattered with my warmth.

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.