you, gabriel.
I arrive, pull the scarf from my neck, drop my purse, and shrug out of my coat. It’s a mild day, but you never know with New York. It can be sixty degrees by day and thirty by night – I play it safe.
“I think we should fuck,” he says, smiling. I’m thinking we should too.
I’m hesitant to describe him because I like leaving certain things in shadow. He’s younger than most of the men I date, but he doesn’t feel young. He’s got a great smile; he makes me laugh. I’m not sure what’s happening inside his mind but he’s outwardly calm and incredibly lucid. T-shirts looks great on him, and jeans. He says they hide his erections.
We head up to his loft where we strip down, and there’s a quiet moment, of nakedness, in the daylight, loaded with raw and certain potential. Those loaded moments make me restless.
He wants me to sit on his face, and I do, but I lean forward so I can put his cock in my mouth. It’s the richest form of foreplay I can enjoy, like kissing but deeper, and harder, and thicker, thick enough to block my breathing and tighten in my throat. The more I suck, the more my cunt throbs, so when I’m flipped over to my hands and knees, the anticipation is dizzying. Everything that follows shifts from bliss to a primal, animal, urgent need.
With my hips in his hands, he’s deep enough to hurt me, nearly, but words can’t describe the sensation, of waiting and throbbing and fretting all week, sitting with tightly crossed thighs and a furrowed brow, torn between staying in and running away, to finally strip down to nothing, open my legs, and feel him drive in. I stop thinking, I become absolutely pliant, open to every conceivable suggestion. I stop weighing the pros and cons of my actions and focus entirely on the gathering tension at the heart of my cunt and the repeating strokes, which manage to be both satisfying and deeply frustrating. I want to be fucked past the point of tolerance.
*
You, Gabriel.
I woke up the next morning with sore calves.
So, I’ve decided to call you Gabriel. I like Gabriel as a name – you feel like a Gabe. You could be a Daniel, too, but I know several Daniels and you’re too unique for that. Gabriel, on the other hand… I haven’t known a Gabriel since junior high. I had a crush on one. He was a skater and a smoker.
My understanding of the opposite sex was a little different then. Boys were exciting and intimidating and completely strange, the way they talked and the things they’d say. Now boys are just exciting, sometimes inspiring. And when I lie with them, some of them, my calves get so tight that it stays with me for days.
(Maybe that’s why we wear heels. They strengthen our calves so we can wrap our legs around a man’s hips and lock his cock inside us. I certainly want to lock yours inside of me.)
I remember the daylight. Your loft. Your skin. What I remember most was deep lust in the pit of my cunt and the stress compressed in my jaw. I needed you to fuck me to state of neutrality, to relax the mind, reset the brain. And you did. My calves, my cunt, the upper part of my left shoulder are all very sore. You left come on my skin, which I like, and when I went home, I felt calm, worn, and wet. And that’s how I feel now. Ambivalent about writing, as always, but still very calm, and very worn, and shamelessly wet.
i just love your writing. Seriously.
holy shit. I’ve got to stop opening these at work. Can’t get up just yet for the big meeting that’s starting…really soon….
i particularly love the names you choose. gabriel as opposed to daniel signifies a very special thing: change, revelation. i like how you use extant mythologies to create your own.
Welcome back love!! It’s good to have the you we have all gotten to know and love.
without clothes
it’s a different
conversation
–John Brandi
Gabriel–he always gets all the the glory, while Michael and Raphael and all the rest do the dirty work and straighten everything out. Gabriel. He gets painted a lot, much more than his confreres and maybe more than he deserves. Well, he was right about one thing: “benedicta tu in mulieribus”.
I’ll always be a Michael.
That’s because Gabriel’s the pretty one.
You’ve just given me the strong desire to write benedicta tu in mulieribus on his naked body.
[And thank you for the kind words, Amanda. I tend to see only the flaws, so you're helping me fight the urge to edit these things down to a stub.]
edit? jesus christ girl, this is a faberge egg of a post. one of the nice ones, not the OTT ones.
it’s a rain-dappled spring gingko leaf in Kyoto of a post. it’s a fluffy omelette on Montmartre of a post.
it’s an overloaded metaphor of an ass-kissing comment. but it’s sincere ;)
please. n’edit pas.
merci.
oh hey. so, um….that whole slow sex thing….should i just not bring that up?
…i love your sense of the moment. your reverence to being present is commendable. i hope you are well and vibrant. your words make me throb…
There’s not much to say that hasn’t been said here already. We’re all fans because of writing like this. Writing that makes us as excited as you are. Thank you for sharing that feeling.
You have got to write a book. You’re so eliquent and primal, all at the same time. I’m new and have been reading your blogs and I’ve got to tell you, reading them give me a nervous feeling in my stomach. It’s almost like you’re sitting right here whispering them in my ear.