The Night We Locked Eyes (Part 2)
Nine minutes to fall in love. Ten minutes to miss the goodbye.
I want a guy to show me myself. I want him to love me so deeply that I’m not afraid to show him how ugly I can be. I want him to show me scars I never knew I had, but I don’t want him to make them go away, I want him to hold my hand while I nurse them myself. And I want him to cherish the bruises they leave behind. ~ Jodi Turner-Smith, Queen & Slim (2019)
Excerpt. Chapter 2
We spent that weekend orbiting each other.
Close, charged, and careful not to go too fast.
The sun cast a gentle, golden glow pulsing across his face, softening every feature. His shoulders relaxed, bright blue shined with comfort, and his smile... that smile melted something inside me.
He’d had a few drinks when I met him at the steps of the eighteenth-century Victorian house turned yoga ashram.
I clocked it. The sway in his stance. The slight slur tucked beneath charm.
It raised a concern; I ignored it.
His voice, warm and familiar. He gave me a hug and reached for my hand like we were deep into something.
We walked side by side, like a giant and his pea.
He chose the park, which is my first choice for a first date. Plus, It felt good when a man took charge with a strategy instead of being passive.
He had brought a disc, a Frisbee to throw around.
In the back of my mind, I had wondered why a scientist with a PHD in Biology and a BA in Mathematics didn’t see how the 14-inch height difference worked to his advantage.
He stood behind me, reaching around to guide my arm, my wrist. I could feel a warm tingling through the fabric between our clothes, a subtle spark that sent shockwaves through the body. I focused hard on the motion, even as the wind brushed my face, the sun briefly hidden behind clouds, and light rain began to fall around us.
We weren’t ready to call it a day on a Saturday at 6pm.
“Do you want to continue at mine?”
That simple.
That soft
That fast.
His apartment greeted me with an orderly collection of books, records, art and plants which spoke volumes of his character. I prefer dating men with pets, it tends to highlight their ability to take care of another sentient being. Plants, a close second. To have a green thumb is to be connected to the earth, to the soil, to the sensual.
He offered me a beer, normally not my choice, but I accepted. He sat next to me on the couch. I became enamored by the way he moved and his ability to engage me in conversation. As if two philosophers found one another in an unexpected place, sharing the same dark sense of humor. Our banter was magnetic, a tool used as mental foreplay.
He was genuinely funny. And witty.
When we laughed, they were hardy, stomach ache, curled over silent to loud chuckles. His presence made my entire body loose. He could curb my anxiety with one look, with one deadpan line dropped with the right beat.
I put on music, Dead can Dance , classic and ambient. We were present, hypnotized every time our eyes met. It might sound minuscule, but it’s rare. This, gravitational pull of not just our bodies… our souls.
He was different. Which meant I wasn’t going to sleep with him.
And I didn’t.
For a while…
“Have you ever not gone all the way—because your soul wasn’t done asking questions?
It Gets Steamy…
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I gained enough self awareness, to “ tread lightly” a phrase repeating in my head.
We were making out when I got on top of him. I wanted control. To let the untamed hellcat out while I dry-humped him like a teenager who had skills of a crone.
Even with our clothes on, he brought out the unfeared insatiable, animalistic woman out of me.
He didn’t know what to make of me, bewildered that I could fully release.
We knew we were both into “water sports” aka “fluids” by this point.
His hands gripped my outer thighs.
His mouth moved between my neck and my lips.
I started cumming in multiples, riding him like his pants were off.
His eyes widened then darkened, as if he had witnessed something sacred and feral all at once. My body wanted him to indulge in the same pleasures.
We moved from the couch to the floor.
He picked me from the floor to the hallway. Eventually to his bedroom. I preferred the floor, to not make a mess.
As I got closer to his face I saw his eyes light up like a kid waking up after the tooth fairy leaves money under their pillow .
We locked eyes , the pause to smile as if we knew we were entering a portal together. I took my seat and he drank me up like a river flowing downstream.
He maneuvered me from behind with grace and experience. He was fully clothed, I kept my underwear on. This was something neither of us had experienced til that night.
He was as ferocious as I was. Time was non-existent, he lasted an eternity.
He finished.
We understood the definition of playmate.
Our inner children released the shackles of responsibility and could run free together.
To anyone questioning, if that was so intense why didn’t I go all the way.
The answer is as simple as it’s complex.
When I like someone and have sex, something cracks open.
He gave me pleasure.
I didn’t want to fall in love.
I didn’t want to get attached.
He was the vessel, for now.
With breath and fire,
Franceasca
Have you ever not gone all the way—because your soul wasn’t done asking questions?