Here We Are

Dark tendrils of wavy hair are stuck to my chest, my throat, and the back of my neck. I wake up breathless, sweating and panting, with my hand between my legs. I don’t know how long my index and middle fingers have been moving lazily inside me. I bring them up to my lips half asleep; hazy, but lucid enough to wish I was bringing them up to his.

I taste myself greedily, imagining it’s his mouth I’m tasting myself on.

Kissing him has become one of my favorite pursuits. But fuck, kissing him after I’ve just been squeezing his head between my thighs and tasting what he’s just tasted is a whole other kind of high.

I want to go back to the dream I was just having.

I was looking up at him, daring him to look away, knees all numb and carpet burn, little marks blossoming like anemones. He was making that face I love peeking at when I take him into my mouth. Don’t look away, I was thinking, look at me and I’ll show you how deep I can go. 

I get off on pleasing him orally, it’s not something that happens with every male, but there’s something about him that makes everything fade into the background in that moment. It’s a kind of hypnosis; an unordinary arousal. Maybe it’s the way he touches me, like he’s doing it solely for my pleasure, that makes me want to go chasing after his.

This holds true even inside my dream. He picks me up, places me on the edge of his bed and gets his on his knees. I like being this way. Open and exposed to him. He swallows me like sustenance, there’s an actual roar emanating from his chest from his insatiable hunger. I grab onto him by his hair, my grip locked, and then I feel it coming on. I whisper out to him to kiss me, I want to wipe his mouth clean, but he doesn’t stop until I come a second time.

I could quarry and lay down stones to build a temple for that tongue.

Am I dreaming?

I must be.

And there it is, his weight suddenly all over me, his wet mouth suffocating mine, evidence of my undoing all over his face, all over mine. I’m buzzing, no, fuck that, I’m a blazing forest fire. In one of his hands, rest both of my wrists, this is what I want to feel when he plunges into me; utterly consumed.

I don’t know how long we stay like this. I don’t know where we go from here to me on all fours, face in the mattress, him reaching out for my hair and pulling me to his chest, but we do, and here we are.

I can’t swallow the noise of my devouring, I would choke on it; choke on this want, too. So here we are, and here I am, moaning unintelligible sounds and screaming his name.

I wake up.

I touch myself the way I wish he was touching me. I’m hungry for him. I want all of him taking up space inside all of me. I wish he was here.

I’m lying alone in the dark coughing up water and drowning in lust. I’m tasting myself imagining what it must be like to drink rain from his lips. I’m writing up lists in my febrile mind of all the many things I want to do with him. And yes, my want for his skin on my skin is a snarling beast. And yes, he kisses me the way I want to be kissed. Yes, I wish he was here, but out of every purely selfish reason there is one that isn’t carnal, it’s this: I like his company.

It pains my cold, cold, cold, impenetrable heart to feel this, but I wish he was just here.

It’s been so long since I haven’t minded someone touching me throughout the night. I’m overwhelmed by the fact that I actually crave his arm pulling me close to him; the way it drapes over me, holding me, stopping me from thrashing and spinning in circles in the middle of my sleep. I don’t scoot towards the edge of the bed to avoid the body lying beside me the way I have with anyone I’ve shared a bed with in recent years. No. I don’t escape him. In his king-sized bed, I sleep as close as I can to the middle – as close as I can to him. Sometimes, I wake up and we’re not touching, and I rest my head on his chest and fall asleep again.

He talks in his sleep, I listen closely, but sometimes it’s in another language. I don’t know what he’s saying, but I love the sound of it. Like him, I talk in my sleep, too. I wonder if he’s caught any of it, I hope I haven’t said anything that would give too much of my subconscious away. I wonder if I too, speak in my native language.

He’s noisy. His breathing can get raucous in his sleep, he snores every now and again, but none of it bothers me. I find it comforting, the sound actually relaxes me and puts me to sleep.

Maybe it’s just him. It’s a thought I find terrifying.

I don’t want him to be the inspiration behind anything I’m writing. I don’t want to be thinking of him. Yet here we are.

Houston-based writer and artist.

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