Deepthroat

Nothing about our conversation mirrors any of the dates I’ve been on. We flow from one subject to the next with comfort and fluency as though we’ve known each other for years and are merely picking up where we left off. 

“So you’re intense,” he observes aloud, refusing to break eye contact all through the night, when I tell him about the all-consuming feelings I’d had for my ex-boyfriend.

Unfazed by my out of proportion-ness, he acknowledges it with a surprising tone of respect. There are few things I find sexier in a man than him not being afraid of my intensity. Sometime along the way, his hands, large and deliciously rough, find their way underneath the table and start stroking my naked legs up and down with his calloused thumb.

By the time we leave the bar, I’m so wonderfully warm—strung out on the charged energy between us, the couple of drinks, the feeling of his hands roaming my bare legs so freely, the thrill of disclosing our most private sexual thoughts to one another and the noise of the bar melting away. 

Suddenly, as we’re standing on the wet sidewalk, he’s towering over me as he grabs hold of my face with both hands and looks down at me.

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