Seeing Her

He’s not hot in a common way. He is quietly hot. Pale blue eyes and a perfect nose. Soft lips wearing a light-colored mustache. Nice body, though he has a small butt. He is insecure because he started losing his hair at 22 years old. I told him it’s because he has too much testosterone and that it’s eating away at his hair follicles. So he shaves his head, which is sort of pill shaped. But I used to like to graze my hand over his fuzzy stubble. It was cozy. 

Neither of us knew the other would be here, which makes sense because the friends we are with don’t know our history. We share the armrest. I don’t angle my body away, like I would if I were still in a relationship. He notices that. I let our elbows touch on the armrest, our bodies creating warmth. I notice he doesn’t move away either. The music sways us. We share a beer and a colorful vape that tastes like electric strawberry. I giggle and I clap and I sing along. I watch a couple in front of me, dancing. The tall boyfriend holds his girlfriend’s face, staring into her eyes and wrapping his arms around her. Clearly in love.   

And then Mac DeMarco croons, seeing her… for the first time… again. And a shudder runs through me. I wonder if he feels it too. 

Two years ago, he called me his little minx. I would joke and say, get away! I’m a virgin! And he’d say, not for long, and that for some reason really turned me on. And then we would kiss for hours, until my lips were chapped and tongue too dry. I’d beg for water so we could kiss again. He’d sneak his hands under my skirt, and I’d say, no, no. Not yet. But I’d feel him grow thick next to me. He’d breathe heavy from need, and I’d feel myself become slick with desire. 

Sitting next to him at the concert feels like that. My body is tense, and I have to remind myself to breathe. Waiting. Not knowing if he’d even want me again, after all this time. After I fell in love with someone else. But I’d been thinking about him. I must have manifested him here, next to me, while Mac sings us songs about love. I wonder if he’s thinking about me, too. 

The last time I saw him was Halloween. He arrived very late to our friend’s party, and I was already drunk on syrupy punch. As soon as I saw him, excitement overwhelmed me. I didn’t know that I’d missed him. The only problem—my boyfriend was also at the party. So I couldn’t talk to him the way I wanted, with the intimacy that we built and then abandoned. But things are different now. I'm single again and maybe he’s been missing me too. 

I miss the way we used to talk to each other. Comfortable without holding anything back. We could laugh together and then be serious. I could get mad at him without fearing he’d run away from me forever. That’s something I’ve rarely found with other men. 

The concert ends and I tell him I want to spend more time with him. He’s surprised. Are you single? He asks. 

Yes, I reply. 

Oh? 

Yeah, for two months now. 

So, am I your rebound? 

We laugh. 

Maybe. 

We leave our friends, and he comes home with me. At this point, I’m still residing in the bubbly, whimsical stage before any decisions are made. I still tell myself we might not sleep together. Maybe we’ll just talk all night. Maybe he’ll tell me he was secretly hurt that I ended things with him and moved on. 

We walk into my apartment, and I realize he’s never been here before. He doesn’t know my new roommates. But it feels like he belongs somehow.

Although we’ve done this dance before, it’s been a long time, so my heart races. He can feel it thumping in my chest. We sit on the bed awkwardly for a few moments and I put on a movie I know we won’t watch. He lets me go through the motions. I get up to turn off the dim light, but he says, leave it on. I want to look at you. 

I’ve heard him say this before. I know he thinks I’m attractive, but I don’t know if he thinks I’m beautiful. I ended things with him two years ago because his passion had limits. He could want me, he could fuck me, but he couldn’t love me. 

When he kisses me, I feel the heat immediately. I had forgotten how soft his lips are. How his mustache, at the right length, adds texture. Dimension. Intrigue. He fills my mouth with his tongue, searching for my throat. 

I nibble on his lips, and he moans. I feel him hard against my leg. He kisses down my neck and removes my t-shirt. Warm chills run through me. He massages my breasts gingerly and puts his mouth around my nipple. With his hand he teases my other nipple. I breathe hard and arch my back. He loves my nipples, I know this. They are small and perfectly pink and he loves to see them wake up just for him. He could spend an eternity tonguing each one, back and forth, for all of time. 

Maybe this time will be different. Maybe he’s matured. He stopped drinking for six months. He went to Japan to find himself. Twice. Maybe he’ll realize his feelings for me are more than skin deep. Maybe he’ll realize his repressed intensity must be released. 

When he slides his hands down my waist, my breath catches. Maybe I don’t need him to love me at all, I just need to feel him. I rip at his belt and unzip his pants. I wrap my hand around him through the fabric of his Calvin Klein boxer briefs. He is firm against my fingers and still growing. He groans at my touch. He slips his fingers into my panties. His middle finger presses onto my clit. Then he strokes me, feeling closer to my entrance. When he realizes how wet I am he exhales, fuck. 

He rubs me harder. He already knows how I like it. Waves of pleasure travel up my body. His pace quickens and it’s harder for me to keep quiet. He puts his tongue in my mouth again to muffle my sounds. I breathe him in, and he smells like honey and cigarettes, sweet, heady, intoxicating. 

He slips off my panties and pushes my legs open, placing himself between them. He lightly kisses the inside of my thighs, where I know there are delicate stretch marks. He slowly runs his tongue along my inner lips, circling around my pulsing bud. He tastes my essence. My desire. It is lovely and tame until he adds friction with a pinch of his fingers, and I have to hold myself back from crying out.

I remember him obsessing over how to make me come. It didn’t happen the first few times. I would get distracted by my anxieties and fears and he could tell. He always wanted to feel it, and if he didn’t, he would try and try again. I couldn’t fake it, couldn’t lie to him. He learned all the intricacies and pleasure points of my body. He still knows what to whisper in my ear to make me squirm. He still knows when I’m lost in the motion or a million miles away. 

He moves up my body and whispers with his wet lips, Get on top. 

I pin him down on the bed. He looks at me hungrily. I lick his chin and begin kissing his neck down to his chest down to the elastic of his underwear while pushing his shirt off in the process. His arms are strong from paddling against the waves on his surfboard. He is mostly hairless except for the scraggly few of his happy trail. I pull down his briefs slowly, teasing him. I look up at him to make sure he is watching me. His eyes are focused. He breathes heavily before I even touch him.  

I stroke him first with my hand and then with my tongue. He shivers with pleasure. I had forgotten how big he is. His cock stands at attention, veins popping. He fills up my mouth completely. While I take him in my mouth, he touches my hands, my arms, and gently runs his fingers through my hair. He only lets me suck him for a few minutes before he stops me. 

I need to be inside of you, he says. 

I release him from my mouth and move my pelvis up his body. I hover over his towering cock, not yet touching. I kiss him seductively, playfully. I lick his lips and nibble on his tongue. And then I realize what we’re doing. And I remember who he is to me. What will this do to us? We stare into each other’s eyes. 

I’m nervous, I whisper. I giggle. 

Me too, he says.  

His honesty soothes me. I kiss him hard. I rub the tip of him on my clit and move him closer and closer until I slowly slip him inside. A cry escapes me as I push him in deeper and for a moment it’s like I’m splitting apart in the most euphoric way. We rock back and forth, and he holds my hips, inching further inside me. His thumb finds my clit and rubs it furiously. Tension builds in my stomach as I ride him harder, holding my hand around his neck. He tilts his head back in ecstasy. He feels my body tightening around him. He knows I’m close. As if I’m climbing the tallest mountain, I finally reach the peak, and I can forget the rest of the world. Nothing exists but the fire between us. The walls of my sex grip him, throbbing and rippling around his girth as I come.  

Oh, baby, he says. He erupts inside me and I feel him pulsing. I stay on top of him for a moment, still intertwined. We pant loudly as one, both sweating and warm and blotchy all over. Our bodies are too sensitive to move just yet. I kiss his soft lips again. We slowly detach and I rest my head on his chest. 

He doesn’t function like other men. He becomes energized after sex. Talkative. He wants to tell me about the new (old) music he’s just discovered and the various modes in which he listens—cassette, CD, mixtape, illegal download. I ask him about his mom, who has a mystery illness. Taking care of her is a big reason why he is so occupied. I tell him about my ex and why we didn’t work out. I couldn’t really talk to my ex. Not like this, not like we are talking now. He listens. He kisses my shoulders. 

I don’t think he knows what romantic love really is. 

As I’m nodding off, he asks, is it weird that we did this again? 

No, I don’t think so, I say. And I mean it. I feel pretty good. 

Me too. 

Okay. Cool.