Jilling Off

for whatever reason, we went to fist-bump tonight, and as your hand hit mine, I felt the impact of chunky metal. “I”m sorry about the ring,” you said, and I looked at you, and looked at the ring and all it symbolises and laughed and laughed and laughed. You had the grace to laugh as well, and to say “in all non-ironic forms as well, I’m sorry about the ring”. That was really sweet.

Because it was New Year’s, and because we were in a beach town, my friend’s house was full of people so it was only fair that I offered to share the sofa bed that I was sleeping on. Two other guys crashed out on the floor, one on a bean bag, and the guy that hadn’t been giving me the eye all night rolled his sleeping bag out next to mine.

Because it was New Year’s, and because we were in a beach town, it was far too hot to sleep. I heard the breathing of the boys in the room slow down, and one started snoring, but I was pretty sure that the boy next to me wasn’t asleep. I was also pretty sure that his hand was snaking over to my side of the bed, softly drawing circles on my back. Was it on purpose? Was he really touching me? Did I want this to happen with the other boys in the room, or even at all?

I wanted to be sure, so pretending to stretch, I wriggled a little closer to his side of the bed. The hand stroking me was now unmistakeable. I rolled over and took his hand. There was a minute’s pause, a realisation that this was something that was happening before he started to stroke my arm again, and I reached out to touch him as well. His hands slipped up under my tshirt, found me braless, squeezed my breasts. I tugged lightly at his nipples, my arm grazing the top of his boxer shorts. I wasn’t sure how far he wanted this to go but he moved my hand down and I felt how hard his cock already was. His body went stiff as I took it in my hands, and then shook with the effort of keeping totally silent as my hand moved faster and faster. I could feel how much he was straining as he came in my hands, shaking and almost choking from trying not to cry out. I kissed him on his forehead, wiped my hand off on his shorts, rolled over and went to sleep. It was New Year’s, after all.

Has it been a year? How can it have been a year when it still seems like yesterday? I remember everything, of course I do even though the first time we tried to blame it on the alcohol, on the zombies, of course. I remember knees up against each other, under the table, and I remember them from months before that occasion which I thought was a fluke in the system, because yes, I had those thoughts for you but there was no way that you could ever feel the same. And yet, that night, it was there. It wasn’t just knees under the table, or the flirting in our conversation. It was our hands locking in the street as we stumbled from bar to bar, and yes, that could have been that we were drunk, that we were stumbly, but it felt like more than that, and so in the taxi on the way home, when we were far more cuddled up than we should have been, and our hands were still inexpicitly intwined, our eyes met, our heads tipped, our mouths moved together – and we stopped. We paused before we kissed, and we both shook our heads, and we both went “umm, nah” and we sent each other text messages blaming it on the zombie cocktails, shaking it off, saying it wasn’t even a thing at all and we didn’t even need to worry about it.

And then the next day we were both home hungover and you asked me if I wanted to come over and hang out, all casual like, and apologised if that sounded weird because you didn’t mean it to be.. I was too hungover to leave the house so you showed up at mine carrying kebabs and coffee. Of course by that stage you knew that I drank lattes because all we did every day was try and find any excuse to meet up together. We called it boredom at work but it was of course and oh so stupidly an attraction to each other that drew us multiple times a day to that tiny little cafe. But this, this was different.I was deliberatey still in my pyjamas, the thought of dressing up for you terrified me as much as the idea that you could even return the palest fraction of my feelings for you. And yet, you were there, you were so close. It was ridiculous. I made small talk about how drunk we were, trying to skip over the subtext, and yet when I tried to show you some pictures on my laptop, I intended to hand the computer over to you but you came and sat on the couch right next to me, thighs up against mine again, and you were totally in my space, in my world and all I could hear and smell and taste and touch was your presence right there against me and I was totally thrown.

That was the Friday. Or the Thursday? On the Saturday, you were at my house again, and that is a whole new story again.

I absolutely understand the point of this video but I can’t say that it doesn’t arouse me as well, and that’s kind of fucked up.

Sometimes it is so fucking hard to ignore how much i fucking want you inside of me, fucking me, taking me, making me lose control.

I know you prefer to play the sub, but you, on top of me, holding me down, pinning me to the bed, hands held above my head, cock thrusting into me, dominate me like that, please. Make me come half a dozen times with your fingers, lick me to orgasm more and again and again. Treat me like I am your dirty little fucktoy, because of course, I am, I could never be anything more.