The summer of winter - a true kinky gay erotic story
"When I met you in the summer," I croon with all the voracity of one who knows only that one part of the chorus from that one song they play on the radio all the time. In between shouting out my trademark line, I'm dancing off the mid-evening mania I'm experiencing frequently in recent days.
I'm more honest these days. So, I admit that I'm definitely stoned and absolutely considering smoking another spliff at this point. It's a good night after all. Snow Miser lost a bet and the thermometer sits at an unusually tepid 45 degrees F on this 20th day of February in Ypsilanti, MI.
I'm in good spirits. I also have a cute boy on his way to my second story duplex. He'll be here before I finish this spliff I'm rolling if I don't hurry up. Unfortunately, my mouth is just a tad danker than normal. Sadly, I realize this a moment too late and end up with a strawberry cough filled strawberry flavored Swisher Sweet wrap that's more saliva than wrap.
By the time the lighter has dehydrated the situation enough to spark the business end of this otherwise expertly constructed, sommelier-approved blunt, I'm convinced he's just moments away. In truth, I'm really excited to meet this adorable 20 year-old white boy who slid into my OkCupid inbox just days earlier.
Sure, upon first sight, I'm simply relieved he appears healthy and sane. After a bit of back and forth via chat, I'm more intrigued by how our interactions make me feel. It's unfamiliar and unwelcome, but lingers like an awkward silence caused in the spotlight of intimidating eyes.
The smoke filling my lungs and fueling a more welcome wavy frontal lobe sensation don't exactly banish the other feels. Still, as it wafts around peacefully in the still air, disturbed only by my purposeful and necessary exhales I'm soothed.
The spotlight of my floodlight activates as he timidly walks down the cement path toward S Huron St and the tilted stone steps of my porch. Our eyes meet. He smiles. I smirks.
Fuck, I'm nervous, but really want to appear smooth. I'm incredibly stoned, with few precious exhales left before I have to be the calm collected guy I want him to think I am. It happens easily.
In his presence, I feel bold. I sense something. A question? A proposition? A permission.
He's sweet - wounded. I like that, it reminds me of myself and soothes my savior complex. It also puts me in the power position. I like that, too.
His eyes are gentle, hair dirty blond and he definitely wants to fuck me. I'm hungry for food and him. We talk for hours, both of us putting off the risk of rejection. Four hours in, it's past midnight and I'm finally feeling the rush that I would later identify as my inner Dom/sadist whetting his chops.
The sensation is powerful and so am I. I know I have to make the first move, I just don't know how.
We talk more, migrating through the various rooms of my generously spacious, party ready apartment. There's literally nothing but blank white walls in most of the rooms, but the scenery hardly matters. I like this boy. Like hard.
I haven't felt anything other than impending doom since the cold harsh world robbed me of my smile and innocence. So, I forgive my initial confusion. Still this revelation spins my mind so fast I almost missed my opening.
He says he likes belly rubs. I say I do, too. I don't. Truthfully, I'm not as comfortable with my belly as I would like. So, my mind says it's stupid. I reach my hand out anyway. I want to touch him.
He smiles. I surge with energy. He reaches his hand out. I surge with shame after being judgmental, yet I'm also proud. I'm a bitter, judgmental bitch who's scared of taking risks. Still, I said yes. My hand is on his belly.
Emboldened, I take another risk. He tells me he wants to kiss me, too. He's a bad kisser, but we can work on that. At least he's not cursed with the pencil thin lips. Although, he could use a bit more ass - not nearly enough upper booty area for my hand to comfortably rest as I pull him closer.
Our bellies press against one another. I like the pressure it creates. I also like the way he smiles when I bite his lower lip. I'm in charge. He is mine and I feel it. I also feel his bulge firm up and push against mine. The rigid seam of our jeans popping forcefully over each other with and inaudible snap.
His tongue is soft and so are the last few kisses I dart at his lips as I pull away. He smiles. I tell him I liked it. He liked it, too. I kiss him again, gently and with purpose.
Shit. I waited so long to make my move, it's time for him to head back home. Still, with the scent of kush breath fresh on my saliva damp mustache, it's hard to feel any regret. He'll be back.
We kiss a few more times as the bright white fluorescent light bathing gives way to the warm cool white of the wood paneled foyer. We stand there with the door open for a substantial moment in requited amusement and surprise. I kiss him again, passionately. He's a quick study. I enjoy these kisses dearly and savor them.
He says he hopes to see me again. His eyes only leave the floor for a moment to catch my reaction. I tell the truth. I hopeto see him again. He smiles, thankfully.
Once the door is closed and he's out of view, I let my body fall against the foyer's hideous and painful stucco wall. It hurts. I laugh. I know I'm going to remember this winter.
