I black out a little and paint his pecs, neck, face, hair, the pillow with rope after rope.
If I could save one image from this day, it might be that of him looking at me, dripping with my cum, surprised, grateful, turned on. I brush away the stuff nearest his eyes and dry him with (about half a box of) tissues, and do the same to me.
‘Fuck,’ he says ‘that was incredible.’
‘Yeah’, a little shell-shocked I answer ‘yeah it was.’ I chuckle a little and we kiss each other on the lips for a bit.
After that, we cuddle for a while, damp, sticky, exhausted. More making out, slower than before. I get hard again and he starts to stroke me with a glint in his eyes. I push him away as I’m still so tired. ‘In a minute’.
Instead we talk. About our lives, about his abusive father (thankfully not in that way), and I ask him about his first time. He asks me if I always wear socks in bed. I tell him I do.
‘Uhm.’
No, surely not. Yes, he said he was 18 but the way he fucked…
Yes, it turns out. This was his first time.
‘Oh, fuck.’
‘Yeah, I’m sorry… I feel that maybe I should have told you.’
‘Well… I don’t see why, I suppose.’
‘I guess.’
Suddenly feeling protective I kiss him all over his face, caress it, and ask him if he’d had a good time.
‘It was amazing. I had no idea it felt like that.’
God knows why, but I almost cry at this. I feel honoured, sad for whatever reason, maybe a little uncomfortable for a moment – illogically. Most people’s first time is not like that, to put it mildly. We’d used protection.
What better way to be walked over that particular Rubicon than what had just happened?
‘Well, I’m very happy to hear that. I suppose it’s best to lose it with someone who knows what to do.’
He nods, all doe-eyed. I never want to leave this room.
We cuddle some more, and twenty or thirty minutes later, he’s clearly desperate for round two. God, maybe it’s for the best that tonight is all we have. He’d be the death of me if he lived nearby, I’d collapse like some overworked Victorian draft horse.
We swap head and jack off together and end up fucking madly against a sink, watching each other in the mirror as I thank myself for bringing two condoms. I finally cum inside him, and collapse, drained, against him – my head on his back.
As I finally leave him, I notice he’s a little unclean (and only a little). He turns round and notices and he apologises, embarrassed. I take it off, wrap it in tissue, and put it in the bathroom bin.
‘Hey’, I touch him on the arm, ‘it happens sometimes. I knew where I was putting my dick. Don’t feel bad about it. Why don’t we shower?’
We stand underneath a rainfall shower, soaping each other down, making out, our bodies pressed into each other.
Afterwards, feeling clean and worn out, we cuddle in bed – desperately trying to forget that I’ll soon have to leave, as he had a very early flight back home in the Mid West – and my epilepsy means I’ll have to catch a few good hours for my own, longer flight back.
I begin to hate time with a passion, a cold fury.Why do things have to move? Can’t we just be left alone, what would be so wrong with that?
‘I know I can’t fall asleep with you, but I want that more than anything in the world. I wish I could wake up with you.’ Those words fall from my mouth, and I’m conscious that the past few hours have made me feel more strongly about him than anyone I knew before – aside from those school-days crushes that don’t really count.
‘I’d love that.’
We kiss and I put my clothes back on and turning to look at him one last time I go back to the bed and stroke his face, run my fingers through his hair for the last time. He stands up and we kiss for the last time.
‘I’ve got to go now’, I say quietly.
‘I know.’
It’s late by the time I join the others on the terrace, the sky navy turning into black, Manhattan glittering in the distance. I’m asked how it was. ‘Fucking fantastic’. ‘Ha, fair enough. You missed the sunset though, it was incredible’. I can only manage a grunt in return. I’m tired, dazed, morose, missing him already. I hate distance, I hate the Atlantic Ocean. Embarrassing, really. I must be in or near triple digits, yet it feels like it was also my first time.
Resolving to do something about the sadness. I reach for a cold glass of the atomic margarita and the communal packet of Camel Blues laying on the table. The tequila does what it can considering the situation, and I sink back into the deck chair – exhausted. The oppressive heat of the day has receded but not vanished; you can still feel it radiating off the bricks and the paving-stones. There is at least a cool breeze, and I help it by placing my now empty glass, ice-wet from condensation, against my forehead. A friend brings over a fresh one. I nod gratefully.
We crossed the pond the next morning, with crippling hangovers and a certain sense of loss.
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