I reach for the warmth radiating through the fabric. I wait for him to come closer, but he doesn't. I squeeze him anyway. The result comes in a roll over, away from me. Then, he scoots his back closer and grabs for my hand. I fall in and out of sleep for hours. I don't dream, I doze, waking after every kick, wondering when I became such a light sleeper. I forgot that I need distance to sleep well. I roll over and fall deep asleep for hours. I wake and roll over. He is still there. I had forgotten in my sleep what it felt like to be near someone I want to touch. I wished he would have put his arm around me, but I wonder if I would have slept. My head pounds, I feel the neck crepitus as I change my head position. I have to get up. I don't need a migraine. The best way to deal with it is to take the pain medication now before it gets worse. Reluctantly, I peel the blankets back, the warm sleepy feeling lingering. Soft steps on the carpet lead the way through the darkness. Through the crochet curtains I peer the deep navy sky. The stars are visible and I wonder when I saw them last. It has been months. I didn't know the haze was casting a thickness over everything until I see the reflected light on the floor. I forget that I am not alone. I hear the tiny thuds of paws. I sense more than view the small figure in the hallway. I wash my hands, pull two pills from the bottle and hold them open palmed through the door. I see the dark puddle on the floor and I know he's watching out for me. Protecting me. I forget everything else exists. My tiny protector circles my ankles, confirming that he was there the whole time, making sure I get back from the bathroom okay. He takes his watch at the top of the stairs and waits for the morning, when his watch is over. The existential feeling subsides as I find my way back to bed. I know where it is as an engraved pathway. I can make out the white from the sheets, bright against the dark grey blanket. I lay down in the quiet and hope I don't make a sound. I curl back around him and he doesn't move. I wonder if he woke up when I did, but I hope he's found deep sleep, too. I wonder when I last cared to be so cautious about what I was doing. I hate to remember what that felt like. The rejection. He knew it, felt it, or I wasn't able to hide the feeling. It's never easy to want more than you should. Or what I should right now. How would I know? It's never been taught to me, I learn for myself. I didn't have a way to find out otherwise. Or not in a healthy way. This is all new. This is all brand new. To just enjoy the moments for what it is and try not to think about what it could be or what could perfect it, when perfection can lie in the crevice of the mundane. I fall back asleep with the feel of skin and cotton under my hand, enjoying the feeling of just existing despite everything.
This could be good. This could be something. I can't predict that it will fall in line with what I want, but I am not desperate to know right now. I ponder about every time I felt intensely to know what will happen next. The fleeting feelings are like a roller coaster and I already know I don't like to be jerked around like that. I live for the steady. The slight incline. The growth that you don't realize is happening, the sneak up of feelings. The sudden, oh, I have arrived at this feeling, rather than the smashed into my soul, broke my heart apart to exist, sort of feelings. I always bought into the stereotypes of what safety felt like while envying the loves that were quiet, peaceful, and steady. I could sense the calm that came with the security. I always thought that was a feeling you get when you settle into the big feelings. But, they never came. Those quiet and calm moments were never there. It was always something else. There are times I think of almost two decades ago, sitting on the porch in my underwear, long shirt barely covering my hips while I tucked my knees up to my chest. Eating scrambled eggs with the calm. I couldn't handle it then. There were other things behind it all as well. It wasn't just the calm feelings. He drank until he blacked out. He never wanted to touch me, unless he didn't remember. He told me he loved me for the first and only time while he was so drunk he swayed in the kitchen. I didn't know what to say. I cared about him so much, but I knew it wasn't right. I think I picked a fight instead of just enjoying the moments. Maybe I did enjoy the moments, too. I don't think I was at a spot mentally to handle what that could mean for me. I think it was a good reminder. Of what I needed to work on. Just like now is a good reminder to work on those insecurities. To remember that I don't need all the time. I can just have some of the time. I don't need all of the touching. I can have some of the touching. I honestly cannot complain. I have nothing to complain about. Other than my brain needs to reroute sometimes. The rerouting can be difficult. It sucks me into a void that doesn't last long, and when I come back, I am fine. I don't have any lingering side effects. It doesn't drag me into a depression anymore. I can just feel it and decide it's stupid and my brain can stop creating a story that doesn't exist.
These moments are never convenient. Maybe that is part of it also. Maybe when things are tough, I try to create a different story, maybe one I can control, to be able to work through the one I cannot. I forgot that I did that a lot when I was younger. Drama needs to exist that I create because it was something to work through and solve. Just like helping other people work through their problems, instead of working on mine. It's a coping tactic. Either way, I couldn't write about it. I thought about writing three times, driving home, enjoying the quiet. Or the music. And not being able to pull out my laptop and start clacking away. I crave it like a drug. Feeling the words coming out of my head and onto the screen. Instead, life kept happening. The craving subsided, like all unquenched thirsts. I forgot what I needed to write about. I got tired. I got sick. I missed him and told him. He said nothing. Responded to two of the three things I said. Made me wonder if I should have said it at all. Hoped he was just being quiet. Not that he was pretending the feeling didn't exist. I have to keep leaning in and hoping that it is just my brain making up the story, that there isn't anything to read into. It didn't feel like a gut feeling, but the rejection instead. And how much of it is just me making it up? None of it matters. Nothing matters. There's always a story to write and I want to put it down. If there isn't a story, then I can make one. I can set the scene for myself.
I pull the silky strands of his hair through my fingertips, wondering if I am being annoying or sweet. What are you thinking about? He asks me point blank. I am wondering if you want to be here. If you even like me. If I am annoying you. If you are looking at me the way I see out of the corner of my eye, the way I am trying not to see by staring at my fingers working in your hair. If you are thinking that you care about me a little more than you did before, not that there are a declaration of words, just that there is something here and I am not alone thinking it. I give a slight smile out of the corner of my eye and say, Just that your hair is soft. Because, what is all of what I think anyways? Who even wants to know. He asked, but I don't want to say. I overthink constantly, and I don't need to voice all my inner thoughts. All the insecurities. It's not important. Sometimes I know it is important, but that wasn't the time for it. I also don't want to know the answer myself, in case it isn't what I want to hear. I am not ready for the possibility that it isn't what I want. That it will end. Or that there is potential for it, because there always is an end date. I want to think that old age or death will tear apart a love like I want and deserve, but who is to say this is that one or just another man on the path to it? What would end this? I wonder what we can even fight about. There isn't really anything there. The communication between us is so healthy, I can't even figure out what it would be.
What do you want? This I can be honest about, fully. Less clothes and breakfast. Because I do want that. I want to kiss his cheek and taste his mouth, take off his pants and taste his pre-cum. I want to see his big lips purse when he is enjoying what I do. The noises I make. I want him to thrust up into me while I take him, in any capacity. I want him to unbutton my sailor shirt and kiss the soft skin he finds under the fabric. I wonder if he knows the story I make up in my brain. All the imagination that runs wild the whole time he touches me softly. Feeling his fingers move across my skin when he looks up at me, all when I am watching a movie in my head. Does he come up with stories, too? There's more than one way to create a story. It's not always the bad kind. Sometimes it's the kind that follow a long kiss and fingertips grabbing my hips as I settle down using the wet between us to slide in deep. I am not sure what he sees, what he thinks, all while he spends time looking at my face and while sinks deeper into me. I blink up at him to see his half-lidded eyes. He will give me a little smile and I feel caught. He glances at my thighs and I remember to stop watching. Maybe he feels caught when he's watching me, but he wants me to be reassured. I have learned to stop watching him so I can focus. If I spend time looking at him looking at me, I don't know what will happen, and I'm not ready to find out yet. It's distracting. A less insecure version of me will know how to feel about it. Once I have given all of myself over to the feeling, the waves of pleasure, I don't mind later to look at him. To glance at him watching me work. Your big blue eyes... he moans and I look up at him. I glance back down, I can tell he wants me to look, but I feel sort of shy. Or that I think it could be good for him to see that I am shy. Then I glance back up and it's all over for him. He likes to watch me work and there is something scary about that for me. It does feel vulnerable, but I don't mind it at that point. I know there's a secret in that moment, the ultimate position of power. Knowing I made him cum, he was unable to stop himself. It makes me want to open up more. I want to open up more and more. I want to see him watching me without a story, and maybe there is a time where that will be what it becomes. Or maybe I can never stop letting my stories play. I seek visuals and I need to see that happen. I need to feel the licking, the rock hard pulsing, and view the play in my head. Because the ultimate turn on is the vulnerability. Or being comfortable with it while having acceptance of it.