Despite having kissed and had sex with many people, sometimes both can seem like something new, like an experience you have never had. Last night, this boy I had met at a gallery the night before came over to my house, and to be kissed by him was something new. His particular method of kissing slightly different from this or that person’s, and the result being this unexpected experience, sensations new, skin breathed against, brushed against with his big lips, taking me somewhere really nice. The blindfold removed and the sight a beautiful one.
Saturday night, after meeting in this gallery, he met me at this party in Union Square. We made out more there and I told him that we had to stop, that I was meeting someone else there. We didn’t stop, he didn’t and I couldn’t, deriving too much pleasure from his lips, his breath on my neck, feeling my body’s existence in a really visceral way. Diego, the boy I was meeting there, came up and said hi to me while I was making out with this boy. It’s not that either of us think we are exclusive, but it was pretty tacky to be caught making out with some boy when I was supposed to meet up with him. He had a weird look in his eyes, something resembling disappointment. I pushed the other boy away, having already made plans to meet up the next day with him, and talked to Diego.
He told me that he was feeling weird because he had just broken up with his boyfriend of six months. I nodded and made conversation with him, did not show my surprise at this news, tried to roll along. It has been four months now since I have been seeing him and we have had more than a few conversations about what it is both of us wanted, and that during these conversations he never mentioned having a boyfriend seems a bit weird and, thinking it over now, shady. I am not sure that it should, that we had said we weren’t boyfriends, but the lack of transparency has altered in some way my feelings toward him, thrown some water on to the excitement I had felt.
So it was a relief last night to hang out with Pedro, a person who is moving back to Buenos Aires in a day and for it to be this thing free of any future expectations (and what often happens with expectations – a disappointment in its failure to occur or to occur in a fashion different from how it was imagined). We drank in my living room, listened to the Cure and talked about Argentine writers (Cortazar, Borges, Puig) and the Cai Guo-Qiang exhibition at the Guggenheim.
Conversation was put on pause to kiss. It’s hard to talk when you’re mouth is engaged when your lips are busy feeling the surface of someone else’s – hard to talk in a verbal way, but something else is said, sometimes, in this case definitely, something more important is said, something language is too small, too limited, to ever contain. We moved to my bed, every so often an article of clothing being removed until it was skin against skin. It was this slow, sensuous thing, mouths running up and down each other’s bodies, this person knowing the right places to touch, the right ways to, and I was driven a bit crazy, at times had to pull his head off of me, that the sensations were sometimes too much.
He was proportioned in this way that I am finding myself more and more attracted to, a short, mildly stout frame with thick nice legs. His hands and feet were so sexy, cute things, evidence of his symmetry, of the world’s. I could not get enough of licking his feet, and that they were such pleasure points for him, him making more moaning when I played with those than any other part of his body, drove me wild. Eventually I started to fuck him and his face was so pained, a face I have had often, him trying to move past the feeling of pain, to ignore it. We paused, him trying to relax, and it wasn’t happening. Instead, this sexy boy with his talented mouth and oral fixation gave me a blowjob that was also new. Like his kisses, done with a touch and deftness unfamiliar, new in some slight way, and as a result, the experience also new, something unfelt before despite that particular act having been done numerous times before.
Sex is so amazing for that reason, that no matter how many times one has it, it can always be this new overwhelming experience, that different people have different touches, that even with the same people there are different touches, so many points on your body at which contact can be made. Beds are these magic boats, floating through wondrous nightlands, journeys through space – sense of physical space and time absent, left back there on the land you shipped out from, left with your clothes on the shore.
He had a nipple ring and afterwards, lying next to each other, I asked him about it. He said he had gotten it when he was a teenager and didn’t like it anymore. He asked me if I liked it. I said not particularly. Having wanted to not have it for a while, he took out then, deciding so rashly to change this thing about him that he had had for years. That was such a beautiful sight, something that almost made me a little jealous, this sureness of purpose and this will to enact desired changes.
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