A shy reference librarian, and a college student who was disowned when she refused to submit to conversion therapy, meet in a bookstore. He's been waiting his whole life for her. Meanwhile, she's starting her whole life over. What ensues between the...
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Dinner was an assortment of shellfish in garlic butter sauce, served over linguini; a tossed salad of mixed spring greens, violets, and pansies with a light dressing of oil; steamed asparagus drizzled with orange butter; and, for my birthday cake, an impossibly rich New York style cheesecake he made with added sour cream and dark chocolate and allowed to age for several days in the refrigerator. White zinfandel accompanied the food.
A balmy spring breeze pushes at the kitchen curtains.
His head rests on his arms. He's been lying there slumped at the table for a while now. It doesn't look like a very comfortable position to fall asleep in.
"Come to bed," I say. "You look like you could use a rest."
He nods, and we head off.
When we sit on the futon, I start working his suit and other clothes off. He doesn't object. The tie presents an interesting challenge, but ultimately, it's much easier to undo a Windsor knot than it is to tie one. The tie is silk. "I love the way this feels against my skin," I murmur, rubbing the tie against my cheek as I take it off. "You should wear these more often, to give me an excuse to take them off. Or give yourself an excuse to do something with the tie once it's off."
He doesn't bat an eye.
"My word. You must be tired, to ignore an opening like that." I run my hands along his shoulders as I unfasten his shirt. "Knots. You're in knots... Let me help. Please." When I dig in my fingers, the tension in his muscles feels like stone. He is a study in alabaster.
I bite a shoulder gently, then dig in, wrapping my teeth around the knot to loosen it, and he groans.
"My love, how much are you holding in there?"
His only response is a sad smile.
"Like Atlas, with the weight of an entire world on your shoulders. No wonder your shoulders are all tied up."
"Only when I let myself brood."
"Then don't brood," I reply. "Silly. There. Problem solved." I kiss his mouth, long and hard, taking his face between my hands, and in a few moments am gratified to hear him let out an odd little gasp, almost a sigh. It's a lovely gasp. I could get used to hearing it.
"Thinking about what I mustn't have does tend to make me brood somewhat, eromene," he says, and leans forward to kiss my neck where the chain of my birthday necklace brushes my flesh. His lips are light, no more forceful than thought. They feel like a soft wind.
"No. I did just tell you not to brood, didn't I? Stop brooding. Stop even thinking." I lean into him, unbalancing him and knocking his naked body back down onto the pillows, where I pin him between my forearms as I bend over him. "Do you know what I want most for my birthday present? Your happiness." His lips need kissing. I kiss them. "I want you to be blissfully, radiantly happy. I want you to be positively drunk on happiness." He has such beautiful eyes. The lids tremble when I put my lips to them. "I want you to be so happy that you forget how to be sad. I want you to be so happy that you can't think. I want your ecstasy. Let me give it to you. Let go. Just this once." I reach down and rub my hand up against the hardness between his legs. "Let go."
