The Beauty Inside.
This story first appeared on mateonikolav.com
November 23, 2019
Recent events have made me rekindle interest in finishing writing about this experience. Part of it was written at the time, but most of it is latter reflection. I want to thank my teacher, Anita Gill, for teaching me the joys of reminiscing and crafting memoir short stories with said memories.
❧ About two months into our secret yet honest relationship, we arranged to meet someplace crowded in Georgetown. After a modest salute, we walked towards the alley were I kissed him and gave him a proper greeting. I wanted to take him one of my favorite hidden spots, an open rooftop with a view of M Street. It amazed me how open he was to follow me.
We sat on the ceiling and talked about our day, about the stars, about how we missed each other since our last rendezvous. He had already been drinking with some colleagues prior to our date, so words came easily to him.
We held hands and we kissed.
I’ll never forget the taste of his lips, sweet and tender with a hint of his subtle cologne.
I wanted to stay there forever; I loved to talk with him about movies, philosophy, just anything really. Despite respecting our responsibilities and commitments, I saw a lifelong friendship with him already.
But as kind as the weather was for a particularly cold April (cherry blossom season almost didn’t happen that year); my legs started to shiver from the river breeze.
It was around 7 or 8 pm on a weekday; and if you’ve lived in DC… you know very few places are open that “late,” so naturally my apartment, which was a 15 minute walk away, became the best place to be at. I was frankly worried about taking him there, as I was unsure if my roommate’s provocative decoration (which was growing on me) would make him think of me differently.
But as we arrived, he did nothing but contemplate everything with curiosity and wit. He got comfortable in bed as I showed him the little turtles that I called my babies. We laid in bed together under all the neon, the feathers, the phallus-centric decor and embraced each other tightly.
Up until that point, I’d always been the one in command; sexually speaking. Every of our encounters dreamy and sexy. But in that moment I contemplated I had never felt so held by someone but him. It wasn’t a matter of lack of experience, or partners, or naivety. It was one of those rare moments when emotions spoke louder than thoughts. Never before did I ever think to give that kind of control to someone.
Yet that night I knew, and I longed for him to take charge. And he did.
As he begun, his eyes were set firmly on mine. His demeanor was respectful and nurturing. His touch delicate and appreciative. He took control slowly and then confidently. It lasted long enough to please both of us. We both smiled at what it was and what it could be. It sure hurt but it felt beautiful. I felt beautiful.
I wish I could thank him; as a result of our connection that night, I understood that if I ever allowed someone else in, it would never be a complete stranger, it’d have to be someone who valued me and most importantly understood me.
It was the perfect night.