gentle crooning wafting through the speakers and you think, this is just like a fantasy. late, late in the night––or rather the early morning––with islands of light provided by two or three miscellaneous lamps scattered around the room and there he is, lounging beside you. stern-looking and fidgety and you can’t help but stare as the crooning settles your heart and soul and you enter a phase of peacefulness coupled with a growing lust.
your foot jogs gentle in tune and you snuggle up against him in a way that disturbs him the least, and you’re glad to see him look down at you and quietly mark his place in his book to wrap both arms securely around you. and there you sit. in your teenage years you fantasized moments like this but never believed they would be lived exactly as you had imagined. you take a risk and push your luck: “if I asked you to dance with me, would you?”
“you know i don’t dance,” he replies and your mood is unaffected. “we can if you want, though.”
you shake your head no without knowing why and close your eyes, hearing his heart beat faster than it perhaps is accustomed to, and that wonderful crooning continuing on as if it is entirely responsible for creating this moment. if that’s the case, you think, i hope it never lets it end.
he shifts and turns your face up to his to peck you lips. and then again, and again, deeper and harder but still gentle. this is lovely, you think, this is just so lovely.
“this is so nice,” you mutter.
“what is?”
“this music. don’t you think it’s just so nice?”
you open your eyes to see him smile in response and let them flutter closed again as he leans in once more. yes, this is all just so lovely.
he cradles your face and you scratch his nape softly, just thinking how lovely it all is, even when you feel the hardness against your thigh. the hardness was never in your teenage fantasies, but it’s a welcomed addition. your own hand snakes down between your legs and inspired by the crooning and the mood and the man you achieve a adequate orgasm that leaves you trembling under him. your eyes open only for a second to see his reaction and you’re pleased to find him properly aroused and fighting the urge to ravish you. your eyes flutter closed again and he takes his turn between your legs, at the end of which your eyes shut tighter and you cling to him, hating the feel of the sweat on his back, but unable to let him go.
when he moves off of you you catch a sob hiding in your throat and usher it out with discretion. another smaller one follows and before you know it tears are leaking freely and there’s nothing you can do to control them. when he notices, his alarm is apparent; all you can do is shake your head to keep him from thinking this is his doing. you don’t know what caused this, but you’re fairly sure it’s not him. it couldn’t be him: you love him and he’s the best thing in your life.
yet the pillow behind your head is soaked with inexplicable tears and when he says, “they’re happy tears?” you nod just to get off the subject. he smiles, kisses your forehead and holds you to him while you weep and all you can think is that this is never how your fantasy ended. despite being so close to someone you’re unable to shed the feeling of loneliness that’s always waiting at the back door of your mind. the crooning continues, but it’s no longer lovely.