Since past few weeks I have been meaning to write a post about a problem of mine but something else happened and I am writing this now. If you have been kind (and patient) enough to read through this blog (I salute your decision to not throw away your laptop/computer screens), in the previous post I wrote about my first sexual experience with another person. Recently (let's call him) hook and I got in touch on facebook (translation: after stalking him repeatedly over days and sending him a friend request and then devising stupid ways to initiate a conversation with him) and started talking. He said that he has shifted to the same city as me and perhaps we should catch up sometime. Obviously, I said yes. Didn't even wait for him to finish the damn sentence before typing in YAAAS BITCH YAAAAAAASS.
Now, the last time I saw him was when I was in 9th grade. It has been 9 years since then. I think it wouldn't be honest of me to tell you, dear reader, that I handle my desires quite well. I do not. I am a fool. An absolute fool. And I fucking love it. Obviously I started imagining how our meet would go. I remembered how it would feel to touch his dick again. To see into those dark brown eyes again. At the time I had touched him (jeez this sounds really creepy but it was consensual, so please don't judge), all I did was just THAT, you know, touch him. But never really 'touched' him. To run my fingers through his hair, to feel his collarbones, to circle his nipples with the tip of my fingernails. Like how Vidya Balan says in the movie Dirty Picture "mujhe touch to bahuton ne kiya hai....par chuha kisi ne nahi" (I have been felt by many...but never intimately touched by any), I wanted (still want) to feel the heat of his dick and balls and not just frantically touch them as we did in the classroom.
It's funny how I like to imagine that I have become this mature person who can deal with illusions and make-believe scenarios (about my infatuations and love) which are not going to lead me anywhere. Lolz. No. I thrive on them and will continue to do so.
We decided to meet at a metro station. I waited very nervously for him and kept fidgeting with my phone. A friend called me for some help and I cut her off and started describing why this was such a nervous moment in a very rushed voice. Suddenly he came from behind and brushed his hand against my hair. Fuck. He has grown taller. His beard looks so good. I want to feel his beard. I want to put flowers in them and pluck them out with my teeth while my hands hold his hair at the back of his head. His eyes are SO FUCKING BROWN. GOD! God damnit! Fuck my life. I fall for him all over again. We start making conversation. He tells me why he has shifted to this city. He talks about his college and old jobs. I talk about my college and old jobs. He casually mentions his girlfriend. He has been with her since 5 years. I mention my boyfriend (in my head I say, 'sorry bruh I don't mind cheating on you with this one'). He smiles. I blush (which hopefully he doesn't notice). He talks about his beard. I talk about his beard. His shirt is three buttons open. I stare at his chest when he is not looking in my direction while smoking. Fuck, that chest hair. I recall how in 9th grade he only had hair around his nipples. He showed it to me once when the white sweaty shirt stuck to his body after playing in the heat. I had teased him by playfully grabbing his nipples then. I want to touch his chest now. I want my face to feel his torso. I want my tongue to taste his torso. I want to see those nipples again. He mentions how he wants to wax his chest hair. I take that chance and comment on his hair length and touch the hair on his arms for proof. Fuck, his hair feels so soft. I want to touch them again but the conversation has moved on.
I keep getting the faint smell of his sweat. I notice how his beard keeps brushing his upper lip. I want to feel those lips. I want his cigarette breath on my lips. I wonder at how broody he has become. His eyes look pained. Or I am just imagining this nonsense because I listen to Lana Del Rey too much. He smiles and nods when I talk about my general frustration with life. I ask him if he wants to come back to my place. He agrees. We enter my room. I tell him to relax and take his shoes off. His smell becomes more prominent in the closed room. My heartbeat increases. He takes his shoes off and comes on the bed. We talk about this and that.
I don't make a move on him. I know I can't. I just control my fingers from touching his. I stare at his shirt, at the angles they are hugging his body. I want to open the zip of his pants and touch his dick. To feel the warmth of it in my mouth and taste the sweat. I want to look into his brown eyes and argh! Look at me! I am fucking romanticizing every stupid minute with him. We just met, talked and he left. I am really confused at myself. What has running behind 'straight' boys gotten anybody any good in life? But some part of me wants to feel that rush again. The rush which I used to feel in high school. I over-analyze everything. For instance, me telling a story about another friend of mine who hooked up with a boy for the first time and was very confused about his sexuality and the hook replying 'It's just who you are in that moment you know....what has sexuality got to do with it'. And in my head I just go like 'FAAACCKKKK THIS BOY JUST SIMPLY STATED THE QUEER THEORY. PLEASE MAKE HIM FUCK THE QUEER OUT OF ME'
Really. Why the fuck am I doing this. This post is literally my wishful over-analysis of his every movement. But lord those eyes! Those lips! That beard! That ear stud! FAAACCCKKKKK. I have played different situations of us meeting again countless times in my head. And each and every situation has ended with him naked in bed with me. Sadly, like every sexual situation in my head - they never come true. I don't know if all this is because he was the first guy I ever had anything sexual with. Like there is something unfinished. Do I want it to finish? Where do I even fucking begin!
Now I feel like texting him. Ugh. To want to meet him again.
To have that awful hope again. That stupid hope which the introvert me in school used to survive on. And this is making me read Twilight again. Disgusting.
I am going to jack off looking at his pictures now.
FUCK MY LIFE.
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