~ Friday evening, 9:00 p.m.
Our group is jovial, enjoying the camaraderie that typically characterizes such gatherings. There is plenty of laughter, occasionally interspersed with serious threads of conversation about pressing issues. We've been at the restaurant for a couple hours already, running the poor waiter ragged with our random orders for food and drink.
He can't figure us out. We're a diverse mix, and he wonders what we have in common. You can tell by the tentative way in which he approaches us.
You and I are seated across from one another in the semicircular corner booth. Currently, there are four at our table, including the two of us, although that number has fluctuated throughout the evening, further frazzling the waiter. Oh, well. It's his job. We'll make sure he gets a handsome tip.
The talk turns to movie favorites, but I'm not really listening. I'm watching you. I'm watching your mouth, your hands, and your eyes. I'm thoroughly enjoying thoughts of just what you could do to me – and, conversely, what I'd like to do to you.
You have intrigued me since the moment we met, several years ago. I feel this overwhelming desire to just be with you, in any context – in person or online, in dull committee meetings or lively social settings, in your thoughts or my dreams. It's an ache that I am powerless to resist. You excite me, incite me, invite me, delight me. I can't get enough.
~ Friday evening, 9:40 p.m.
One of our party is leaving – the one seated between us – and as you rise to let her pass, several others return. You sit back down and scoot around the bench to make room for the additions, which brings us together quite cozily. Our thighs are touching, and the contact makes me shiver.
For a few moments, I can focus on nothing beyond that delicious contact. It's too infrequent, and it's far, Far, FAR too chaste. Innocence aside, I know I will feel your leg against mine for quite some time after the contact is broken. You have that effect on me. I have vivid memories of every instance we have touched – casual hugs hello or goodbye, fingers touching inadvertently when passing the salt, shoulders rubbing in the cinema. It's all I have of you, in the physical sense, so I treasure these moments – and I want more.
Your voice brings me back to Earth, "Hey! What in the world are you thinking?"
"Sorry. Just daydreaming," I stammer, feeling as if my thoughts are on display for all to see.
"Must've been good. You're blushing," says the guy to my left, which results in a rather lively and risqué discussion of fantasies in general. I get a few tantalizing hints about your preferences in a lover, and I file them away. If and when I ever get the opportunity to get you off, I'll have a better idea how to thoroughly please you. I've a few ideas of my own, as well. I'm pretty sure you'll like them.
At one point, after realizing that we share a somewhat unusual desire, you throw your arm around me and tease, "Let's go get a room!" Mmmmmm. Had we been alone, I may very well have answered with quite a bit more enthusiasm than you were expecting. Instead I just grin at you, hoping that you can read the invitation in my eyes.
One of these days, I vow to myself, I'm going to get over my fear and tell you precisely what I want to do for/with/to you. Consequences be damned! You'll either respond in kind, or never speak to me again. Either way, this torture will end.
~ Friday evening, 10:55 p.m.
After another hour or so, things begin to break up. Damn! I hate the thought of separating. My senses are heightened by the prolonged contact, and I feel an intense pang as it is broken. There is just something so cosmically RIGHT when we're together – and it is amplified when we touch.
I don't want the evening to end, but we each have plans for early Saturday morning. We divvy up the tab, everyone tossing a couple twenties on the table and leaving it for the waiter to sort out. It's more than enough, undoubtedly, even with a generous tip. I would pay five times that much for the pleasure of sitting so close to you for a few more hours.
As the others peel away to their cars, you ask if I'd like to take a stroll through the park to clear our heads before driving. Of course, I'd say yes even if my head was not in need of clearing – just to be with you a while longer. As it stands, we've each had several drinks and neither of us is feeling any pain.
The park is virtually deserted at this time of night, although we pass a few couples holding hands or making out on the benches along the secluded path. We walk without speaking, but without any trace of the awkwardness that silence can sometimes bring. Occasionally, your hand brushes mine – and I want to grasp it.
~ Friday evening, 11:20 p.m.
"Tell me," you say, breaking the silence, "what you most want. Not for anyone else – just for yourself."
My inhibitions lulled by the spirits, I blurt, "I want to kiss you. And I want to touch you. And I want to taste you." Instantly, I am certain I've just thoroughly and irreparably fucked up our precious friendship.
Time stops. You are staring at me, seemingly stunned. I am paralyzed – like a deer in the headlights.
In the kind of slow motion you only see in movies, we draw closer to one another. The unmistakable recognition of shared passion passes between us, palpable and magnetic.
Our mouths meet as if they are made to be together. Our tongues dance. Our hands explore. Your low groan as my hands grab your ass is so incredibly enticing. Every nerve ending is alive.
"We can't do this," you say, pulling away slightly. You sound as if your head is trying to convince your heart – and not succeeding.
"I know. But please, don't wake me up just yet," I plead. "Let me dream for just 30 seconds – then we'll stop, okay?"
Your response is to pull me in for another exquisite kiss. Your hands move under my shirt. My nipples are aching for your touch and your teeth. I snake my hand into your pants and am swept away by your evident desire. We are so close to the edge. So close.
Somehow, as if a cosmic timer went off, we manage to stop. It takes a phenomenal pull to disengage, so strong is the magnetism. Without a word, we resume our journey along the path – both lost in our thoughts about what just transpired – both still at the heights of arousal.
~ Friday evening, 11:30 p.m.
I finally work up the nerve to speak. "Not to sound cliché, but how can anything that felt that right, be wrong? Do you feel guilty?"
"I know I should, but I don't – and that is disturbing in and of itself."
I had no response to that, as I am torn between my desire for you and my desire for you to be true to your ideals.
"I need to sort this out in my mind," you explain. "It's been there a very long time, but we've crossed a line this evening."
"I understand," I respond, and I really try to do so. With our bodies on fire, it's not easy for either of us. I know you would never intentionally hurt me, and I know you want me every bit as much as I want you.
"Before we go though," you add, wrapping your arms around me once more, "I need another 30 seconds."