Warning: The scene below is fiction. That is, it’s made-up, untrue, from my imagination. I am not the woman (or the man.) This is part of a longer piece in process. It has some sexual content, nothing really spelled out, but move on if you are sensitive.
She had been so confident, sure of herself, all night. In the bar, when she had to play catch and release with his eyes. In the elevator, when the crowd pressed them close and she felt his excitement and his heat. She wanted it so much, but, for once, she knew exactly how to handle the moment, how to handle him.
On the terrace, when he was fumbling for words and she knew that the moment could collapse, that he would close up, she ducked under his arm and leaned her weight on him. Asked him to point out buildings and landmarks in his city. But, really, giving him permission to touch her, and room to work out how. He widened his stance and she tested his height, his strength. His body was new to hers but it felt right. Although every touch was heightened, his realness made her breathe in a kind of excited relief that combined sigh and moan. When his long slender hands settled on her waist and he took the half step forward that glued them together from chest to thigh, she closed her eyes and recorded the moment, his shirt buttons pressed into her back, the heat and squeeze of his hands, his heavy breath as his voice trailed off, the hardness and length of his penis against her backside.
So much could have gone wrong. So many moments when he could have been overwhelmed by his or her own needs. But she knew when to take the lead, when to guide his hands, when to let go. “Shush,” she said once, when he started to apologize for being too excited, for finishing too fast. “Shush.”
Even when they kissed for the first time after they had both come. And it was a soft kiss, at first. With the vestiges of fear, until she opened to him, and he took over. This is what I want. A first kiss so long it felt like a conversation.
She’d been so calm, so certain, so present. But, just a little later, mostly nude, facing him in bed, the weight of all those feelings, of six months of carrying around a crazy belief that he was it for her. Even while she dated and dated, and hoped that someone else would fill that pinhole spot in her heart. Even when she convinced herself that he wasn’t real, that her feelings were the ghosts of real ones, and that he did not feel the same way anyway. There was a spot, and it was his, and now here they were, and he was telling her everything she had fantasized about.
And it was too much. Too much of what she wanted. She knew it couldn’t be real.