I Imagine the Quay
He still doesn't know anything.
He went out again tonight, meeting up with some friends, he said. He looked amazing.
I'm turning 28 in a couple of days but I haven't told anyone. 28 sounds old.
It's late. I'm not gonna stay awake thinking about what he might be doing. Not again.
Who I am kidding?
I'm SO pathetic.
* * *
I imagine you lying prone upon a plush white rug in some penthouse down at the Quay, your lover draped carelessly across a black leather club lounge, his fingers caressing a whiskey glass.
I don't want to keep thinking about you this way Anthony, but it's almost three a.m. and this is what I do when you don't come home. The scenario plays out as I lie on my bed in the dark waiting to hear your key in the front door. While the name of your lover may change, images like these – images I have no control over – continue to move across the screen inside my head.
He is shirtless. From the center of his chest a crop of thick, dark-brown hair becomes a perfect thin line and arrows down, disappearing beyond his jeans button. When he asks you to draw up your legs and drop your knees apart, you do so without hesitation. He swirls his drink. Ice clinks. He takes you with a look.
Soon after you moved in you told me you loved me like a brother. I said me too, and you beamed, two crescent dimples wrapping around your smile. But lately, each time we hug to say hello or goodbye I'm scared I won't be able to let you go, and if you notice my erection, everything will change. You might even move out. I don't think you see me, Anthony. You don't see a man; you see a flat-mate.
When he slides an open palm in seductive circles over his chest, down to his crotch, along the inside of his thighs, you smile shyly and mimic his actions, teasing and encouraging him.
I love to watch you on Sunday mornings as you putter around making us pancakes and brewing coffee. When I ask if I can help, you always say absolutely not, Karl! You wear those striped, hipster sleep-shorts and a white singlet snug against your fine ribcage. You navigate the kitchen on slender legs, your hips impossibly narrow, your steps light and graceful. There's only a shadow of fair, downy hair to be seen above your lip and across your chin. While the plates are warming, you'll cut lemon wedges and fold napkins, then serve our pancakes with a dusting of powdered sugar. We make easy conversation over breakfast, and sometimes I just feel so happy to be hanging out with you that my throat tightens, my eyes sting and I have to turn away to blow my nose.
As he unzips, I imagine you turning onto your hands and knees, arching your back, sensual and feline, and I want to stop the movie. I need to stop the movie. I can't stop the movie.
You don't know this, but I often watch as you tend your jungle of palms and potted herbs on the balcony. Squatting on your heels, the sunshine and breeze play across your sandy hair as you pluck rosemary or marjoram leaves. And I wonder what or whom you're thinking of while you forage; if you've met someone special; what he looks like and what his name is. You probably wouldn't care if I started seeing someone. But what if that someone was very sweet and good-looking? What if that same person began sleeping over so often that you started noticing certain things, like how tenderly I stroked his face, how often I cooked him dinner and gave him flowers, and how special I made him feel each time I played his favorite music on my guitar? What if you came to see me differently, Anthony?
He slithers from the lounge, and when his dripping tongue begins to dance, you open for him, begin slowly rocking those narrow hips. Forward, back, forward, back ...
The silence becomes unbearable. Once again I find myself out of bed and pacing my darkened bedroom, willing the internal movie to stop because I know what always happens next, and becoming aroused like this makes me feel ashamed, somehow. But I ache for you, I adore you, Anthony, and I'm unable to resist. I stretch out on my bed, slide my hands down, close my eyes, and imagine ...
It's me there beneath you, down at the Quay. My mouth opens over yours to hungrily receive your tongue and my body trembles. Time slows. I trace a chain of tender kisses around your neck and continue all along your collarbone. Licking and tasting you, my wet lips inch down to your chest where I gently tease out one pale nipple after the other with my teeth. Sliding my tongue lower now, I draw circles over your stomach and leave behind a shiny trail of saliva. When I think about burying my face in your fine, ginger pubic hair and filling my lungs with your sweet, musky scent, I feel that deliciously painful clench between my legs. And when I imagine taking you in my mouth – the sweet, salty taste of you – my body heaves with ecstasy. Jet follows jet as I call your name, shooting, squeezing, draining, and a river becomes a trickle.