His lap was my hero. It saved me from facing exhaustion. In the folds of his worn denim I relaxed my hair. We had the whole house. There was no life except for “Amélie.” It was my first time watching it. He was curious about my scalp and hair, exploring them with his fingers and palms. My eyes closed. I was relaxed.

I remember being touched like that a long time ago – during the part of my life as a new love interest. It was when I was worth a 75 cent bus fare, 25 cent transfer, and 60 minute ride. Curiously enough, however, when you become an old love interest, you somehow become more important than you were before, yet are no longer worth exploring. You’re a script dialogue that’s been learned, a musical arrangement that’s been practiced and rehearsed; you are well-known so okay to be forgotten.

I went to the shoe cobbler to find out how much it would cost to repair the zipper on my boot. It would cost more than the boots themselves.

An affordable repair was spending the day with someone curious, someone who was hungry for the sandwich I made him while he slept.

He stayed in the master bedroom for three hours after I left it. I got dressed, worked, cooked, and cleaned. I was the type of domestic partner that warrants, “Absurd!” from the common housewife, as I pranced around in cute underwear, a sheer blouse, sunglasses, and hat. I was going in and out, in an out. The sun was high and the deck was calling, but things were on the stove. I was multitasking.

I remember an awkward scene trying to take pictures of him without waking him up. He had a body I had only ever seen in mythology books and I wanted to capture it. I might not ever experience it again. The down comforter was wrapped tightly around him and as comfortable as he looked I wanted to turn up the central heating so he would kick it to the floor. I could wait 20 minutes.

When he woke up I was outside. He complimented me on how I looked and shared the chaise lounge with me. I shared my breakfast smoothie with him. There are only a few ways to share a chaise lounge. I chose to straddle his shins. My feet were planted flat on the floor, his legs were extended straight. My chest and his back had the sun.

We were a photograph that already looked retouched. This was a movie scene shot with amber filters. These sunglasses were altering reality.

Strong legs are perfect for sliding against. I grabbed his knees and dragged myself forward, then pushed myself back, over and over again. We talked about our plans for Halloween and our fear of the sun and its damaging rays. I never lifted myself up, instead I drifted further and further towards his ribs, eventually stopping at his groin.

When you reach a certain place, things are often assumed. This is going to happen next. I don’t like assuming so I asked if he was interested. He was. We touched, we kissed. Grinding on denim eventually reaches a point where you’re ready to carry on, progress, expose softer and more pliable things. The neighbors had a decent view so we moved into the bedroom. I asked if we could keep the doors out to the deck open. There were decks everywhere. I wanted to experience some sense of being outside.

The next set of photographs was amazing. I look a them, in my mental album, and realize that he was born to give pleasure. He knows nothing else. He pleads for you to let him serve you after first healing every open wound with his dead still gaze. He creates a healthy, glowing you. He shows you that no other intimacy will ever be as true as what you experienced with him but that’s ok. He chose you and that’s the most incredible feeling in the world. Even if he never chooses you again.

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