intersections & the hall of fame

That’s where we made out.

And in the elevator. And in the hallways.

He kissed me the way my first boyfriend kissed me and it’s been a looooooooong time since I’ve been kissed like that.

Have you ever been in a make out situation where you’re walking but you don’t know where you’re going because the other person’s face is on yours the entire time? When you stand still you can’t see a damn thing but the sky because your head is thrown back in ecstasy? Sky…the inside of your eyelids…sky…the inside of your eyelids…

You’re reminded that the hair on the back of your neck can stand on end and you don’t need a shell to hear the ocean.

“Oh, another red light. Look at that.” While the other pedestrians crossed, we stood still and devoured. “We’ll get the next one.”

Each time he lowered himself to get familiar with my mouth, I returned the favor. He was tall; the only thing sensual I could initiate without straining my neck (in public), was putting an arm around his waist, so that was that.

He felt good to hold. I haven’t held a benefactor like that yet. I typically hold their arm as we parade each other around as trophy partners, but he wasn’t for parading, just enjoying.

I ran my hand up and down his side, using what I felt to gauge what kind of shape the rest of his body might be in. He was lean. I knew he played tennis, soccer, and basketball — he might have large calves.

Sports.

They’re all exhausting in my book and if he plays so many he must have…

Stamina.

He had it while making out. I would obviously need some of my own for anything above and beyond.

We shifted gears and he chose to walk behind me for a while. I didn’t think anything of it. Maybe he wanted to take pictures of my flat plank board ass or analyze my “dancer” or “Madonna” gait as it’s been called.

I looked back once to make sure he was still there and didn’t ditch me. He was, and he had a mischievous ear to ear grin. It was cute.

At the next red light he remained behind me and used his mouth to add a glisten to the exposed skin on my neck and shoulders. I used my feline head tilting skills to give him more access. Everything went dark and when I opened my eyes I saw concrete. Oh, that response body again, but in a different direction. Concrete…inside of my eyelids…concrete…inside of my eyelids…

All the crossed intersections lead to the Hall of Fame at The Olympic Club. We spent half an hour sitting side by side, separated only by a small side table and a large amount of will…and will has an expiration date.

When you’re surrounded by trophies, plaques, medals, and photographs of esteemed local athletes from bygone times, there’s no choice but to “put your all into it” and in this case, “it” was more making out.

Gosh did it feel surprisingly comfortable to suck face on distressed leather club chairs in a room with soaring ceilings only a turn away from the front desk with the thirsty passion of two dehydrated teenagers.

Pretty sure a tour took place in the room while we were there. Nothing is more of a turn on than being surrounded by goal achievers and new members.

There was a long moment where we stopped and stared at each other. His pupils were much larger than what they were an hour before and much less blue because of it. The piercing blue eyes that had made the waiter jealous were now gray and sad. I almost commented on it.

What I saw in them was the first glimmer of hope after having walked through a desert of despair. But the hope was still behind the high probability that the glimmer was a mirage.

It’s unexplainable…and I’ve been trying for days….to describe to myself what it feels like to have someone look at you with that “I know you’re too good to be true” face. Their body is doing an amazingly good job wanting you and taking you, but when they look at you their eyes say, “I don’t want to do this because I know you’re not real.”

I can usually handle silence to the point of awkwardness, but I needed clarification.

“What do you want?”

He never answered. He just stared at the mirage.

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