I didn’t need to know him, but he showed himself to me. He did most of the talking and I listened and sometimes added value to the conversation, but mostly listened. He’d say something really big sometimes, too big for my brain to handle, and I’d stare at him, in no way to eager to impress, so silence was my response. But he would share things so big that silence seemed almost rude so I’d say, “I don’t have anything to say in response to that, but I AM listening.”

“That’s ok. I do that with my mom sometimes. She’ll go on and on with a story, so eagerly, like there’s a finish line and prize at the end, and when she gets there she looks at me waiting for the prize and all I can say is, ‘That was a lot of story. I was listening.'”

I think I pleased him though because we eventually made it from perfect dining room posture to that comfortable on the sofa slouched, and we watched a movie while sitting very close, our arms touching.

It’s convenient to like someone you’re already touching.

The movie came and went. I was distracted by him asking, “Is this ok?” and I said, “Yes,” but don’t remember what it was that he was doing. If I was younger I would have remembered. If this wasn’t a common situation, I would have remembered.

He smiled a lot — for hours. “Only toothpaste ads can smile for that long,” I thought. Every time I looked at him I saw his perfect teeth and I couldn’t help but smile back, enjoying how pleasant, happy, and simple he was. This was much easier than listening.

This must be him high.

I don’t think many people sit still through first kisses (not the first, but any first), and I had to sit still through this one. I didn’t know what to do. He decorated the outline of my mouth with his tongue shooting it in and out quickly and softly, leaving the smallest traces of saliva that I knew would glimmer like fairy dust in the right light. His kisses were extensive and patterned; there was a definite template he was following. He kissed the way I dance. I spell the alphabet with my arms. He draws constellations on lips with the tip of his tongue. Moving….participating….would ruin whatever it was he was doing. To make my stillness seem purposeful, I told him, “I like when things are done to me.”

And just the way the sun goes down, so does inhibition with a line like that.

He was an ice cream cake that had been set on the counter, softened in the middle, dripping, with a bottom that was still hard. He was fun to touch and travel over, though I never had the chance to do anything admirable — he would get up constantly to go to the restroom. So often, in fact, that I wondered if it was an invitation. Was it a house rule to the keep the sofa dry? Was his bedroom a mess? Does a tile surround echo whimpers in a way that promotes erections long enough to turn a calendar page? I never followed him into the bathroom, but thought about it every time he went.

My hair was not my mouth and he treated it accordingly. There were no tongue darts on my ombre strands, only constant twisting followed by smoothing with his palm. His nostrils ended up there sometimes but would drift to my neck and he’d lick the beads of perspiration off the softer strands of hair untouched by the sun while saying, “Even the salt on your neck tastes good.”

The movie ended and I reserved myself for another time. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay over? We can get naked.” “I know we can. I have an early start tomorrow and I’m rusty this week.” “I don’t care.” “I can tell you’re going to be a very good lover. You’re going to need hours, aren’t you?” “Yes,” and he laughed and smiled that toothpaste ad smile. “I’d like to do this again, another time.” “Rain check?” “Rain check.”

I was four feet in the air, his arms under my butt, my legs around his waist, looking down as he looked up at me and smiled — there was always a smile — and he smacked my ass and let me down with one of those sighs that communicates mild protest, disappointment and hope.

While heading towards the door I somehow ended up back on the sofa and I chuckled. He would be a good one to roll around in the grass with. Washing dishes would be fun. He even sat through Kin Dza Dza. Anyone who’s “not a movie guy” and can do that is a choice human being.