Chapter eighteen #2
While he was in the shower, I quickly put away my clothes, got out a change of clothes, changed my mind and only got out underwear, and then put it all away again and put the condoms and lube in the little side table drawer.
Maybe we'd use them, maybe we wouldn't. I just wanted things handy, so there was no awkward search at some point later in the week.
Or tonight. Would he want to do anything that required condoms tonight? Would I be cool with it if he did?
Oh, what the hell. That wasn't going to happen.
He was already so worried about me going faster than I wanted—going along to not make things awkward—he probably wouldn't be ready to try anal until way after I was.
If that ever happened. I didn't know. I just wanted us to get each other off and see how it felt.
I'd been looking forward to it. It would be a relief, and if it was as good as I hoped it would be, and we felt good afterwards, everything more complicated could take its time, if we decided to do it at all.
I just wanted to be with him, close and naked and released. I wanted to be sure we could still feel as good together as we did before we had sex.
It still counted, right? It was still sex if we didn't do anal.
I was pretty sure. Sex Ed wasn't great in my school, but everyone had assumed penetration was real sex and everything else was just practice.
As an adult, I didn't think that way about it anymore, but all the same, committed sexual relationships usually had a lot of penetration.
And it seemed to be pretty important in the gay community, as well, at least for lots of guys.
I wasn't part of the gay community. But the fact was, I was in a relationship with a man, thinking about how much we'd do together, and excited and also kind of scared.
What if it really was an important part of the relationship, and I wasn't up to it?
What if I didn't like that, and we sort of had to negotiate so we could both get what we needed?
It would be okay to figure that out in time and be flexible.
As long as he wasn't disappointed in me. As long as he wasn't settling.
There, I guess that was the real worry. That I wouldn't really be good enough for him.
The shower in the next room stopped, and I jumped.
Hell of a thing to think about, just now. Just what I needed—to get myself worked up with worry, when I was so looking forward to this first time with Arlie. Ah, hell. I grabbed a pair of underwear and got ready to trade places with him in the shower.
He gave me a careful look as he emerged, towel around his waist. I let my gaze linger, let myself admire.
It still felt faintly illicit, like I shouldn't let myself notice, shouldn't stare.
But I consciously chose to ignore that feeling and let myself see him.
I liked what I saw. I always had, really.
But this way of appreciating him was more personal, more possessive, more sensual.
He was blushing a little under my stares.
He touched my shoulder, and then my chin.
"I'll be here. Go ahead." He nodded to the bathroom, and I moved past, giving him a teasing grin, and a teasing look at his crotch area covered by the towel.
Was he getting a bit of a hard-on just from me staring at him?
"I won't be long," I said, grinning, and winked at him.
Yeah, we'd be okay. We'd figure this out. Because at least he was feeling something.
#
I took my time, washing off carefully. I wanted to be nice and clean for him.
I felt extra naked, somehow, showering. Even though I was alone.
Wondering what he'd think when he was examining my naked self.
What he'd see—whether it would measure up.
To him, to some ideal that nobody could really meet, to someone he'd been with before.
You know, really wholesome and helpful thoughts like that.
I knew Arlie liked me. I knew I liked him. We liked kissing, snuggling. I was pretty sure we'd like this, too. I let out my breath and turned off the water, stood there dripping a moment, and then got out to dry off.
There was a faint knock at the door. "Want any help in there?"
"What?" I paused, mid-calf, and blinked.
What was he talking about? I'd just finished showering.
If he'd wanted to sexy-shower together, he should've said so earlier.
Also, that sounded a bit difficult for our first time.
It only takes one slip on wet tile to make shower sexy times not so sexy after all.
"Drying off?" he said. "Just a thought."
Great, now he sounded self-conscious.
"No, I'll only be a sec." I redoubled my efforts.
Was I being weird? Should I just say yes?
The lights in here were so bright, so harsh. There would be no way to miss any flaws in my pale, naked body. Oh god.
I debated about the underwear, then gave up on the idea and left them.
I wrapped a towel around my waist, as he'd done, and sauntered out, putting effort into looking confident, maybe even sexy, even though I didn't exactly feel sexy.
I felt about as confident as I had when I was that scrawny teen walking the halls of school, dreading to find out the way my body wasn't good enough today.
He was sitting on the bed. Oh. He'd put clothes on. He gave me a nervous smile and got up. "You look great, Cole. Okay? We don't have to do anything tonight. But you do look great. You always do."
Was he reading my mind now? Clearly, not all of it. I swallowed back the feeling of disappointment at his attire and spoke. "I'm not looking for an out, Arlie. I was looking forward to tonight. Are you having second thoughts?"
Relief flickered across his face. "No, just. You sounded so nervous. And you smell nervous now." His gaze flicked across my chest, then back to my face. "I know your smells pretty well."
I thought if I was more with it, I'd have a sexy quip about that, suggesting he smell something, or that he didn't know me well enough yet, or something better. But I didn't have any fancy quips. I just had myself—waiting, nervous, ready, afraid.
Afraid? Maybe. Maybe it was eagerness. The fluttering in my belly wasn't too clear about what it actually meant.
"You don't need to give me an out. You're not pushing me into this. I'm interested. You can read me, but not completely. Yeah, I'm nervous. But I'm not putting this off, unless you're really sure you're not ready—and if you are, say so, but don't put it on me."
He looked so proud of me, so pleased and excited.
He opened his arms. Was I really giving off such anxious vibes, or was he just not as good at reading me as he thought he'd be?
I moved to embrace him. My towel slipped.
Great, there I was, all freshly washed and naked, pressing up against him, fully clothed.
Okay, it was actually kind of hot.
"Get them off," I told him, my hands on his jeans. I didn't know I could be so pushy and intense.
We got his pants off, and then the rest of it.
And soon, I was stretched out with him in bed, rubbing up against him, laughing, enjoying the feeling of his body, warm and real and strong and alive.
He wasn't shaped like a woman. He was shaped like himself—and I enjoyed the feeling of his masculine thighs, his strong careful hands, his powerful torso, his heavy cock.
I liked the feeling of our leg fuzz rubbing together.
I liked the way he kissed me, the way he touched me and slowly lost control.
It wasn't everything I'd thought it would be.
It was different, and better, and more. It was more real, more present, more human and deeply physical than any imaginary pants-off session could be.
It was humbling and sweet and raunchy and exhilarating.
And yeah, it was awkward. And warm, and I felt so close to him, and satisfied, and like I was good enough, like he actually liked me, he wasn't being nice, he didn't find me secretly disgusting.
It was pure awe and enjoyment in his face—no secret shadow of regret or disappointment.
Maybe I was new to this. But all the same. He liked my hands on him. He liked kissing me, and touching me, and he sure as hell liked it when we got off together.
Well. Me too. I lay back next to him, trying to catch my breath.
And strangely, I felt like I might cry. Because that had been so, so good.
Why had it taken so damn long? I don't mean the time between kissing and going away together.
No, that had been a nice buildup, a way to be sure, to make a plan and get ready.
But why had I waited so long in my life, and so long with Arlie?
If I could've been ready sooner—even a bit sooner—maybe it wouldn't feel like such a waste.
My life up till now felt like it was stale crumbs.
Yes, even being wanted by beautiful women.
Even having pretty good sex and lots of fun experiences in bed.
Because I hadn't known—and hadn't let myself know—what I apparently wanted.
Or at least preferred. Because god damn it, this sex—this easy, fun, laughing-together-in-awkwardness-and-joy getting off that we'd just done was up there with the best times in my life.
If my first time with a guy—my partner—was as good as the best sex I'd had in my life, that meant something.
Dick. I liked dick, and I'd told myself all this time that couldn't possibly be. Shouldn't I have known before?
I closed my eyes against the tears. I hoped he wouldn't notice. I didn't want to talk about it. But of course, he was Arlie. He noticed. He pulled me to him, into his arms, and held me.
He rubbed my back. "I've got you."
Yeah. He did.
"Should we talk about it?" he asked gently. "I know we both enjoyed that. But you seem kinda sad. Are you having regrets?"
I shrugged. "Guess I'm feeling dumb for not realizing. This was so good. And I waited so long to find out."
"You took the time you needed," he said, pulling me in for another embrace. "Some things can't be rushed."