31. Light in The Darkness
T he room hasn’t changed, but something in me has.
It’s darker now. The last of the daylight is gone, and the only illumination comes from the sodium-orange glow leaking in through the blinds.
It cuts across the floor in angled stripes, the way it always does around this time. Everything looks amber and bruised.
I haven’t moved much. A few feet, maybe, after dozing off at some point, sitting there, back against the bedframe. My hip is sore, and my right arm tingles where it went numb under my weight. Shifting, I rub my wrist and flex my fingers, but don’t stand. There’s no reason to.
I finally rise and walk barefoot into the living room to open a window halfway.
Warm air slips in, not any cooler than what was already inside, but it carries sound—muffled laughter from someone’s TV, the faint clink of glass from a porch down the block, and footsteps above me.
Signs that life is still happening around me.
I cross the room and crouch by the stack of vinyl that leans against the bookshelf—some I bought, but most were trades from the shop. A few have become permanent—too scratched to sell yet too familiar to part with.
Flipping past the Talking Heads, Eurythmics, and Sade, I finally find it .
Ghost in the Machine .
The sleeve is creased at the corner, soft from wear. I hold it in both hands, not even pulling the record out yet. The artwork is simple—a black background with glowing red digits, like a digital face watching in silence. I once thought it was cold. Now it feels like something looking back.
I don’t recall where or when I picked it up, only that it was one of a few Police albums he played that night. I remember the song playing low behind everything else—behind our breathing, his slow touch and soft kisses on my body, and my silence as soon as it was over.
Walking the record over to the turntable and kneeling, I lift the tonearm, and the vinyl lands gently on the platter. It spins slowly at first, then steadily. My fingers know the groove. I skip ahead, two tracks in. And there it is, the promise buried in the lyric: light in the darkness.
The speakers crackle for half a breath—then the synths begin. Gentle, spiraling, haunted. The first few notes fill the room like fog. The melody is soft but insistent, a thread pulled through time.
I sit back on my heels.
The moment it hits me isn’t dramatic. There’s no sharp gasp or flash of recognition. It is just a quiet collapse. The kind where memory unfolds like mist curling in through the cracks—slow, shapeless, and suddenly everywhere.
I see the guest room. His sleeping bag is in the corner—the towel around my waist. Kevin is in the doorway. That song is playing.
~
(Four Years Earlier)
Water drips off our bodies in liquid trails as we emerge from the pool and grab towels to dry off under the moonlight. The sliding glass door clicks behind us as the TV flickers, casting weird shadows across his aunt’s snoring body on the sofa. She doesn’t stir.
Kevin leads me down the hallway, barefoot and quiet, like he’s afraid the floor might give us away. I follow, still damp and wondering if I’ll regret this before it’s over. That was the moment either of us could have stopped. Neither of us did.
The door softly closes behind us, and Kevin turns the lock. His room is sparse: a sleeping bag atop an air mattress on the floor, a short bookshelf, a turntable with speakers and a few albums, and bare walls illuminated by the amber glow of a streetlamp leaking through the blinds.
“Well,” I say, “it’s not The Ritz, buddy.”
I feel beads of water drip from my tousled hair onto my shoulders and down my back, and he watches me like I’m something he’s memorizing.
Unsure what to do with that look, I turn away toward the quiet space between words where everything feels fragile and unfamiliar.
I slowly loosen the towel around my hips, letting it drop to the floor.
“It may not be much,” Kevin says, gesturing toward the makeshift bed, “but it’s comfortable.”
I don’t rush. I let my hands slide down my sides, peeling Kevin’s black Speedo down my legs in one slow, fluid motion.
I step out of them, unhurried, and step toward the bed like I’ve done this before.
I haven’t. Not like this. Not with someone who looks at me like that.
I kneel forward and stretch out on my stomach, wrapping my arms around the pillow and tucking it under my head. I don’t say a word. I don’t have to .
At first, I hear nothing but my blood pumping through my eardrums. I listen and hear the soft thump of Kevin’s towel and wet shorts land on the floor.
I can sense his eyes on my body, but it doesn’t make me self-conscious—it makes me feel desired in a terrifying yet simplistic way.
I don’t know what to expect; I only know it’s happening, so I lie there and hope Kevin does.
He climbs over me, straddling me, his knees on either side of my thighs.
Then I feel his lips—barely there—on my shoulders and spine.
He plants kisses on me slowly, tracing the length of my back.
He eventually reaches my tan line and the baby-white softness on my buttocks below my waist. He ventures downward, brushing his lips lightly against the soft flesh below my waist with gentle kisses and a reverence I didn’t expect.
My body tenses as I feel his chest brush against my back, and then relaxes again as his hands find mine beneath the pillow. He squeezes them gently—just enough to say, ‘I’m here.’
Kevin keeps planting soft kisses on me. My neck.
My ears. My back. His breath is warm against my skin, and then I feel him—his body resting against mine, warmth pressed into the small of my back and in the furrow of my two muscular cheeks.
I tense at first, but slowly relax. The sensation of his body against mine sends a rush through me: overwhelming, new, impossible to imagine or ignore.
Kevin slowly lowers his body onto mine and pauses, resting motionless atop my exposed willingness, in the quiet space between us. I feel engulfed by him, like a warm, weighted blanket of skin and muscle—solid, steady, and safe—protecting me from the world.
“Mmm,” I whisper. “That feels good.” And it does.
Kevin doesn’t rush. He doesn’t take. He lets it all stretch between us—desire, fear, excitement—like he’s memorizing me in the dark .
I wonder where he’s learned to do this. Has he read books on the art of foreplay and lovemaking?
Has he practiced each move on the women he’s been intimate with?
What he’s doing, what I’m feeling, is uncharted territory for me.
Should I roll over? Should I assert myself?
No, Kevin is my guide, so I lie still and wait, simultaneously aroused and frightened.
Kevin holds me close to him and rolls us both onto our side.
He’s still behind me, his hand across my chest, our fingers now intertwined.
He explores my chest in gentle circular motions with his fingertips, taking my hand along with his.
I begin to take over, guiding him slowly and quietly down my chest, showing him what I want and where I need him.
Every inch is new territory—across each nipple and every ribcage bone.
I guide his fingers lower to trace the cuts between each abdominal muscle.
His chest presses against me, and I feel his breathing shallow as his heartbeat quickens against my back.
The experience is raw, but there’s a tenderness to it, a rhythm not to rush. It no longer feels unfamiliar. It feels inevitable.
The buildup is unbearable now. It’s too much.
Too slow. Too good. I hear my own heart pounding like the sexual drumbeat of a man about to go mad.
My rapid and deep breathing matches Kevin’s, and it feels like we are sharing a set of lungs.
His chest and my back contract and expand in unison, meshing as one, running the same race together.
I feel his hand graze me there, hard, already slick with anticipation. I press into him. I want him to know he’s allowed. My hand releases his, trusting him to cradle it, to hold me just right.
And he does.
His grip is perfect. Firm but careful. It’s like he’s trying to figure me out, not just get me off. I moan, soft and low. I don’t care how loud I am. He needs to know he’s doing it right .
My panting quickens, and as it does, I feel his unconstrained hardness press against the back of my legs and buttocks.
He’s making slow, rotating, grinding motions against me, and I reciprocate with involuntary gyrations of my hips.
Each time I do, I can feel the faint exhale of his breath against my ears and neck.
He moves with instinct, like he’s done this a hundred times, but still wants to get it right.
I don’t guide him anymore—I don’t need to.
His touch is confident and careful, learning me as he goes.
Each stroke sends a deeper ache through me, answered by the sounds rising in my throat.
It’s permission. It is want. It’s everything I didn’t know I could ask for.
Eventually, Kevin moves, allowing my body to roll onto its back and settle into the warm space he just vacated.
The lamplight from outside illuminates me, and Kevin uses it like a guide to find the rest of me.
He hovers above, his weight supported by his hands and knees, and begins to plant soft kisses on my chest, alternating between gentle kisses, light licking, and gentle sucking.
I arch up when he teases my nipples, and I can’t stop the small sounds that leave my mouth.
I’ve had sex before. But this is different. I feel seen.
Kevin trails down my body with his lips and tongue, stopping every few inches to taste, to breathe, to look. He plants exploratory kisses on my thighs, my hips, the space just beside where I want him to go.
It feels like he’s dragging it out—teasing, testing me. Worshipping, maybe. Or maybe that’s just how I want it to feel.
His arousal brushes against my skin, the warmth of it tracing along my thighs. Each time his mouth gets closer, my back arches in anticipation, hips lifting in silent urgency—hoping, aching for more.
But he doesn’t. Not yet. He pauses each time and deliberately bypasses it, painfully stretching the pleasure by kissing my inner thighs and hips.
This torture is not to rush—it’s for every breath, every inch, every ache of wanting, and the slow burn of desire.
I glance down and see the gleaming drops—evidence of how much I like this—trail to my lower abdomen, shining in the low light, impossible to mistake.
Then Kevin’s mouth finally claims me, and the sensation is tender, consuming, and deliberate. I forget how to breathe.
It’s not just good—it’s overwhelming. Kevin’s lips are soft, and his mouth is warm.
His tongue moves like he’s memorizing every inch.
I moan louder, and he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t flinch.
He holds the base with his hand and keeps going like he’s hungry and wants me to feel everything.
Broken sounds rise from my throat, and with every moan, Kevin takes a little more, swallowing me a little deeper.
I can’t hold still. My hips move, and Kevin lets me. My whole body is on fire, and he knows precisely how to stoke the flames.
His rhythm increases, and I feel myself grow harder—degrees of hardness I didn’t think possible—by the intensity of desire, the thrill of surrender, and the unrelenting pleasure of being consumed by someone else’s need—without question or restraint.
I’m getting close and put my hands on his shoulders and neck, unsure if I should push him away or draw him in closer. But he doesn’t stop.
My moans grow louder as my body begins trembling with unspoken urgency.
My hips move on their own, chasing the rising wave of sensation building in me.
My breath shatters—scattered, frantic—as I edge toward something I can’t undo.
I can’t stop myself, and Kevin doesn’t stop, either—until the very last moment.
My back arches instinctively, and I let go, every muscle trembling as release overtakes me.
The waves come in pulses, tightening and relaxing my entire body, thin ribbons of pleasure coming from deep within, landing across my chest, the pillow, and even my hair.
It’s raw and strangely beautiful, leaving me breathless and undone as I grab the sheets that cover the sleeping bag and grip them tightly in my fists.
“Fuck,” I moan. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
It takes a few moments before I slowly ease my grip, my fingers uncurling in the aftershocks of the release.
My consciousness returns sluggishly, and I begin to become aware of Kevin’s presence again.
He’s still here, kissing my thighs, rubbing my legs, and grinning at his accomplishment—the trust, the need, the response.
I stare at the ceiling. I can feel my body relaxing; my chest is rising and falling, and my breath is returning to normal. “Damn,” I say.
“Don’t move.”
His legs look unsteady as he stands and walks to the bathroom, still hard—engorged with unmet needs of his own.
I hear water running. Kevin returns with a warm washcloth and kneels beside me, quietly wiping away the aftermath with a tenderness that catches me off guard.
I lie still and let him. He’s taking care of me—again—like it means something.
When Kevin finishes, he quietly disappears into the bathroom again. I hear him toss the cloth into the corner. And that’s when I panic. By the time he returns, still naked and erect, I’m already standing, gathering my clothes.
“I gotta go, man. It’s late.” I’ve already got my shorts back on.
“You can stay if you want,” Kevin says. “You don’t have to rush.”
“Thanks, but I really gotta go,” I reply, slipping my shirt over my head. I can’t make eye contact with him and realize I haven’t since dropping my wet towel to the floor and lying face down on his bed .
“Hey, are you okay?” he asks, taking a step toward me and touching my waist.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I say. “It’s just late.” I don’t mean to step back, but it happens.
“Okay, that’s cool,” Kevin says as he leans in for a kiss.
I look down when he does and turn away. I’ve got to get out of there—I can’t breathe. I unlock the door and look back at Kevin with a tight, almost apologetic smile. “Call you later, buddy.”
When I open the door and step into the hallway, I see his aunt still sleeping on the sofa. I glance back at him one last time and whisper, “See ya.”
I never did.