Shit. Shit. Shit. So Mr F is actually fucking awesome. We meet for drinks and talk on and on. I love staring at him and letting my eyes speak my thoughts. I say I want to fuck you right now. I say I love that you tower over me like the two sphinxes that Atreyu must face in The Never Ending Story but I hope you will not destroy me. I say you are a gift from God even though you do not believe. I am not sure you see the words tumbling around my head.
Later in your living room, as we lie on the rug, in the centre of a street lamp lit lull, I smile at you. You catch traces of the upturned corners of my mouth and ask what I am thinking. I am happy. I am mystified that we have so much in common. Sex with you is an awakening. Like a defibrillator you bring me back to life. I do not tell you these things. Somethings I keep for myself. Control clutches at my throat not wanting, not ready yet to let go. You are still distant. Despite you rocking me, despite the undulating waves we make, there is no orgasm. That vulnerable firework, the feeling of a pulse echoing inside is mine and I do not share it. I hold it back. Wrap it up and lock it away along with my heart. You can not have all of me. It is too soon.