Monday, February 16, 2015

His hands

He had amazing hands; when he would hold mine, they fit. Perfect, like a glove. I was facinated by them. 

Even though he was taller than me, his hands were slender and petite. He played bass. I'm told he was a world class bassist. He was capable of making beautiful music. 

The 1st time he touched me, I thought I was in heaven. He knew me like he knew his instrument. It was like he had always known me. He said he could not get enough of me. 

His hands knew where to touch, how to touch. The maturity in his love making was sheer torture,  and passion combined. I could not get enough of him. He would play me for hours. Loving me, pleasing me. He would not let me pleasure him. Not until he thought I had been pleasured. Not until I was satiated and pliant. 

It was all about me he would say. If he died right then, he would be a happy man he would say. That 1st time.... that very 1st time, he made love to my heart. Thereafter, I would watch his face. He gave me a glimpse of love I had never seen. A glimpse of what loving someone was really like. His face said it all. 

I knew his words were not the lines of a man wanting sex. What we had was not sex. It was pure lovemaking. This man, who had been my friend for 5 years, and was now my lover; was beautiful. 

His hands tuned me, like he tuned his bass. I was irrevocabley his. He was mine. Our spirits connected on a level I had never known before him. Nor will I ever know again. 

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