is kiss.
“Tell me a story, Wick. Tell me about yourself and your family,” I say, my eyes closed, halfway to dreamland.
“My family moved to the states when I was seven …,” he pauses.
“And? Don’t leave me hanging,” I say groggily.
“My story is boring. True immigrant’s tale. I’d like to hear more about you. Did a photographer really call you fat? I would’ve punched his lights out,”
I hear him continue to speak as I fade into a blissful sleep.
When I wake up, I’m in my bed, and he’s gone. I get up to check the place, and everything is cleaned and put away. There’s a note on the kitchen counter.
“I didn’t want to wake you; you were sleeping so peacefully. I’m off work this weekend, and I’d love to take you out again. I’ll call you tomorrow/today. XX Wick PS: Thank you for sharing your home with me.”
What a gentleman. I must have been knocked out cold for him to have done all of this without waking me up. Nothing like a big pasta meal for a sedative. I may as well go back to bed and try to dream of him and his food.
He’s busy at work the next few days, so we don’t get to see each other. I talk to him at night on the phone before bed, but I miss being around him. He calms me.
* * *
Wick and I went out four times over the last two weeks, and I’m over the moon about him. I only wish he could open up more to me more about his past. He offers bits and pieces, at my pleading, but that’s it. I’ve learned that his brother was an exceptional athlete. It played a large part in the decision for his family to move where they did, so Lachlan could have better opportunities to pursue sports. He was drafted by the Major Leagues in college, left to pursue a professional baseball career. Two years in, he was in a car crash, which ended his career.
That’s where Wick stops. He won’t tell the rest of the story. I don’t yet know about the extent of his injuries, or what he’s doing now. It’s like pulling blood from a stone. All in due time, I suppose.
For as little as I get from him emotionally, I don’t get much more physically, either. He’s attentive and incredibly sweet, but we’re no further along than we were at the beginning of our relationship to hitting the bedroom. We kiss, a lot, no complaints there, and we snuggle, but he pulls back when it gets too hot. I’ve seen and felt some pretty impressive erections through his pants, so it’s not physical, for sure. I know we’re proceeding slowly, but this pace is downright glacial.
Chapter 9
Wick and I each spent Christmas Day with our families, but today is our Christmas. I had no idea what to get him, but when I was shopping I saw a beautiful cashmere sweater the exact color of his eyes. Not very personal, but it’s all I could come up with.
He’s coming to my place tonight so we can celebrate. I spent yesterday with Mel, Brian and the kids, and our parents. I was Lou’s shadow all morning. She brought every gift under the tree to me to help her open it. She’s spoiled rotten, mostly my fault, and no one minded her being the queen of Christmas. I sent Wick selfies of her and me throughout the day, including a photo that Mel took of the two of us curled up together taking a nap.
Wick shares no word at all about how everything goes with his family. That is one tight lid he has on this particular drum. My crowbar is bent trying to get into it, but I know he has to be the one to voluntarily open it up.
He cooks us a delicious meal of steak and potatoes, with salad, bread and wine. On the outside, a simple meal, but the flavors are a complex blend of fine ingredients: The perfect metaphor for something else in my life, perhaps?
“Thank you, Wick, once again for a delicious feast that makes my lack of cooking skills even more humiliating. Where did you learn to cook like that?” I ask, trying my best to build
“Tell me a story, Wick. Tell me about yourself and your family,” I say, my eyes closed, halfway to dreamland.
“My family moved to the states when I was seven …,” he pauses.
“And? Don’t leave me hanging,” I say groggily.
“My story is boring. True immigrant’s tale. I’d like to hear more about you. Did a photographer really call you fat? I would’ve punched his lights out,”
I hear him continue to speak as I fade into a blissful sleep.
When I wake up, I’m in my bed, and he’s gone. I get up to check the place, and everything is cleaned and put away. There’s a note on the kitchen counter.
“I didn’t want to wake you; you were sleeping so peacefully. I’m off work this weekend, and I’d love to take you out again. I’ll call you tomorrow/today. XX Wick PS: Thank you for sharing your home with me.”
What a gentleman. I must have been knocked out cold for him to have done all of this without waking me up. Nothing like a big pasta meal for a sedative. I may as well go back to bed and try to dream of him and his food.
He’s busy at work the next few days, so we don’t get to see each other. I talk to him at night on the phone before bed, but I miss being around him. He calms me.
* * *
Wick and I went out four times over the last two weeks, and I’m over the moon about him. I only wish he could open up more to me more about his past. He offers bits and pieces, at my pleading, but that’s it. I’ve learned that his brother was an exceptional athlete. It played a large part in the decision for his family to move where they did, so Lachlan could have better opportunities to pursue sports. He was drafted by the Major Leagues in college, left to pursue a professional baseball career. Two years in, he was in a car crash, which ended his career.
That’s where Wick stops. He won’t tell the rest of the story. I don’t yet know about the extent of his injuries, or what he’s doing now. It’s like pulling blood from a stone. All in due time, I suppose.
For as little as I get from him emotionally, I don’t get much more physically, either. He’s attentive and incredibly sweet, but we’re no further along than we were at the beginning of our relationship to hitting the bedroom. We kiss, a lot, no complaints there, and we snuggle, but he pulls back when it gets too hot. I’ve seen and felt some pretty impressive erections through his pants, so it’s not physical, for sure. I know we’re proceeding slowly, but this pace is downright glacial.
Chapter 9
Wick and I each spent Christmas Day with our families, but today is our Christmas. I had no idea what to get him, but when I was shopping I saw a beautiful cashmere sweater the exact color of his eyes. Not very personal, but it’s all I could come up with.
He’s coming to my place tonight so we can celebrate. I spent yesterday with Mel, Brian and the kids, and our parents. I was Lou’s shadow all morning. She brought every gift under the tree to me to help her open it. She’s spoiled rotten, mostly my fault, and no one minded her being the queen of Christmas. I sent Wick selfies of her and me throughout the day, including a photo that Mel took of the two of us curled up together taking a nap.
Wick shares no word at all about how everything goes with his family. That is one tight lid he has on this particular drum. My crowbar is bent trying to get into it, but I know he has to be the one to voluntarily open it up.
He cooks us a delicious meal of steak and potatoes, with salad, bread and wine. On the outside, a simple meal, but the flavors are a complex blend of fine ingredients: The perfect metaphor for something else in my life, perhaps?
“Thank you, Wick, once again for a delicious feast that makes my lack of cooking skills even more humiliating. Where did you learn to cook like that?” I ask, trying my best to build
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