We’re completely normal, and I can touch him and put my arms around him and stroke him in intimate places.
No barriers get in the way now. I’m so close to him I can feel the way his body is shaking all the way through mine. And after a while those sounds he was making a moment ago go through me too. He moans right into my mouth, as he forces my hand in a steady, driving rhythm, almost too tight for me to bear it, but so arousing even so.
I can feel him swelling under my grip and I know he’s going to come. He’s going to come for me, with me touching him, and my mouth on his. All those times through the window, so far away, narrowed down to this:
His face pressed tight into my shoulder, as he finally lets go.
It takes me about an hour of lazing around in a pleasure-stuffed stupor to realise something pretty sad: I got more pleasure out of a blindfolded handjob with him than I did out of every previous relationship I’ve ever had. We haven’t even had sex, and yet somehow I’m utterly satisfied. I’m a cat, fat with food and sunning myself in the heat of whatever this is. This … thing. This … relationship.
Though I can’t really call it that, can I?
People are usually allowed to look at each other full in the face when they’re in a relationship, but somehow I still don’t feel comfortable taking the blindfold off. Baby steps, I think. If he moves too fast I might run away, and if I move too fast he might run away, so I guess we just have to take our time.
Crawl towards each other in stages, until finally …
‘I love you, Abbie.’
All right. That wasn’t what I was expecting. And I show this total lack of expectation by vacating the little comfy space I’ve made in the crook of his arm, to stare at him sightlessly through my blindfold.
It feels somewhat less erotic when we’re just having a conversation.
In fact, it feels kind of ridiculous, and this ridiculousness shows itself in the little laugh he lets out. He even reaches forwards and pulls the thing off, as though me seeing him doesn’t really matter at all anymore.
And then I go and spoil it with my giant blundering awfulness.
‘Did you really just say that?’
Why do I have to be incredulous? We’ve practically been weird boyfriend and girlfriend for over a month. We’ve had more intense conversations about feelings and issues than I’ve ever had with anyone, not to mention all the talk about BLTs.
His stance on tomatoes alone means we should be married by now. Always cherry tomatoes, never beef. Slice them as thin as the big ones, and then go to town on that bad boy.
Apart from the obvious psychological problems, he’s the perfect man.
‘I have a feeling it’s weird that I did.’
‘It’s kind of weird that you can say those words, but you can’t have me looking at you during sex. Or touching you during sex for that matter.’
‘Why?’
He sounds genuinely puzzled, and almost bizarrely unconcerned. He’s not even really concentrating on the conversation – he’s running the backs of his fingers over the long section of hair that’s fallen over my shoulder, watching it lift and then drop, lift and then drop.
‘Because loving someone is a lot more intimate than giving someone a handjob.’
‘And you think I have problems with intimacy?’
‘Don’t you?’ I ask, but when he flicks his gaze up to mine my question is answered. I can almost feel how much I mean to him, every time he looks into my eyes. It burns out through them – it has ever since the hallway.
And he’s never shied away from showing it.
‘I struggle with physical things. Not emotions.’
I have to ask. Don’t I? I’d be a fool if I didn’t.
‘Why?’ I ask, while my head fills with every terrible thing it could be. What makes someone afraid to be touched, but fearless when it comes to something I can’t even say yet? I feel it, but I can’t say it.
He could still turn out so wrong, after all. Maybe he doesn’t really want
No barriers get in the way now. I’m so close to him I can feel the way his body is shaking all the way through mine. And after a while those sounds he was making a moment ago go through me too. He moans right into my mouth, as he forces my hand in a steady, driving rhythm, almost too tight for me to bear it, but so arousing even so.
I can feel him swelling under my grip and I know he’s going to come. He’s going to come for me, with me touching him, and my mouth on his. All those times through the window, so far away, narrowed down to this:
His face pressed tight into my shoulder, as he finally lets go.
It takes me about an hour of lazing around in a pleasure-stuffed stupor to realise something pretty sad: I got more pleasure out of a blindfolded handjob with him than I did out of every previous relationship I’ve ever had. We haven’t even had sex, and yet somehow I’m utterly satisfied. I’m a cat, fat with food and sunning myself in the heat of whatever this is. This … thing. This … relationship.
Though I can’t really call it that, can I?
People are usually allowed to look at each other full in the face when they’re in a relationship, but somehow I still don’t feel comfortable taking the blindfold off. Baby steps, I think. If he moves too fast I might run away, and if I move too fast he might run away, so I guess we just have to take our time.
Crawl towards each other in stages, until finally …
‘I love you, Abbie.’
All right. That wasn’t what I was expecting. And I show this total lack of expectation by vacating the little comfy space I’ve made in the crook of his arm, to stare at him sightlessly through my blindfold.
It feels somewhat less erotic when we’re just having a conversation.
In fact, it feels kind of ridiculous, and this ridiculousness shows itself in the little laugh he lets out. He even reaches forwards and pulls the thing off, as though me seeing him doesn’t really matter at all anymore.
And then I go and spoil it with my giant blundering awfulness.
‘Did you really just say that?’
Why do I have to be incredulous? We’ve practically been weird boyfriend and girlfriend for over a month. We’ve had more intense conversations about feelings and issues than I’ve ever had with anyone, not to mention all the talk about BLTs.
His stance on tomatoes alone means we should be married by now. Always cherry tomatoes, never beef. Slice them as thin as the big ones, and then go to town on that bad boy.
Apart from the obvious psychological problems, he’s the perfect man.
‘I have a feeling it’s weird that I did.’
‘It’s kind of weird that you can say those words, but you can’t have me looking at you during sex. Or touching you during sex for that matter.’
‘Why?’
He sounds genuinely puzzled, and almost bizarrely unconcerned. He’s not even really concentrating on the conversation – he’s running the backs of his fingers over the long section of hair that’s fallen over my shoulder, watching it lift and then drop, lift and then drop.
‘Because loving someone is a lot more intimate than giving someone a handjob.’
‘And you think I have problems with intimacy?’
‘Don’t you?’ I ask, but when he flicks his gaze up to mine my question is answered. I can almost feel how much I mean to him, every time he looks into my eyes. It burns out through them – it has ever since the hallway.
And he’s never shied away from showing it.
‘I struggle with physical things. Not emotions.’
I have to ask. Don’t I? I’d be a fool if I didn’t.
‘Why?’ I ask, while my head fills with every terrible thing it could be. What makes someone afraid to be touched, but fearless when it comes to something I can’t even say yet? I feel it, but I can’t say it.
He could still turn out so wrong, after all. Maybe he doesn’t really want
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