Not half-clothed.
Not a throwaway.
I lead Gabe down
the short hallway
to my room, happy
for once to have made the bed when I got up.
I turn on the night—
light I rarely rely on.
That will be enough.
I don’t want to bathe in harsh artificial glare, but I do want to see.
He stops me just inside the door. Are you sure?
“Is it too late to change my mind?” I grin. “No.
I’m sure. At least I think so.”
Now he smiles. Way to be definitive. Well, if you’re almost, sort of, kinda sure, let’s give it a try. But first . . .
I’ve Lost Track
Of what number kiss
this could be, but it
doesn’t matter. This kiss will lead somewhere new, and that’s a place I must explore.
This kiss isn’t sweet.
Isn’t gentle, and yet,
the kind of need infusing it is anything but selfish.
He’s giving to me.
I’m giving to him.
And when one accepts
what the other offers,
it is with gratitude.
His arms encircle
my waist, lift, and carry me to the bed, where
he lays me down
carefully, treasure.
I watch him peel off
clothing—his shirt,
his Wranglers—until there’s nothing left but the gray boxers that hide nothing.
He has a blue-collar body, toned by physical labor, not gym equipment.
He also has goose bumps.
The heater hasn’t quite managed to shake the chill.
I laugh. “Better get under the covers before you freeze.”
Good idea. But first . . .
He reaches down, unzips my jeans, tugs them off by the cuffs. I wish I’d worn Victoria’s Secret panties instead of the garden
variety cotton, but that’s all I’ve got in my drawer.
Gabe doesn’t seem to care.
His hands travel my legs, knees to hips, then push up over the slight rise of my belly to the small hills jutting just above.
Take off your sweater.
He helps lift it over my head, then unhooks my bra before covering our exposed skin with sheet and quilt and lying beside me, facing me, and he pauses there.
You can still change your mind.
In response, I kiss him, plead for his lips and tongue and fingers to touch places only one other person
has ever been given explicit permission to explore.
He isn’t Monica, no, not at all.
She is silk. He is leather.
She is lithe. He is brawn.
She is low tide. He is high.
She quivers. He quakes.
The giving is different.
He directs, and I follow the script, learn the action, rehearse until I get it right.
The final act is approaching.
I thought I would be scared but I’m anxious for the gift of knowledge denied by God in the book of Genesis.
Instead, Gabe is the denier.
Stop. I don’t have a condom.
Condom, Right
I definitely don’t want to take a chance on getting pregnant.
Oh, but . . .
“Hold on a sec.”
I roll over toward the nightstand, open the drawer, which is still well-stocked with Trojans I haven’t had a use for, up until now.
When I hand one to Gabe, he gives me
an oh really? look.
“You can thank Syrah.
Long story. Tell you later. Meanwhile . . .”
The pause has resulted in a need to start over, and that’s okay by me.
I’m enjoying circling the bases. Home plate, now safe, can wait.
We Take Our Time
And we both score twice.
And the seismic waves
are incredible. Massive.
Nothing like the gentle temblors with Monica.
My bed, my room, the entire house, are plenty warm now.
I kick off the covers, skin cooling slowly within
the circlet of Gabe’s arms.
So, what do you think?
The words fall against
my cheek, carried in warm Earl Grey–scented puffs.
“I think that was pretty great. And I’m glad you were my first.” I don’t add the masculine reference.
Let him assume what he will.
Eventually
And much too soon,
Gabe’s arms release
their hold on me.
I should probably go.
“You probably should.
Do you have any plans for tomorrow?”
No. Why? Miss me already?
“You’re still here, in case you missed that, dude.
I know I’m a pain, but I need a ride out to see Hillary. And her horses.”
Happy to chauffeur you anytime.
Deal struck, I struggle with what to say now.
Is it always so awkward after you have sex?
I watch Gabe get dressed, admiring again the cut of his muscles. And again I’m bulldozed by guilt.
Everything’s changed between him and me now.
But what about Monica?
Maya
For Casey
You arrived today. Every minute is seared into my memory.
I woke from dreams of drowning in quicksand—a slow suck under, no one I could trust to take my hand and pull—to nightmare cramps fifteen minutes apart. I wasn’t sure what labor felt like, if that was it or the fake-you-out kind. But, at a week beyond my due date, you seemed anxious to find your way into the world.