Sometimes I will let myself believe that there is nothing at all lurking behind those eyes— greenish blue, now, glistening behind lashes fluttering open and closed with the weight of half-awoken sleep. That— like everything else out there in the blustery cold— there is only pure white snow, erasing the landscape and quietly smothering its memory.

I’d like to believe that I can be blind to the strain and struggle I see in them sometimes— not when the television annoyingly steals the hanging space in the air, when re-runs of Jersey Shore bronze and re-bronze the screen— but in that second when our faces are close and breaths collide and those eyes tell me that the decision has been made.

And I will admit— to many things, but here, now, it’s this— to making that decision too.

While the snow piles up— flake atop flake— we’ve chosen to let it bury us both. And deeper and deeper with nothing but the white in every direction— but most importantly, up— it feels like somehow we can ignore everything outside of the guiltiest comfort of each other’s touch, and how skilled we’d become with each other’s bodies.

But that’s a lie— like all other myths of New York City winters— and when it is all shoveled, cleared, melted, and gone, what’s left will show just how it well survived the onslaught of snow. Just how resilient it really was. And just how little things change.

The motions are (far) less exploratory now, still cautious but no longer tentative, with the deliberate act of refinement.

Like sharpening a blade, or polishing a stone, she is eager to understand what I like, and how I like it. The grip on the base of my cock is tighter and she is (more) in control. Her senses are trained less on my eyes and the expression on my face (although she steals a glance every now and then, peering at me through a veil of hair) and more on the (not so) subtle responses my body demits. The swipe of her tongue directly underneath the head makes my hips rise. The press of her upper lip gives me a shudder. The warmth as she takes me into her mouth causes my balls to tighten and my breath to quicken.

She’s a very keen observer.

Learning the effects her motions have on me, she sucks my cock until I am on the verge of cumming, my fists clenching bed sheet and pillow, my ass lifted off the bed and clenched tight, nearly bucking against her face. It’s as if her tongue won’t stop swirling over the head and probing the tip with her hand on the base of my cock, slick with the drool escaping from around her lips and I am tipping further and further over the edge. Loose curls of blonde hair cascading like a pom-pom bouncing up and down, she continues to suck harder, swirl faster, and I felt myself bumping up against the (squishy-soft) back of her throat.

We hadn’t said anything since we tore our clothes off and I didn’t dare to break the silence with a word so I held her head with my hand (maybe a little too forcefully) to slow her down but she shook it off at the top of her stroke and plunged back onto my cock, slurping harder (and noisier) (and wetter), and this was a lesson for my own refinement, that this is what she wanted:

The head of my cock buried deep in her mouth and a grunt escaping my clenched teeth, eyes open but blinded by the pulsing release of cum (one, two, and maybe three) with her soft whimper between the gulps and heavy breathing through her nose. A final lazy swipe of her tongue against me as my heart breaks with the release of her lips and mends (so quickly) with the act of her vaulting herself up my body and those same lips placed on my mouth, that same tongue against mine, and the salty aftertaste of cum mixing in with her sweat, strands of hair, and desire to please me.

And a discovery: it was what I had wanted, too.

We still remain silent— for a brief time— bodies spent with exhaustion, the sound of inhale and exhale left in the room as the air cools. You see— we still call each other, and we still answer the phone in a questioning “hello,” even though the name and number appears on the screen. We still agree to meet, and we’ll go out into the coldening winter air, and one of us will buzz the other’s building, knock on the other’s door, and still feel awkward walking in, even though we still have each other’s keys.

We still pretend to care about the words that fill in the time from when our eyes meet until when our lips meet, and from when our hands are at our sides until when they’re on each other. And we still let our eyes close and walls crumble to ruin while removing our clothes and surrendering to the scratchy softness of flannel sheets— the foregone conclusion slipping over us like the winter night devours the afternoon.

And we still tense up with the anticipation of the taste of skin, tongues lapping upward along slithering paths until our mouths find what they want and our hands grab-pull-squeeze-press— sometimes finding each other’s hand and fingers interlocking— as our bodies settle into familiar positions. And we still hold our breaths before the smallest shift of weight and hips angling just enough so entry is possible— potential— probable— and when it does happen, and when there is that feeling of tightness and we exhale ever so forcefully, we still forget everything outside of these few moments when all that matters is the penetration.

We still fuck— but, we also still let it mean something.

Thank you.

Because it could be worse. Because in the grand scheme of things, it’s not that bad. And because I’ve been very very fortunate.

So, thank you.

“I’m older than you,” she let slither from her lips, her body pivoting on her hip without losing contact with mine, her far knee raised— brought near— and clearing my legs; a side-by-side sit transformed into a straddle, with her arms slung around my neck— wrists crossed at the start of my spine— and weight now pressing into my lap. “But not by much,” she snickered, a flip of her neck neatly swinging the hair threatening to cover her face to one side.

“Why are you bringing it up?” I asked, hands now cradling her ass, the pull firm and the squeeze forceful enough to sink in through the jeans that clung with no space between fabric and skin. “Are you interested in splitting hairs?”

And as she leaned in, she let the hair spill off the side of her head, her eyes wide and bright, she brought her lips to mine and they touched as she breathed her answer.

“No.”

With the drawing of breath she pressed full against them, mouth opening and tongue sharply jabbing, fending off my side of the kiss until she jawed her mouth open wider and held my lower lip between her teeth.

I felt the pain flare from dull to sharp— a stinging moment fading just as quickly as it arrived— as she let my lip go to whisper:

“But I get to fuck a younger man right now and don’t take that away from me.”

While there was enough of an argument to wait until the weekend, maybe it was the tension building throughout the week that snapped like so much still weight seated atop brittle straw that we found Thursday’s emails (ever-so creatively titled “Thursday”) bouncing back and forth transforming into plans for meeting for drinks after work, with no mention of dinner or beyond.

The rain stiffly shaken off our shoulders (shared umbrellas being a risky proposition while dodging slower foot traffic) we snatched two stools at the far end of the bar, with the thick and heavy darkness creeping in around us from the mahogany-wood surroundings; an off-putting end to a gloomy and drenched week. And it was soon too dark for me to see (and thus playfully tease her about) the pink and yellow-polka-dotted Wellingtons on her feet, and for her to accurately make out the subtle expressions on my face (which were intended to charmingly take the sting off those jabs at the rubberized footwear) that we escaped, dragging only a mild buzz in tow, to the nearest over-commercialized and over-illuminated coffee chain establishment where the humidity and caffeine-laden sweaty air clung to the inside surface of the wall of windows, clouding the view of the street in a fog both thick and musty, with the air conditioning only creating a distinctly depressive chill that a mouthful of poorly Anglicized (and arguably butchered) Italian words did little to fend off.

And still, or yet (and maybe because of all this) the closing clauses of carefree conversation drew our faces closer in tighter and tighter spirals, the words themselves waning in importance to the flirtatious smirk slung from curling corner to corner of her lips, until it was the inevitable feathering weight of fingertips on each other’s hands and the soft but purposeful bump of knees under the table that gave way to more deliberate actions: the coordinated quick rise from the seats (and the hawkish, sly swoop into our still-warm seats by another standing-but-presently-sitting couple), a gathering of things and disposing of the empty coffee cup waste as we climbed into a cab with her quickly barking cross streets.

The playful jousting of hands (and arms) (and legs) grew forceful, mindful; until (even with the splotches of light pouring into the cab from the cars waiting in the intersecting streets and the eyes of the cab driver peering at us in the rearview mirror) our faces neared and lips met and just maybe the jostling of the car was enough for the kiss to sizzle brighter and hotter than either of the light pecks concluding the first (a “with-friends” wine-and-cheese tasting) and second (a Sunday brunch and slightly-more-intimate slow talk-‘n’-walk in a park) dates.

With money thrown (sloppily tossed through the tiny plexiglass window) at the driver and a (forgettable, as I don’t recall either of our footsteps landing funny) stumble out of the cab and up to the landing with the door, the fumbling of keys (and their deafening jingling) from her purse and a turn of the knob we slipped into the hall and to her apartment, the flipping of light switches (in alien locations), and a hollow offer of a drink (formalities), we were seated a little too close together on her (too soft) sofa, stunned maybe by the silence that now circled around us like shark fins peeking above swirling ripples in the water. And (like every happy accident) we spoke at the same time and it didn’t matter exactly what words were meant to be said as the quiet was quickly banished with the sharp intake of air before the brushing of noses angling past each other and lips crushing each other turning into the soft slips of breath between tongues now meticulously mapping each other’s reach-touch-taste-texture.

Our ears filled with the sounds of fabric rustling and rubbing, the awkward first touches maturing (with the murmured grunts and soft monosyllabic sounds as encouragement) into tactically aimed presses and grabs of skin hiding just beneath the clothing. And with a slip (or slide) (or shift) of her body on top of mine, her hair falling over our faces, her opaque black stockinged legs opening over my thigh (as far as her skirt would allow) with knee dragging up my leg, we found our shirts’ hems coming out so easily from our respective waistlines and buttons coming undone at the mere touch of fingertips.

And it was a push or pull indicating our tenuous balance on the couch that we untangled, rose, and with a hand leading mine, crept further into the apartment (this time without the flicking-on of light switches) and to a soft bed where our bodies quickly resumed their position only now with her bare chest on mine, nipples pressing twin points into my skin both hotter and colder than imagined. The kisses landed fuller and flush with heat, her arm reaching up and towards the nightstand and fingers finding the crinkle of the plastic wrapper as my own fingers grabbed at the waistband of her panties and yanked them down her thighs; the unrolling of latex and the rubbery discomfort was all but forgotten with her hips over mine and lowering steadily as we held our breaths.