There’s something odd about having someone, half-naked, draped in your arms talk fondly about their boyfriend. I’m not sure he’d mind. He called it compersion.
I call it lovers’ position #42.
The man and the woman lay on their backs, side-by-side. The woman takes her arm nearest the man and lays it over his chest. Bending at the elbow, she raises her hand to play with the hair just above the man’s ear.
This is what she did now: something only lovers have ever done. But her touch was comfortable, so possessed of a sense of habit, I momentarily forgot who I was. Closing my drowsy lids I remembered our courtship, her wide smile and impish grin, sparkling eyes, those first passionate kisses, our first intimacies.
In truth, this was the first night we had hung out. We’d seen eachother before. Her drunken habit of trying to make out with me, despite the close proximity of her enabling boyfriend endeared her, somewhat, though others might argue her youth endeared her more.
I picked her up from work, dragged her to a friend’s party, and made sure she had a good time. I hadn’t seen her out in a bit, so I felt I was merely being polite and social.
Prophets will record the need to be polite signals a hidden horribleness that guilty consciences work overtly to hide.
The first, misfired salvo was mine. I slapped her on the ass as she wandered by to grab a drink. This is quite unlike me; quite impolite. She didn’t bring it up until later, and even then, she didn’t mind. A few stolen kisses, drunkenly shared life-stories (though I never share mine), and an after-party-gathering, and then we were mugging in a spare bedroom on a friends air-mattress.
His last words to me? “Bed her. Just bed her,” but we didn’t have sex.
That makes at least four willing women whose beds I’ve climbed out of in the past year or two. Not that I climbed out. A gentlemen never just climbs out.
I’ve perfected a certain skill at rebuffing a woman’s sexual advances while still making her feel special, cared for, and beautiful. The downside, the next day they still call you.
Of course, if I felt like being obligated to talk to them the next day, I would have fucked them. To not call the next day would have been… impolite.