I had just pulled the cork on a bottle of Spanish wine. I poured two glasses as lightning struck a transformer and half the city went dark. We sat in silence sipping Tempranillo, listening to the rain wash the dirt off the streets.
We were hanging out at her house, with plans to watch a movie. But it didn’t really matter what we did. We just liked wasting time together. We were easy company. Our arms, if thrown around each other, were free of proprietary intent. The afflictions of ownership: jealousy; cupidity, had no claim on us. We roamed the garden before the fall. We were Plato’s children.
This isn’t to say that I didn’t find her attractive.
She was intelligent.
Her skin was Demerara sugar.
Her eyes were dark stars.
We were lying beside each other, her on the couch, me on the floor. The windows were open. You could hear the rain sluicing the gutters for gold. The moon was a mischievous smudge of light in the clouds. I don’t know what made me say what I said. It could have been the wine. It could have been the lightning.
“Our minds,” I said, pausing for effect, “are naked when we’re together.”
She addressed the subtext with a close-lipped smile, took off her sweater and let it fall to the floor. She looked at her breasts and touched her nipples. Her mouth opened at the first pulse of pleasure. She unbuttoned her jeans and took them down to her knees. She slid her hand beneath the waistband of her underwear. A heavy sigh announced the placing of her fingers. She looked at me. I held her eyes. Cowper’s fluid anointed my inner thigh. I took off my shirt. I took off my jeans. She watched the undulation of my unbound cock. She got down on her hands and knees. I closed the distance. I felt the heat of her body as I kissed the back of her neck. She adjusted her position. I pressed myself in.