Monday, March 12, 2012

What's The Difference

In bed that night, he was most definitely awake. He was tossing and turning, groaning and moving, moaning and breathing hard. His muscles, (with practically no fat covering them, laying on top of only his bones) burned and bulged from the rush of blood. As the cool air slipped out from the ceiling vent in the room, the light coat of sweat cooled on him, only build and be cooled again.

. . .Because sex tended to bring that out in him.

As they both rolled again into something different, her now rising above him, straddling him below her waist, he still knew nothing would come of this that should. That is to say, the normative results of a round of this heightened nature and animalistic tendency should bring about a glorious finish for them both. But he could tell he would not grab onto that passing train to hitch a ride to that part of town. Not that he was surprised, the reason was a simple one that rested close to the surfaces of his mind. It had happened before with a few others he'd been with, not that some of them cared much, he always made sure they got theirs.

And he of course knew why this happened to him sometimes, sneaking up from the corners of his soul to reach out forbidding happiness of any real human value that he was given the rights to enjoy simply by being a person of free will on earth. Again, the reason was simple. 

None of them were her. . .

With her on top, rocking out feverishly on him and using him to supply her with an orgasm he hadn't seen delivered in quite some time to a woman he'd been with, his face did not reciprocate the joy he was supplying.

A hard moan, pushed out from the depths of her stomach was let loose in the room and she collapsed on top of him, laying there, her hair spread around, the soft delicate lengthy bunch. She eventually rolled off him, to which that air conditioning cooled another part of him, still wet, or. . . Slimy. . . and a little warm too. 

The sound of her breathes attempting to be controlled were a metronome to his ears. His were normally larger, with the sense that he just ran from an FBI Counterterrorism SWAT team. But because he gave her the top spot, his energy and gusto were not needed, would have certainly helped her along, or boosted, but he didn't care that much.
She looked over him as he laid there, he felt her eyes moving over him, and maybe even into him. He gave her back nothing. Not a thing.

Funny, just over hour ago, she thought (and even giggled about it) he was nervous to kiss her, like a child. He let her feelings betray her, because truth was, he didn't know if he should, because what does that lead to? And how much of a shit did he really give about her? Not enough to get involved, that was for sure. 

But what was he gonna do with a girl throwing herself at him in her apartment at 5 in the damned morning? 

Exercise judgement? Maybe next time. 

"Was something wrong?" She asked him, moving a finger tip over his chest, the chest she loved, grabbed onto, squeezed like black body armor that belonged to a winged hero.

"No. . ." He told the ceiling fan.

"Well you didn't--" He cut her off. 

"Not your fault. . . I'm. . . I'm fine."

". . .Okay." But that answer had a pang of pain in it. It's been said that not finishing is a let down, almost an insult for the woman (or women of one is fortunate enough). What could he do? So he rolled over, sat up, and ran his fingers through that long hair of his. So long now. If only she could see it, what would she say?

When she went for the bathroom, he stood up and got dressed. Placing the second shoe on the second foot she reappeared in the doorway, naked. he stopped for a second realizing the symmetry in his life that second to a chapter in his novel, the no one read, or finished really. 

"Really? Can't you stay?" 

"I gotta get going Steph."

Truth was, he kinda wanted too. He knew she would hold him tightly in her grasp, and kiss him to sleep, rubbing his arms and face down with a gentle embrace. But what's the difference when it came from her?

Or came from the last one?

Or the one before her?

Or the one before her?

Or before her?

What's the difference when any of those girls, or encounters, were interchangeable with the others. All because of that simple reason. . .

As he walked to his car he felt the morning dew wafting over his skin, smelled it in the atmosphere, and was grateful for the kind of peace an early morning brings him. As he drove away and out of her apartment complex he saw the sky changing the colors it changed when a sunrise was on approach. And he thought to himself the though he always thought to himself when he was presented with opportunities of romance with the opposite sex:

. . .What's the difference if it's not her? 

And then he stepped on the accelerator. Hard. 

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