Confession

The dream usually starts out with a guilty conscience.. We’ve been best friends, it seems, for as long as I can remember, and the easy comfort I feel with him sometimes leads my mind astray. I’ve been fighting it for a long time. Not as long as we’ve been friends, but for an equally infinite portion of my memory.

Sometimes I worry that our friends will pick up on it. Always I worry that he will. I’m not sure I could live down the mortification. It’s probably not love in the romantic sense, what I feel. It’s more than likely lust. I’m lusting for a close friend. Never a good thing. That’s supposed to be a male thing to do.

Anyway, once I fight off the guilt, it goes something like this:


We’re in his room, in his apartment, a place I’ve been so many other times. I’m sitting on his bed, while he works on one of our joint projects on the computer. He does something to irritate me, and I begin to pick a fight.

I pick fights with him often. It’s the only way to relieve my passion, I think.

Anyway, we begin to argue, and I slide off of his bed, and boot him out of the computer seat to take over. I fix whatever it is that he’s done wrong, and glance up behind me at him to gloat, but he’s looking at me in that intense way of his, with those deep, endless black eyes. I’ve caught that look twice since we’ve known each other. I can’t admit aloud that I hope to catch it several more times.

I’ve caught him when he didn’t expect me to turn around. Maybe he’d been smelling my hair. He did comment once that it smelled wonderful, but for whatever the reason, I’d caught him vulnerable, and it makes my mouth go dry. I’m never speechless in his presence. But at this moment, I can’t find words.

I tilt my head in a gesture of compliance, and by some grace of heaven, he bends down to kiss me. I’ve fantasized about kissing him for ages. His mouth is the perfect shape, and supple, and I can feel almost without effort their gentle, urging push into mine.

It would only be gentle for a moment. Tenderness isn’t something that we often share. Hunger is much more our speed. I can feel his tongue pushing against mine, feel my teeth scraping against that gorgeous bottom lip. Heat flares in my body, and I’m out of the chair, pushing against him, and he’s turned me and pinned me against the bed.

His hand rakes through my hair, fisting into it, pulling my head back. I can feel his chest under my hands as I tug at his shirt. I want to get his clothes off.

Everything would happen fast. It would have to. If we slow down, we both know, we’ll think. And if we think, we’ll realize that this is a horrible idea. So before we know what’s happened, we’re mostly naked. I’ve got a skirt pulled up around my waist, his shirt is only unbuttoned, but we’re inside each other, stifled noises, teeth, hands, heat.

Such a bad idea. I wish I could shake it.