Emery [bxb]

183

I'm fumbling so hard with nerves and eagerness that I nearly forgot the lube.

"L-let me get you some-"

Emery's hand stills me.

"Just spit and tears," he whispers, smiling up at me from our bed.

The simple missionary position lets me see his besotted face, look into his eyes. We just stare at each other, not saying a word. We never needed words, anyway. Thirty years has given us a connection stronger than most will ever experience.

Emery doesn't try to mask his pain. He's scared but so willing, supple and pliant in perfect surrender. I kiss him through the worst of it, whispering sweet nothings while cradling his head to my chest, our fingers entwined over his head. My heart pounds loudly. I kiss and stroke him and study his face, smiling when I see it morph into rapturous pleasure.

It's not like it was with women. The relationship between men and women is a struggle with differences. We are equals, practically the same person, and it's a mutual desire, and satisfaction, with us. Women can't kiss like this, so fiercely. They don't have the strength to wrestle like this, animalistic. And they could never kindle this passion within me.

It's amazing how long it took me to learn the difference between real love and a hot fuck. I want a good life with him, not just a good time. Forever, not one night. I think back on all those summers at the cottage and the campfire songs, and wonder if I ever could've graduated to a man without Emery.