Something happened the weekend just past, I think. Something very big and very beautiful and … well, very fucking scary. We – Jock and I – clicked into place. Something clicked. There was a click. We went from ‘dating’ to ‘in a relationship’ and we both felt it. It happened right there in front of us.
We both already know that the chemistry is there between us. It’s kinda undeniable at this point. We can’t stop having sex, and although we’ve had a few hiccups here and there, everything is working just how it should. It is for me, anyway.
The sparkle is there, on top of the chemistry. And the conversation is great. Pretty much all of our dates have been out-of-this-world, and everything is cool.
And now it’s better than cool.
It’s fucking awesome.
And it all started with paint …
My boyfriend moved into a trailer. That’s a caravan, for the Brits. Let’s just jump right over the fact that my boyfriend is quite literally trailer trash and not make the jokes that I’ve already made a hundred times already.
The trailer needed painting. It was a bit rundown, could do with a lick of paint and a freshen-up, you know the drill. So, we got to work. He told me to pick the colour scheme and tell him what to buy — so I did. And he did. We basically went out for supplies, locked ourselves in his little trailer space and spent more than 48 hours in each other’s company, living just as a couple would.
We’ve officially moved into two-night territory now.
This is a very big deal, peeps.
We had sex the first night, after some burgers and beers and a day full of painting, but it was the second night that really stood out. The beers flowed a little easier on night two, and the music got cranked a little louder. And we talked. Really talked. Not about the weather and work and other trivial things, but about REAL stuff. Past stuff. We really opened up to each other.
I told him about my previous suicide attempts and former self-harming habit, and he told me about his former bad lifestyle choices and pretty intense drug issues. I don’t doubt that we’ll both feel a tinge of regret about sharing such intimate details with one another, but it felt really good to be able to talk to him like that. No holds barred, and completely without judgement. (Or so it felt.)
And that good mood we had, with no inhibitions or judgement? It carried right on into bedtime. We had sex, just as we did on night one, but it was incredible on the second night. Magical, almost. Biting and scratching and shuddering on both sides, we fucked each other. He didn’t fuck me and I didn’t fuck him; we fucked each other. I rode him, then switched to the reverse cowgirl position that he kept politely requested. And he switched between his fingers, his cock, and his mouth, all working their merry little magic on my clit, my nipples, various other erogenous zones on my body that I didn’t realise were erogenous zones at all. (Who knew the back of my knees was a thing?!)
When we came, we came within minutes of each other, “like thunder” as he said. I could feel it, too; I could feel his cock actually clenching and releasing as he exploded inside me. It’s not the kind of sex I’m going to forget in a hurry, that’s for sure.
“Do you think something’s changed?” he asked me, in the car on the way home.
“How do you mean?” I replied.
“Like … I don’t know. But for the better.”
“Like … we clicked?”
“Yes, that’s it! We clicked.”
And we really, really did. We had ‘I know you’ sex. I’m hoping you know the kind I mean: where you stop being new lovers and turn into something more than that; something more meaningful than just another person you’re fucking. Since he dropped me home, I’ve not been able to stop thinking about him – and it’s not just the sex that’s keeping my mind rushing back to him, time and time again. It’s everything. Him. Us. The time we spent together. I love him. I do love him, I know I do. I just wish the words would fall out of my mouth as easy as they bounced around in my head because I’m sure the open and honest route is much easier than game-playing and constantly trying to figure the other person out. But there’s still something that’s holding me back; a fear of being hurt, I guess? Whatever it is, it has me in a proper little tizz.
He’s not perfect. He doesn’t have the perfect figure, or the perfect bank balance, or the perfect penis. But for me, to me, he’s perfect. Perfectly imperfect. I don’t see his flaws, though he sure seems to enjoy pointing each of them out to me. I love his silver hair and gruff little beard, and I even love his little plump tummy. And don’t get me started on that little nook between his chest and his arm, where I rest my head every night to sleep. Everything about him seems to fit with everything about me … I hope it always stays that way.
I wish I could tell him all of these things, you know. It would be so easy just to blurt it out, right up front: this is how I feel … are we on the same page? I think we are, but I’ve been wrong about this kind of thing before. A lot, in fact. And I don’t really know where to start telling him just how much he means to me at this point. We’ve both spent such a long time trying to play it cool and be fun and frivolous, it’s made the sensible and serious stuff really tough to bring up.
He deserves to know how I feel about him though, right?
He deserves to know that I love him.
Because we clicked.