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Strange, How Potent Cheap Music Is

By Soren Riis

July 23 2006

"Will you make love to me?" he asked. The arcane and innocent phrasing of this question seemed entirely out of place, and I laughed out loud before wrapping my arms around his body and lifting him to the bed. I laid him down, carefully as were he made of brittle glass, and while sitting on the side of the bed I slowly began to unbutton his shirt. The crisp white cotton against his pale chest gave him an almost eerie appearence; as if he wasn't quite there, after all.

But he was there, and as I slid my hands over his body I could feel the warmth transpire through the thin layer of skin that was all there was to separate him from my touch and myself. I kissed him, and as he folded his arms around my neck I knew I'd never want him to let go. I made love to him, indeed, slowly sliding my mouth from his and down to his chest and feeling, tasting, consuming him, savouring every bit of what was him, what was mine. While his hands were still caressing the nape of my neck I slowly undid his trousers, pulling them off to leave him lying on the bed in his underwear. I freed myself from his embrace, got to my feet and removed my own clothing before gently lying down next to him, wrapping my arms around him as he wrapped his legs around me. So close; so infinitely, intimately close.

He frantically slipped off his underwear, leaving nothing between us but our skin. His body was smooth and soft, yet firm under my touch. Hands and lips slithered slowly, intently all over him, caressing every small indent or protrusion, taking in his shape, feel, warmth. I held his hands as I palced my lips around him, devouring and savouring him as if there was nothing else in the world. In fact, at that moment there wasn't; no sounds, sights or other impressions penetrated into the cocoon where we were hiding on that summer night. He was in a hurry, I was not; I wanted this to last throughout the night, throughout eternity.

He pulled my head away firmly, covering himself with a hand in what looked like a gesture of modesty but was just an indication that if I continued the end might be nigh, so sliding along his iliac ridges I began to make my way to his lips again, embracing him and gazing in amazement at the face that I had never seen before that night. His eyes were closed, head thrown back slightly as I hovered above him , his one hand at the nape of my neck, the other at the small of my back, drawing me down unto him. I moved, rolling us unto our sides for fear that my weight might crush his fragile frame. I noticed how even the pillows on his bed smelled like him; a mix of his perfume and that other fragrance that was his alone.

We kissed as if it was the only air we could breathe, and his arms around my neck, my hands on his buttocks drew us closer to each other, merging our bodies by the mere touch of our skin all the way from our heads to our feet. He rolled over, craning his neck so as to continue the kiss while turning his back to me, then releasing my lips for a brief moment as he repeated his initial question. I didn't laugh this time; the naive, innocent phrase suddenly seemed right, like the only possible way this question, this demand, could be put. I did not fuck, shag or bugger him; I made love to him as he asked me to, with everything I had to give on that warm night while the curtains were fluttering most stereotypically in the breeze and a nightingale seemed to sing in Berkeley Square, even if that was several miles away. We made love softly, gently, passionately and hard, our bodies syncopating their movements and creating counterpoints to the same persistent, irrepressible tune.

And the evening and the morning were the second day.

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