A kiss. Light, and only to the cheek. Yes, that’s how it would start, I suppose. I’d settle in behind him, and crane my neck over his shoulder to give him a kiss on the cheek. Light. A touch. I wouldn’t hold him tight, either. Not squeezing, at least not now. Just slide my arms loosely around him, above the paunch, below the breasts, the place where the arms just rest, adding to him lightly instead of pressing.

“What are you doing?”

“Enjoying you. Is that okay?”

Ask. Always ask. It’s always about permission, because permission is always about trust, and where is love without trust? What happens to love if I trust everyone completely? Do I love everyone? I might.

“No…ah…yes, I mean. I don’t mind.”


Another kiss, still light, this time to the back of the neck. That place on people who actually have substance where the skin is pressed out in a gentle rise. Yes, just above there. I suppose my forehead would brush through hair. Shiver. The neck is sensitive there.

Maybe now a squeeze. A light one, at that place where the arms rest nicely, before moving, brushing fingertips along the jaw line on the side nearest, brushing fingernails back down along the side of the neck. Another shiver.


“Can I touch you?”

Always ask. Permission by nod. Fingers continue down from neck, down over the chest, avoiding the spots that are too sensitive, skirting gentle rises before moving back up. Go underneath the over-shirt, like that, go ahead and nudge it aside, maybe even over the shoulder. Now maybe even use some more of the hand instead of just fingertips; not the palm, really, just more of the fingers. (What about the other hand? Maybe a little, just shift it down the side, trace a curve, but not too far.)

Another kiss, the third, to the base of the neck, but the side, where the shoulder meets it. Longer this time, too, linger a little, enjoy it some. It’s okay to go slow, don’t worry if he gets a little bored, have fun. I suppose now would be a good time to shift a little, too, and, shifting, shift off his over-shirt. Two shirts is seeming like a little too much right now.

“Ah…where is this going?”

“Only as far as you want.”

He’s unsure, and submissive. It might go farther than he’d like. Is it taking advantage of him? I can egg him on about that, but I know what he’ll say; I can stop, but must I? At least it’s slow, giving him time to think about what’s happening, time to object, time to accept, time to relax, time to get nervous, time to enjoy. Close your eyes, go on, don’t mind the hands, they’ll just search out skin. (His neck. Brush the fingers back up the other side, let more of the hand in, run fingers through hair. You know, entwine, but it doesn’t need to be firm, still light.) It’s okay to move, tilt your head, mine will be there to rest it against, cheek to cheek, though I’ll have to stretch a little for that. (And back down, but give the under-shirt a miss, slip beneath the radar, under the collar, find the real one, the collar-bones. Yeah, just explore along those for a bit.)

“Hey…” (Pause. Okay, maybe a little movement, with the fingers,)

“Do you want me to stop?”

May have to ask this at every step (but that makes it sound like I have plans. I might). Slight nod’s enough, keep going along the collar-bone until it slips up on the shoulder, but slip off the path there. Fingers down over the chest, over the upper part of the breast, then between the two, but gently, it’ll make him squirm. Hand’s in his shirt, now; any farther and it’ll be an arm instead of just a hand. That’s okay, got two hands: send the other down, cross the belly to his hip, find the hem, slip up beneath, go back the way I came beneath the shirt, it’ll follow. He’ll squirm, so will I.

A kiss. Light, and only to the cheek. Yes, then reposition. That seems like a good place for hands, so send the other down over the front to join the other up beneath the shirt. It gets complicated, trail fingernails down along the upper edge of his tummy (I don’t understand how people can’t like that. The word, and the weight. Skinny people are just scary). Down over his sides, along the lower boundary of the ribcage, not too low or he’ll jump. Shirt’s all tugged up on his front; lean back, slip hands to skin, slide it up further, make as if to take it off.

“May I?”


Wish he’d answer, but he lifts his arms. It’s yes enough, so go ahead and slide hands up and over his back, take the shirt with, hands beneath the collar. Up it goes, over the head, with hands, then in front, let him deposit the shirt. Why not trail hands along arms and shoulders while I’m at it…

“And mine? Is it alright if I take mine off, too?”


He’s tense, and shifty-eyed; he’s shaking, but so am I. It’s okay, just go back to the beginning. Slide arms around him, rest between chest and midsection. Lightly. Light squeeze. A kiss. Light, and only to the cheek. Yes. That’s how it began.

“I can’t…I don’t know. I, ah…”


Another squeeze, why not, and tighter this time. Longer, hold it. Hold him. Hold myself. The light’s there. It flows, in through the head, out through the heart. Skin to skin, but who’s keeping track. He’s shaking, and tense, he’s crying, but so am I. The light burns both, full and empty…

Shift! No, crawl around in front, face my fears, face him, face light, face to face. Cheeks are wet though tears have stopped. He won’t meet my eyes, grabs his shirt. But first…

A kiss. Light, and only to the cheek. Yes. And another, to the forehead, and one more, right where it counts. Lightly, to the lips, share a little of the light, so he knows it’s pure. Okay, now let him put on his shirt if he wants. Or giggle, whichever comes first.

“It’s…it’s alright…like this.”


He makes a move, reciprocates, returns, even leans in. My turn to be surprised. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands. A kiss. Light and only to my cheek. Yes, and a hug. Hugs and kisses. Hugs are awkward when on the ground. I could try not supporting myself, see what happens. Wrap my arms around his middle, relax my back and hips. Back to him, with the surprise. Over we go. Lands half on me, half on the ground, self-conscious about his weight, squirms, I’ll let go, mustn’t push. Rolls onto his back, back to kneeling for me, over him, rest a hand on his chest, if it’ll do ya, odd folds in his pants, mustn’t hope (but he’s blushing. Maybe a little hope).

“I don’t know what to do…”


I’ll take off my shirt. Didn’t ask. Hope it’s okay. Looks, averts his eyes, looks again. Smile, get a smile back. Trace invisible lines with fingers, maybe meridians, middle of the chest makes him tense, eyes half closed (both). Over his front, sides, belly, try and feel if those folds mean anything without him noticing, though he blushes more.

Lean down. A kiss. Light, and to the lips. Apologize silently for being brash, then do the deed. Gently now, mustn’t startle, just with the fingers, and light, always light. Belt buckle. Button. Zipper. Tented. He squirms, and blushes furiously, he’s hard, but so am I.

“Ah…! I…ergh.” (Lift hand, quick, but let it hover.)

“Did I go too far? Should I stop?”

Now’s a good time to panic. Think about what you’ve done, my life, his life, the light, always the light, think with my head, think with my crotch, balance the two and weigh the options. He’s squirming, mostly his hips. He looks pained, but so do I. Grabs my hand, wavers, holds, shakes all over, holds, puts it back down on his crotch. Sigh, smile, kiss him on the cheek, but always ask.

“Are you sure?”

“No…but go ahead.”

Slow, then. He’s hard, but so am I. It’s pointed up in the air, and up towards his head, angled, fingertips move down to the base, hand wraps gently around it through cloth and squeezes, light. Other hand kneads at hips through shorts, down over thigh, other hand down from erection to between legs, spread slightly, along inner thigh, hem of shorts, elation. Skin. Hand up along skin, inside of shorts, other hand back up along thigh, elation. Skin, up through shorts. Boxers. Always wanted to. Up through shorts, fingers between legs, skin pulled tight, wrinkled with nervousness, just a touch.

Back down, out. Back up over shorts, another squeeze to the erection, and I can look again. His eyes are closed, his brow is furrowed, his face is red, and light is shining. A kiss. Light, and only to the cheek. Yes. It’s time.

“I…want to see.”


Zipper. Don’t need to take them off. Zip. Touch, he shivers, search, he tenses, opening in boxers, there. Skin touches skin and he whimpers (but so do I), lightly, ever lightly, wrap fingers around and disentangle from clothes. Out in the open. Cut. Curved upwards, slightly to the left. Can he get any more red? Can I? Skin silky, tip slick, be brave, do it. Deed is done, his eyes open, he leans up.

“Are you going to…you know…s-suck?”

“If you’d like…”

Savor the taste of the one lick, get another non-answer. Make up my mind. The light burns more than ever, in through the head, out through the heart, overflowing, need to share, need to give, need to take, need to have, to hold, to know, to be. Adjust self, stretch out, get comfortable, he’s still on his elbows. Just the head, now, go slow, first time for both. Vaguely salty, vaguely metallic, definitely warm. Press tongue to the underside, suckle warmly on it, like I’m gonna get something out of it. No teeth. He bucks, surprise, that’s okay, take some more, warmth. Mouth. Wet. Not sure what to do with hands, he touches face, hair, ears, shoulders, head. Leans back again, arches, get more in my mouth. Suckle firmly, rub with tongue, move some, bob along it, use a hand around the base, since it doesn’t quite fit. Pick up speed, he’s tense, but so am I. He may be close, know I am. A tug on my hair.



The taste! Almost pull off, but I need to share, the light, the taste, oh god, Jesus…The light comes in through the head and out through the heart, and the seed is made inside and comes out the shaft, coats my tongue, fills my mouth. Bitter. Salty. Swallow. Writhes. Hold it. God…Warm. Squirms…

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, aw jeez, I’m sorry…ow…”

“Nngh…I’m sorry…”

Sensitive, pulls me off, hurriedly hides himself with clothes, blushing furiously, turns away from me, curls up. I’ll curl around him, snug an arm around his chest, just above his belly, press close against him, form fitting. He’s crying, I’m still hard, don’t notice. Hold him tight and bask in the light, flows in through the head and out through the heart, wash around us.

A kiss. Light, and only to the cheek. Yes. The cheek, twice salted with tears, hides his face from me but nestles back to my front. The light is blinding, bury my face against his neck, hold him tight, laugh.

“What’s so funny?”

“The light. Love is all light.”