The Memory

“I want to remember this moment,” I said. It was late, and dark, and I was sleepy. Hour after hour we’d kissed and licked and touched and stroked. We’d kissed and held each other tightly. Our hard dicks had pressed against each other, relentless and straining. I was afraid that all those instances of pleasure, all those little pinpoints of desire and need, all, the tiny sparks of humor and sweetness would begin to blur together into one vast and sweet wash of memory. I worried that in the stress of the days to come, I’d forget all the little nuances that made the evening special, and that left me feeling happy and perfectly at peace.

My forehead rested against his shoulder; his long hair covered me like silk. “You want to know how to remember something?” he asked. I felt his lips against the crown of my head. “Just close your eyes. Count to three. And remember.”

I closed my eyes. Then I counted slowly to three.

And I thought about how, when we’d undressed that afternoon and I’d raked my beard down his stomach, pausing here and there to plant warm kisses on his hard, flat stomach, his throbbing dick had overflowed with so much pre-cum that as I watched, the fluid puddled and beaded on the outside of the black jockstrap barely constraining him.

I thought about the sound of his voice when he’d read his poem aloud to me, how broad and wide my smile had been as I basked in the sensuality of his words, and how, at its conclusion, I’d opened my eyes and tears spilled down upon my cheeks.

I remembered the noises he’d made when I’d buried my face into the blond fur growing wildly between his ass cheeks, and the sweet, metallic taste of the flesh just inside his hole.

My mind played for a moment on the downy softness of his close-cropped beard, the exact shade of a perfectly-baked golden-brown cookie, and it remembered the gem-like color of his eyes, and the narrow dark fringe of hair that were his eyebrows.

I smiled to remember the giggles into which we’d dissolved, when I asked him to show me how toppy he gets with his college boys.

I remembered the delicacy and narrowness of his hands, the slenderness of his waist, the solidness of his ribcage against mine, all the times I’d pulled him to me and wrapped my arms around him.
I thought about all the compliments he’d given me, the array of beautiful superlatives that seemed less a burden and more an honor to bear.

And then I opened my heavy lids, and smiled.

When he spoke, he sounded puzzled. “Man. How long does it take for you to count to three?”