A Different Blue(147)

the sake of kissing, not as a means to an end, but as an experience in itself.

I had never held someone or been held without sex being the intended outcome. I had never run my

hands across a man's back or linked my hands through his as he kissed my mouth without my mind

being consumed with what came next. With Wilson, it wasn't about what came next but what was

happening now. Touching wasn't orchestrated or choreographed to fulfill the requirements of

foreplay. It was an event all its own. And it was erotically chaste, tender, and telling.

It was the ultimate makeout session, the kind I imagined took place in homes of teenagers all

across America. Where every touch was stolen, every kiss a conquest, every moment a race against

curfew. It was the kind of kissing that felt forbidden because Mom and Dad were sitting upstairs

and discovery was imminent, where clothing stayed put and passions raged and kissing took on an

intensity all its own, simply because going further was not an option. By the time the late

afternoon sun filled my sitting room, my lips felt bruised and beautiful, and my face was

slightly raw from nuzzling and nudging, from burrowing my face into Wilson's neck and from being

burrowed into in return. I was spent without compromise, sated without sacrifice, completely and

totally head-over-heels in love. And it was delicious.





The shadows of a perfect Sunday evening filled my apartment before either of us made any attempt

to speak of the future. We had raided my cupboards for sustenance and discovered what I already

knew . . . there was little sustenance to be had in my kitchen. We ended up ordering Chinese and

waited anxiously for its arrival, distracting our famished selves with cinnamon bears and

confession.

“I was the one who took the caps off of all your dry erase markers.”

“Really? Were you the one who replaced them all the next day, too?”

“Yeah. I felt bad. I don't know what got into me. I kept trying to get your attention in the

nastiest ways, like one of those weird little boys on the playground who throws rocks at the

girls he likes.”

“So I can assume it was you who put a dirty picture on my overhead projector so that when I

turned it on all the students got the full monty?”

“Guilty.”

“And the lock that suddenly appeared on my cello case?”

[page]“Yep. That was me too. It was just a little one. And I put the key in your coat pocket.”

“Yes . . . that was a little strange. Too bad it took me two days of trying to saw off the

blasted thing before I found it.”

“I wanted your attention, I guess.”

Wilson snorted and shook his head. “Are you kidding? You walked into my class in the tightest

trousers I've ever seen, high-heeled biker boots, and wild, snogging hair. You had my attention

right from the get go.”

I blushed, half-pleased, half-mortified. “Snogging hair?”

Wilson smirked like a man who knows he's pleased his woman. “Snogging is what we spent all day

doing, luv. It means kissing . . . a lot. After that first week or so of school, I was convinced

I'd chosen the wrong profession. I was utterly depressed, and it was all your fault. I was quite

sure I would have to ask you to transfer out of my class because I knew I was in trouble. In

fact, as long as we're confessing things . . . I went and asked the counselor to pull your