Chapter 9 – Chapter 9

The next Tangueray Tuesday was fraught and stilted. We tried to converse, but there was a flame burning between us. And, neither of us dared to touch it.

We finished our first drink in virtual silence. When the second arrived, I couldn't take any more. I reached over and ran my forefinger through the whorl of hair on the back of his right hand.

"Harry," he admonished.

"I know," I admitted, pulling my hand back and taking a deep breath, before standing and going to the bathroom to try, somehow, to regain control of my senses.

"Get ahold of yourself," I said to myself in the mirror, trying to quell the desire that filled me with too much air, like a balloon just before it pops. "Get… ahold… of… yourself."

When I returned to the table, JJ was gone, but there was a note on a napkin on the table: "Sorry, but I had to go. Don't fret."

I couldn't do anything but fret. I was in love with JJ, that much was true. But, I was also in lust with him, and it was the lust that was threatening him and me. I had trod this path before, the lust, the giving in, the recrimination, the rift. It was a story with which I was too familiar. The sating was sublime, but the after — the averted eyes, the fraught silences, the avoidance until everything was gone — was misery. The hard way, I had learned that the sating was not worth the after.

I attempted to avoid JJ after. I thought that, if I turned the flame down a bit, if I let the desire evanesce to a tolerable temperature, then I could go on as we were, no action, just want.

My attempt was half-hearted. On Tuesday, I saw him through the window of our restaurant, flirting with his drink, waiting for me. I left him there, alone. It killed me, but I left him.

On Thursday, I saw him around the corner, scanning the hallway at my customary arrival time. I didn't visit him. Again, it killed me, but I didn't.

The following Tuesday, there was a simple note: "Yes or no?" I clipped back "no" and slipped it under his door when I knew he was in class, that I wouldn't encounter him, advertently or inadvertently.

On a lark, I checked our restaurant at 5:15. I was stunned to see him sitting there, flirting with his drink, looking around, presumably in case I turned up.

I knocked on the window. When his eyes caught mine, he smiled broadly. It was like a whirlpool, disorienting and pulling me under.

He signaled me in. I shook my head back and forth and mouthed "I'm sorry. I can't." He moved to stand, so I bolted off.

The next day, there was a note in my student mailbox: "I'd like to see you."

I wanted to write back something funny like "you saw me last night," but I didn't. Instead, I wrote back "I'm protecting you from me."

The following morning, I received his answer: "I'm responsible for my own protection."

"We'll see," I thought to myself and vowed to visit him that afternoon, as it was Thursday.

At precisely 2 p.m., I knocked. I was put together (I had put in some effort), but I was jangled when I heard, "Come in." I didn't know that I'd be able to stop myself from doing what I dreamed of doing.

As soon as I saw his smile, I knew that I would not.

"I'm going to kiss you," I announced, as I strode toward him. "You don't have to kiss me back, but I hope you do."

I pressed my lips to his, my upper lip between his lips, and my lower lip beneath his. I gave him little, almost imperceptible kisses.

"Please kiss me back, please kiss me back, please kiss me back," I thought to myself, my lips barely pursing over and over again.

He didn't. His lips were as impassive as they had been the first time I had put mine to them.

My heart sank and I stopped kissing him, my hands still on his face, my forehead against his, our noses juxtaposed.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, the words catching in my throat and barely eking out. "I shouldn't have done that. I'm not creepy."

"It's okay," he whispered back, his tone intended to quell me. "It's okay."

Neither of us moved. We were breathing into each other, when we weren't holding our breath.

"Third time's the charm," he whispered. "Try again."

"Are you sure?"

"No."

I placed my lips to his again, my top lip above his, my bottom lip between his. I barely moved my lips, again giving him little, almost imperceptible kisses.

When I was about to give up again, he barely moved his lips, responding to my little kiss with one of his own.

The first kiss can be a revelation. It doesn't have to be, but it can be. In my life, I've had first kisses that told me no, first kisses that told me yes, and first kisses that told me nothing, which meant they, too, told me no.

The first kiss with JJ — at least the first one that was mutual — was a definite yes. It caught in my throat and then rended my heart.

I gave him another little kiss, and he gave me another little kiss back, more quickly than he'd given me the first one.

I don't know how long we went on like that, little kiss met with little kiss. But, it was long enough that I thought "I'm lost."

My lips still on his, I licked his lips. He groaned.

When I opened my mouth, he stiffened and pulled back. "Uh oh," I thought, "that's that."

"I've never," he croaked, his voice hoarse, "done that… kissed like that… with my tongue."

"Never?" I asked, disbelieving.

"Never."

"We don't have to."

"No, I want to. I just wanted you to know I've never. In case I'm bad at it, as I suspect I will be."

"Just follow me," I urged, my mouth back on his, softly.

When I opened my mouth, he opened his.

When our tongues touched, I felt like I had been shot from a gun.

I have been told I'm a good kisser. I hope it's true. I've certainly had a lot of practice.

JJ was also a very good kisser. Instinctively, he gave me just the right amount of tongue, fiercely when I was fierce, and gently when I was gentle.

We got swept away. The kiss was like a dam bursting, the water that had been held at bay now free and wild, roaring uncontrollably down the channel.

We kissed and kissed and kissed. We got lost in the kissing, moving around his office, his back against one wall, mine against the other, bumping against the door, jimmying the desk, scooting the filing cabinet a little.

We were reckless and wanton.

We were also gentle and sweet.

If you have seen the painting scene in SKAM France, then you know how we kissed. Only, our kissing lasted hours, not minutes.

"Oh, my," he finally said, his hand in my chest and his eyes on his watch. "It's 6:15. I have to go."

We had been kissing for more than four hours. My penis was so hard I thought it might burst. He had to feel it against him, although — no matter how hard I tried — I couldn't feel his against me. And I had tried hard.

My testes were so tight I thought they might never drop again.

"JJ," I said, "I'm so sorry."

"You have nothing for which to be sorry," he said, as he shoved papers into his briefcase. "I was here the whole time. And, I was present. Like I said, some things, we have to get them out of our system, or they get too big and weigh too much."

"What if it's not out?" I almost asked. "Are we okay?" I asked instead.

"I'm not, but we are."

"You're not?"

"No. My stomach is killing me. I'm going to have to explain why I'm inconsiderately late, why I'm hunched over, and why my lips are puffy and red."

Hi stomach killing him meant he was as aroused as I was. But, I hadn't felt a thing. I couldn't decoct why not.