HNT

I was nineteen, just-turned the month before.

I had just finished my first year of college and all of my hopes of casting-off the memories of high school and beginning anew, of someone finally calling me 'baby' instead of 'buddy', they'd all been dashed by another year of being man's best friend.

I was going to France--another oppertunity to start over. To meet new people in a new place and grow closer to the friends I was traveling with.

Maybe I'd finally get that one guy to see me as something other than a resource for good music and conversation.

Bercy Village, just outside of Paris.

The Frog--a British pub chain, our favorite haunt, well within stumbling distance of the hotel.

The Red Hot Chili Peppers were in town that night, and of all the places to have the after-party, they had it there. People lined the walls, crowding the bar and huddling around tables. Between the music and the chatter, there was a ceaseless roar drifting out through the open door and into the warm night.

Doubles of tequila. Lots of them.

Caramel and vodka shots, on the house.

This bright blue thing that tasted frighteningly like Windex--apparently it was the bar's specialty.

Sex on the Beach.

I kicked off my shoes. Bright red heels abandoned on the banquette.

I danced.

A lot.

With everyone.

With him.

I never got his name. That didn't really matter.

He was just warm, a blurred line of sweat trailing down his back, the fabric of his dress shirt plastered to his slick cocoa skin.

He was holding me. I was clinging to him.

So blurry, so hot, my hands gripping the collar of his shirt, never getting close enough.

He grinned, a flash of white breaking-up the darkness surrounding my head. And that was it.

His lips were on mine, his tongue in my mouth, stubble; the world didn't stop.

The music kept playing and the people around us kept dancing.

My friends cheered on, snapping pictures. He smiled again, his breath warm on my face.

More kisses, and I started to lose my balance.

Back, back...I pulled him down with me. Down on the table, sending Tequila Sunrises crashing to the floor. More kisses.

At some point, we smiled and parted ways.

I caught hell for being such a mess the next morning, groaning, hungover on line at the Eiffel Tower. It didn't matter.

First kiss--check.

I had my first PDA this week. I'm twenty-one now.

Rocking forward and back on the hard plastic seat, staring blindly as the blue lights lining the tunnel blur into streaks outside the opposite window; the train hurtles downtown.

Jefferson is sitting next to me. We're silent, but close.

I'm not his age and I don't really care.

But I feed off of him.

Walking back from lunch through his new neighborhood feels like ages ago now, things have come so far. Always a couple of hurried steps behind his confident stride, I remember feeling more like a kid catching up to Dad than his lover.

There was no hand-holding or soft laughter; it just wasn't like that and I respected his need for discretion.

This time though, his arm wound loosely around my neck, pulling me towards him until I could feel his lips pressing against my scalp, his nose buried in my hair.

I just let it happen. The train kept rocking.

Slowing. Stopping. Starting. Speeding. Slowing.

New passengers boarded, while others left.

Almost all of them stole a glance in our direction, I could feel it. It didn't matter.

I closed my eyes and felt him breathing slowly, evenly, into my hair.

His other hand found mine in my lap. I let my pointer finger trail softly over his, feeling the differences and savoring them. I drank in the image of our digits intertwined, resting on a sea of yellow floral silk.

We were nearing the end.

A couple got on, young, laughing, and sat down across from us.

Reflected in the window, we sat beside them--similar, but essentially very, very different.

Someday, I know I'll have that. I hope we each have that.

But for now, I'll take this.

Hands and lips, quiet murmurs and pecks 'good-bye'.

Someone who can see me as 'baby' and 'buddy'--who doesn't lock me into one place with his vision of me. Someone who sees all my potential as a person.

He's gone in a moment. I'm left rocking alone with the couple sitting across from me.

I cross my legs and cross my arms, staring at the blue lights as they whiz by.

I know they're watching me.

I'd be watching me too. Wondering what I was thinking, what my story was.

I barely know, myself, but damned if I'm not starting to find out now.

Happy Half-Nekkid Thursday!