I hoped that Timothy was cordial to Chris, but I was mute, fragile in my lust. Timothy later said that we were signed up for a package of dance lessons. I had no recall of that. I was already dancing on a high plane somewhere, perhaps in the clouds, on a mountain peak, in the middle of the ocean. As silly as that sounded, that was how it felt. I barely said goodbye to Chris when he let himself out.
“Do you wish to go upstairs to my room?” Timothy asked.
I was coherent enough to nod.
“Will we cleave together?”
I’d never heard it called that, but it sounded exactly like what I wanted. I nodded again.
And then, just as I’d envisioned, Timothy swooped me into his arms and carried me up the stairs.
Was it romantic? I really couldn’t say. How do you define romantic when we tore off each other’s clothes and were kissing, stroking, and carrying on as if passion had overridden all common sense. It was ardent but giving, and exactly how such an occasion should unfold. But cleave, we did. Several times, with smiles, sweet words, promises, and even a bit of laughter.
I guess I might have worried that a pookah might change when he became sexually excited. Timothy did not. His kisses continued fiery and enthusiastic. His efforts to lead me into glorious flights were successful, and the way he worshipped my body was something that boosted my self-confidence and made me feel even more special than before.
In one word, our joining together was perfection.
I told him that, of course.
“Did you have any doubt?” Timothy asked, smiling. “I loved you from the first moment our eyes met. I might have been brunt and off-putting; at least, that’s what you said, but that was only because I was in a daze. You cast your spell, and I was lost.”
For saying that, Timothy got another deep kiss, and I stroked his chest, a marvelous David statue of a chest, except warm, vibrant . . . and real.