Part II of ‘I Met A Boy’
I met a boy. A while back. He was youthful, charismatic, and cocky. He dared me to watch him, to take what I wanted from him, and to exhaust everything that he had. I blogged about him. And it made me think about Boys in a new way.
And then the next person I met was a Man. He was also charismatic and cocky, but he didn’t let me gaze upon him in the same way that the boy did. It was grey outside. The light was fading. Not cold, but too cold for me to wear just a shirt. A haze of water hung in the air, threatening to fall like wet Paveways to seek out my rapidly chilling skin.
We’d been teasing each other. I touched his shoulders, he touched my hands. I touched his chest, he touched my face. I aquiesed to his control, and he held all the power. That’s quite at odds with the fact that I said I like to feel powerful in my previous post on this subject, but sometimes I don’t. And that’s complicated in itself and worthy of a post of its own.
And then we were in bed. Fully clothed still, like teenagers engaging in some kind of illicit behaviour. No time for taking clothes off, desire takes over and then it’s the shortest path to pleasure that can be found. A sense of urgency drives everything. And the rain taps gently against the window.
This one, this Man, he didn’t want to be gazed upon like the Boy. To be gazed upon as a Man means you give up your power, you relinquish control. You become coquettish. Perhaps even a Boy. No, it takes more than that to be a Boy.
He didn’t let me gaze upon him. And he controlled everything from start to finish. His body indicated what he needed, and his clothes hid him from my gaze. I took nothing, but gave far more than I was comfortable with.
He shared traits with the Boy. Confidence, cockiness, knowing that he was good – but this encounter was different. As they all are. Because he was a Man, not a Boy.
The raindrops had started falling as we headed back outside into the inky black night. Their life-affirming wetness reminding me of why I do what I do.