It wasn't like that. Never has been. But I'm starting to think that it's a possibility that it could be like that. Me and him. Him and me. Sitting by the beach, or on the clock tower, eating ice-cream and being ourselves. Nothing but ourselves; bare and uncensored, whole but incomplete. Together.
I wasn't gay, wasn't straight, wasn't sure. Never understood why you would have sex with something with the same anatomy as you. Never understood why you would have sex with something so different from you either. So different (penises or vaginas) it was just release. Sexual tension, lust, thrust; in, out, in, out, in, release. Rinse, repeat. No matter who, it was the same.
But he could be different.
When I proposed we try he accepted, with sly smiles and anxious eyes.
When we did it wasn't the same, it was different. It was a good different. The anatomy was the same, but it was still different. All bones and milk skin, angles, heat and flesh. I wasn't the same as him, and it wasn't the same as I thought it would be. Touch, sight, sound, life. I always thought it was lust, love was foreign. But lust and love were intertwined. ( Love. What a funny thing.) And I was in love.
What was heat to some, burnt marks into my skin.
His smell ( cigarettes and caramel). His taste (like smooth ash). Touch ( like fire). Eyes (green emerald) and hair (red ruby). Acid trip. Rainbows of colour.
It was different, and while the smell of him was on my pillows, and the taste of his skin on my tongue was there, he would always be. With me, different (and the same) forever.