Dreaming of You

Come on in, the smoke is swirling, and within it are dreams...

Sitting in the theater, I can feel you start to fidget, which is odd, I look to your face and I can see you appear impatient, almost annoyed. I raise an eyebrow, and you just grimace and shake your head, shoving your chin at the stage. I resume watching the play, having a hard time paying attention because you keep moving.

After a few minutes you seem satisfied, and your posture relaxes. Your foot hooks around mine and you grab my hand. A smile is shared and we lean against one another as the actors move about, their story unfolding. The end is sad but fitting and you hold my hand tight as the applause ends and people begin to stand up. I again raise an eyebrow, curious; you just shake your head and we let the rest of the theater exit. Once it is down to a few people here or there, some talking, most still slowly moving to the exit, you wink and wiggle your foot.

Leaning over and looking at your foot, I see your underwear, purple and sheer, see through, a pattern of flowers in the lace, hanging from your ankle. A short burst of your low laugh startles me as it is so close to my ear, and you nibble at it. I turn, and we kiss. Slow, lips touching, our hands still held, my free hand reaches down to collect the favour you've left me, your free hand presses to my chest. Our lips press then part, like a subtle vibration I can feel your tongue lightly touch my upper lip, mine then chases your tongue back. You pull away.

Not often do you get that wicked look on your face. But when you do... If angels could sin, this would be it.

We finally start to exit the theater, you walk ahead of me, bodies close, as my own physical reactions are somewhat obvious. And you seem to be taking pleasure in continuing to tease me as you rub against me with accidental swipes of your hips and ass.

I calm somewhat, but am still feeling on edge, my body is hyper sensitive as your fingers brush inside my palm. Every scent around me seems to be magnified. The smell of your body is carried to me in surprising drafts as you move. Soap, sweat, arousal. No perfume. Just you.

I am unceremoniously yanked sideways as you dart through a door. I have been so caught up in my own sensations that I haven't noticed you testing doors for an open one and inside we go. The lights are off but I can see a row of windows high up, the room is not large, letting street light in, but it is so bright where it shines, the rest of the darkness is impenetrable. It is the darkness where you take me. And the darkness is where we find one another.

It is the smells, the taste, the touch. Our eyes are useless, it is the rest of our senses that make it so intense. Breaths come in short animal grunts, bursts of exhalations, sharp intakes of pleasure. Absurdly, I worry we won't find our clothes afterwards. The noises we make must surely be audible outside the room but there is little concern for the world outside our bodies.

When we finally do leave, I almost expect to be greeted by a crowd holding up signs with numbers, applause, shouts of encouragement. There is no way passion like that could go unnoticed. Instead, the lights are out, a few people move about cleaning up. We exit as quickly as possible.