Morning in Boston

I awoke in late morning to the sound of rain lashing against the windows. There was a body next to me, warm and strong, breathing in the gentle cadences of deep sleep. Disorientation set in for a moment for there had been so much the night before of drinking and dancing and conversation… I could not recall his name.

I opened my eyes and everything began to fall in to place. I was at a familiar hotel in Boston. I could not recall his name because he had never offered it to me, nor had I given him mine. It was not cheap anonymity, but a playful bit of mystery and… I rolled over carefully, not wishing to disturb him. His face was peaceful, handsome and lacking the early sense of discomfort it had worn when first we met. His head rested atop his left arm and I gazed again at the simple gold band on his third finger.

I had not set out to find some mercy to bestow, but it had come to that, had it not? His pain had been so deeply buried, almost cherished, nurtured and maintained. He had been with friends, they had dragged him out in a well-intentioned but ill-conceived effort to bring some excitement back in to his life. He appreciated their concern, but his presence was only physical, his joviality a careful facade. His heart ached with loss and grief.

I gathered myself together and slipped out of bed, donned a thin cotton robe and went to the balcony door. Outside the remnants of Hurricane Charley sluiced from the grey sky, batted about by gusts of breeze that were but pale remnants of the destructive fury unleashed only a day before and more than a thousand miles to the south. The doors opened easily and the moist air gushed against my face as I stepped out in to the rain, cool streams soaking me as I moved to the balcony rail, leaning out to take in the sights and sounds of the city and the storm. The rain was a staccato hiss and drum against all things man-made, a blanket of gentle noise smothering the typical sounds of a Boston Sunday morning.

Rainwater poured from the sky, cool and sweet on my skin, soaking through the thin fabric of my robe, cleansing in its own way as I contemplated the odd fates that brought me to this place at this time. Why am I always drawn to broken things, broken people? I am no altruist, I do not see it as my place to ease the suffering of those about me, yet when I encounter the wounded there is some deep desire for a connection that I cannot deny. I do not seek to heal. I seek to be with my own kind.

His voice startled me, but I could feel the warmth in it, and the longing. He stepped up behind me, his arms sliding down around my waist and I sank back against him, the two of us there in the rain. I could feel his need to speak, the desire to say something meaningful and sweet almost paralyzing him. That was something I could not bear, not now. So I turned and pressed my fingers to his lips, smiling at him as I reached down between us and gripped his swollen member through his shorts. His arms tightened around me and he stepped back, towards the door, but I would not follow. I would not leave the balcony.

I guided him back to one of the chairs on the small balcony and he settled in to it, reclining the back as I drew his shorts down his muscular legs. He reached for me, pulling open the front of my robe as I straddled him, the sodden garment sliding off my body as I settled down on top of him, my mouth hungry upon his. There were only a few minutes of this pleasurable mixture of warm skin and cool rain before our desire drew us closer and I felt the firm, sweet pressure of him entering me. I ground my pelvis down against his,, my hands on his chest holding me up as I worked with my legs, the two of us now focused solely on each other and the pleasure we shared. His hands moved, caressing my hips, my face, my chest, sewing ripples of shivering delight wherever they roamed. The sky opened up with a sudden, startling fury, rain pounding down as if the very floodgates of heaven had been cast open. We lurched, then laughed, then returned to that perfect synergy of flesh, desire and pleasure, all accentuated by the crashing deluge washing over and through us. Moments like that are never truly bad, but they are rarely so very, very good.

Hours later as we stood in the lobby, gazing in to each other’s eyes I felt a pang of regret. Here we were, two creatures so very unalike, yet there had been such an immediate and fulfilling bond between us. He had needed to talk of his young bride, torn from his side by a cancer that had left them barely enough time to understand what was happening before she was gone. And I had needed to tell the truth to somebody; even knowing he could not possibly believe. We stumbled upon each other at just the right time, in just the right place, in just the right way… yet it had to end. It was perfection, but the world does not gladly suffer perfection and tolerates it only in such fleeting moments as this.

He wanted to know my name, but I demurred. I told him the truth- someone such as I makes for a lovely weekend, but long term… I am poisonous. He did not believe me, but then he did not believe most of what I told him so that, too, was perfection of a sort. We parted finally, with that oh-so-very clich? ?maybe we’ll see each other again’. Perhaps we shall, but I doubt it. We each took what we needed from those hours together. It must be enough.

4 Responses to “Morning in Boston”

  1. Sex and Blogs


    (Not work-safe.)

  2. Well, you can thank Dean Esmay for sending me here tonight.

    I had a long day and then had a class to attend with a marvelous mixture of souls gathering to unite in our different journeys for a deep study into each of one of us come here for.

    This is very good writing and Dean and I love the different forms of Art. You do have a gift so do share it outside of this blog as well. The world is a better place, colorful and at the same time calming.

    You are appreciated.

  3. Superbly written! I came to your site via the infamous, and both this post and your comments on Kerry are most thoughtful.
    Many thanks.

  4. WOW, what a gift for prose you have! I am truly jealous.