Dressed in a lustful black, he entered that door that saturday night; he looked at me from head to toe; I was expectant, exalted, perfumed, made up. Resolutely and decisively wanting to touch him. He kissed my mouth softly while my carnal self, struggled to maintain composure and not stick my tongue until I could ring the bell that adorns the portal of his penetrating and delicious voice.
I warmed up; I could feel the blushing of my red face after those kisses of good omen. We went out to the street holding hands, while the taste of his umami was still on the tip of my lips, pricking my tongue to say something “inappropriate.” I felt the power between my legs; it was a real first date, the first conscious date of my adult life, it was perfect, an erotic dream come true. I was living every minute like it was the last day of my life.
We arrived at that place of dim light, I could not help looking at him, his chattering eyes kept telling me things that I tried to objectively dispel so as not to accelerate the pace of that something that was just beginning to bloom. I must confess: that night, insecurities began to clink in my head, trying to mislead my feelings, and get me out of that delicious state in which I was, but in the end they could not.
The alcoholic smell of your breath began to stay everywhere, that breath that turns me on while we, as two teenagers intoned by wine and beer, were unable to release our mouths of such a delicious pairing; lust was intense and passion showed its flame. Hours passed, we returned home along the same path between hugs, laughter with great echo and desire. The heat of that encounter was marked by the beat of drums in the moonlight in the middle of a jungle of passionate unrest humidity, moans, and the most embracing sex in the world.