Man Who Loves Stars, Part 2

Part One of this story is here.

The next time I see Man Who Loves Stars, he has again dropped off New Girlfriend who must be home by 11. He invites me to come stay over. I point out that I have a better bed and better heat and invite him to my place. He takes awhile – halfway there, he got my text, “Bring your pillow,” and had to go back for it.

We are in my tiny place – my tiny, borrowed place from a girl who isn’t here right now, with white walls that have sharpie-d on them affirmations of love from the friends of the girl who lived here before the girl who lives here now. Girl who lives here now wants to paint, but hasn’t gotten around to it. In the meantime, it’s like living in the back pages of someone else’s yearbook.

Man Who Loves Stars lies down with me and we spend nearly two hours just talking. It’s dark and cold outside and warm inside, and there’s that feeling of the first phone conversations with a new relationship. When we talk he touches me, strokes my face and hair, runs his hand down my arm. It is so unrushed, so gentle, so well-lit with a low-wattage bedside lamp. When we kiss, his lips are thin but firm, I haven’t kissed anyone but Lover in awhile and it’s strange and wonderful to be with someone new. When he takes off my clothes, he actually says “Oh my God…” It is joyful to be touched by his worshipping hands.

He spends a long time kissing me, touching me, not in any rush to get anywhere specific. We’ve talked about New Girlfriend, she lets him go down on her until she comes but won’t return the favor. This, to me, is unspeakably selfish behavior. Were she a man, no-one would respect her or want to be with her. But she’s a girl, and he’s nice, so she gets away with it. When he goes down on me, I tell him the truth – it feels wonderful, I’m not likely to come from it. He doesn’t care, he likes doing it, and as long as I’m having a good time, he’d like to keep doing it. This is the kind of oral I like. Slow, lazy, no reassurance about his prowess required. It feels lovely, the way he likes me comes through his mouth and his hands on my hips and belly. After a long while, I tell him it’s his turn and roll him over. I spend as much time as he did – kissing his ears, his neck, his throat, running my hands through his hair, working my way down his chest, his stomach, the insides of his thighs. I go down on him – I don’t remember his cock or what I did, just that it was clean and sweet and when I asked him if he wanted to come, he said “Hell yeah” in a way that was cute and not tacky and then spurted in my mouth while I swallowed and was glad to do it.

He spent the night, I slept in his arms, he slept in mine, and we woke up with the sun in our faces and the smell of breakfast. At breakfast, a public affair, I was such a good girl, spending time near him but not doing the horrible possessive girly one-step-to-the-side dance. After omelets and juice, we went back upstairs where I rode him with all our clothes on until I came in a breathless, gasping rush. He said, “I don’t know what you just did, but that was amazing.” Oh, it was nothing – it only took fifteen years to learn how to come when I want. (It was worth the wait.)

I call him Man Who Loves Stars because he gave me a book about the constellations. Inscribed in the front:

I thought you might find this book useful in your travels. I’ve taken a similar copy with me in years past and it’s brought me comfort. The stars are always there.