In the Pink

The moment that you feel his hand on your flesh, that’s when you know.

Not all trysts work this way, it can be freely admitted. But there are occasions where you instinctively know that the owner of said hand is one with whom there is something very unusual and special going on.

You know for sure that you two have connected in a very unique way; that the sex will be of the mind-blowing, furniture-moving, scrape-me-off-the-ceiling variety… These are usually the times where you have cause to feel as though an electric shock just ripped straight through you, from nipples-to-cunt, with a nod and a wave at your g-spot.

And you’re right. A casual touch over a table in a restaurant, as he passes you the soy sauce. You take a lump of wasabi with chopsticks clutched in trembling fingers — what the fuck was that?! Your skin is tingling as though you’ve just been rubbed with mentholated cream, and your heart is beating faster than it should.

You take a deep breath, and try to compose yourself, but there’s no point. You don’t really want to. Such levels of connection are so rare and so precious that you want to savor every second, but still cannot quite help your knee-jerk reaction to deny it, suppress it, re-normalize the situation. Each attempt you make is very clearly in vain.

Nothing seems normal at the moment, but you revel in the abnormality. This is what you thrive on, and you plan to utilize it to the max.

The remains of the miso soup and the tuna tataki are arranged in that lackadaisical manner that the leftover food from a carefully ordered meal is wont to take; sprawled in disarray over the dishes where once they were heaped so beautifully.

And you two sit, exhausted from the effort of eating, but exhilarated at what is to come. From the moment your fingertips touched you knew that you had connected in that amazingly intimate, physical way, and the countdown was on till the required niceties were out of the way and you could be alone.

Although, if the truth be told, both of you had, at separate times, considered sweeping the dishes onto the floor, throwing the other over the table and fucking them senseless. Said thought had rendered the thinker speechless for a while; which had actually gone unnoticed due to the disproportionate amount of body language being used as the primary means of conversation.

Bills are paid and you leave, and as you do, your hands bump against each other, which immediately becomes a firm handhold. The urgency is palpable and rising, and you know that it doesn’t matter where, or what, but you must be alone with him now. Now. NOW! Apparently he feels the same as he drags you down the side street where his car is parked and almost throws you up against it, much as you might have thrown him over the restaurant table, and kisses you for the first time.

It’s amazing how much a kiss can convey; how it surpasses speech in its communicative ability. You know what he is thinking, feeling, needing and wanting — and he knows the same about you.

It’s only a matter of time before it happens. The time it will take for you to drive there. A journey which will not allow you to separate your hands, and a destination where the remainder of your bodies will continue what the hands started.

And all this you know, from his touch.