I have to go; it’s late, and I still have to make my way home. So I say my goodbyes, ask you to see me out for a second. And in that moment, before you can breathe or ask or change my mood, I do it.
I cup your face in my hands as if I was cupping my own and I kiss you. By that I mean, I don’t just put my lips on yours, in some shy gesture that requests permission. Instead I kiss you in a far too familiar fashion, letting the softness of my lips move over the softness of yours in complete comfort. I do not care in the slightest if I offend or not; I merely kiss you.
I feel your sharp intake of breath as I begin, but discount it, and let my love of your body be my driver. In a moment, your gasp is forgotten, as your lips start to move over mine too. There is no emotional promise in this moment and so, there can be no betrayal later; instead, all this is, is good. It is a good kiss, in good arms, in good light. You smell good. You feel good. Your arms circle me, my hand rests on your bicep. Our lips kiss on.
Somewhere behind us, inside at the party where no one can see us, someone laughs a laugh of real joy.
Your tongue asks me gently to part, and part I do. The strength of your mouth parts me further, and now it meets mine. There is passion growing with you, in you, and I let my lips part even more to invite you in. You moan with a moan that no one else can hear, and you quickly pick me up to move me so that my back is against the wall. Now, I am cornered by you. Now, all I can do is let your scent in, let your body in. My chin is raised and I am kissing you, over and over, your tongue in my mouth, knowing me, asking me over and over, and over and over I say yes.
Your hands were on my waist, but now one moves to my arm. When it does, I move slightly, so that the tiniest move from you will let you brush my soft breasts. Just one move, one tiny move….
After a moment, a horn honks outside. And then again. I pull my lips away, this time with my own moan.
“That’s my lift,” I say.
“Yes,” you reply. Is your breath slightly ragged? Why yes, I believe it is. You don’t move.
“I have to go home,” I say.
“I suppose you do,” you say, but again, you don’t move. I wait a beat.
“I promise I’ll come back.” You still don’t move, and I realise you are trying to regain your composure. I have pushed your buttons, it seems…
“I will come back,” I say again, my tone serious.
“Yes, you will,” you say, finally stepping back. It is both a promise to yourself, and a command to me.
I slip my wrap on, cold without your arms, and step out into the night.
Shameful Desires 