The scent is called Jacqueline, and I have missed it for far too long.

I don’t know how long I breathe her, only that she holds me just as close, only that she breathes me, too, only that her short, dark hair feels softer than silk against my cheek when she nuzzles at the edge of my jaw. She stands up on tiptoe, bringing my kisses lower, to her nose, to her lips, and her eyes sparkle in amusement, silent laughter at my gentle touch. It’s a challenge, or maybe an invitation; her body presses against me, light as a dream, daring me to pick her up, daring me to catch her against the wall and kiss her hard, daring me to leave her flushed and gasping for breath.

She’s just a little bit too tempting, and I cradle her in my arms, cupping her pert little rear in my hand. “If you keep doing this, one day you’ll lose more than just your breath,” I whisper, and she purrs her contentment back at me.

I feel her nibble on my ear, tracing her tongue around its the edge. “Some nights, you’re ready to lose it all.”

A knife-edged frisson of arousal races up my spine, splintering into a little burst of excitement beneath her tongue. It has a name, and it is Jacqueline. I whisper it against her neck, unable to say any more.

We cuddle on a mess of pillows, feeding one another. The strawberries I dip into confectioner’s sugar, admiring their crystalline sparkle before pressing them between her lips. She makes tangelos open like flowers, spreading their segments like petals, and we pluck them away, one at a time. They burst into flavor as we bite them, full of juice, wetting our lips and fingers. Jacqueline suckles mine clean, and I nip gently at hers, and then at her lips. At first I’m only barely kissing her, tasting the wetness on her lips with a stroke of my tongue, but each time she melts against me, just a little closer, and each time I kiss her just a little more deeply.

Before the second tangelo disappears, I barely even notice the citrus anymore. Something else compels me, something sweeter than any nectar. It is the taste of Jacqueline, Jacqueline and her desire, and even as I taste her, my hunger only grows.

The last bite of fruit is hers, but she shakes her head, smiling as she takes it from the plate. “For you,” she says, squirming beneath me. She bares her neck to me, once she’s comfortable, and bright, golden-orange juice drips from between her fingers. It spatters against her naked skin, pooling against her collarbone, and a single fat droplet begins its long, lonely journey down her body, disappearing beneath her blouse.

“Jacqueline,” I whisper. “Jacqueline. It’s such an honor.”

She answers in her stifled, musical whimpers as I begin to lap the juice away from her throat. Her buttons are clumsy beneath my trembling, excited fingers, but soon I ease away her shirt, and then the bra beneath, enchanted by the milky smooth skin I reveal. I hadn’t dreamed it could be so soft, or her scent so much more feminine. Tiny, pink nipples cap her small, perfect breasts, coming to attention as I circle them with my fingers, coating them in the nectar I’ve stolen from her skin.

In turn I nurse from each one, bathing them with my tongue and slow, suckling kisses. I draw no milk from her, only low, gasping moans, and she curls her fingers into my hair, holding me close. “Jacqueline,” I whisper, teasing her skin with the warm caress of air. “So very perfect.”

I creep downwards, exploring the long, taut muscles of her belly, my sweet, liquid guide fading into the faint, natural taste of her skin. My kisses are careful, barely an inch apart, and long enough to feel her grow hot beneath my lips and hands. A shiver runs up her spine as I come to the low rise of her jeans, lingering there a moment longer.

“Jacqueline?” I look up to her, unsure of how much further she wants to go. My heart pounds against the wall of my chest. She swallows hard and nods, hooking my fingers into her waistband.

The buttons on her fly open as I pull them apart, counting their slow, inevitable pops, counting one… two… three. She gasps as I peel the denim from her hips, twisting away from me in a playful, reflexive tease. A warm, appreciative growl escapes my throat, and I wrestle her back, holding her close, under my weight. Her panties are cotton, boy-cut and snug around her hips, the worn, soft black edged in pink. I hadn’t imagined her wearing these, not under those practical tomboy clothes, but suddenly I can’t think of her any other way.

I can feel her through the fabric, and taste her, too, when I guide her legs apart and lean downwards for the kiss. It makes her blush, exactly the way she did the first time I held her, exactly the same way she did when we slept together, still dressed but closer than we’d ever felt before. A harder kiss makes her blush a little more, but it’s the tentative brush of my tongue that makes her squeal. It’s the tart little hint of dampness I find that shakes my control, that reminds me of how painfully much I’ve wanted her, and for how very long.

The months of waiting come down hard, her scent and her taste and her warm tenderness too close, too much to resist. My world dissolves into Jacqueline. It dissolves into her nails digging into my skin, into the cold night air I feel as she pulls my shirt over my head. It dissolves into the soft rough denim and the smooth muscled thighs, into those impossibly perfect tan legs, writhing against the jeans left around her ankles. Most of all it dissolves into her voice, into her sweet little yelp as I nip her through her panties, her panting, babbling encouragement as I take the fabric in my teeth, and then her low, feral moan as I slide them down her thighs and creep back up, lapping at her warm, newly-naked skin. I’ve never wanted anyone so badly in my life.

I want to enjoy her a little longer, to nuzzle into her neat little delta of soft, dark-chocolate fuzz, but she pulls me up into a kiss, squeezing me closer as she tastes herself on my lips. “I’m ready now,” she purrs.

Suddenly I remember how tiny she feels in my arms, how delicate she seems sometimes. “This is forever, you know.”

“Yes.” She bites at the corner of her lip, considering. For a moment she looks up at me through her lashes, and I almost expect her to stop me. We’ve stopped before. She loves to tease.

This isn’t a tease, though, not this time, not tonight, not after the year we’ve been together. I feel her hands drift down my sides, long-fingered, gently eager as they undo my pants, pushing them down, over my hips.

She leans up, her voice just barely a purr against my ear, a breath of agony, a whisper of release. “That’s why it’s with you.” I feel her squeeze me close again, and she settles back against the pillows, her eyes glittering with silent anticipation.

And so the night begins, of course, with a kiss.

So… yeah. I’m pretty sensitive to alcohol. I didn’t touch it again for another three and a half years.

Again, like many American boys, I had my second drink (and the first one I actually enjoyed) with my girlfriend. Her name was Jacqueline, my tiny little half-French girl. One way or another she had a little flask of her father’s cognac, some French white wine distilled into its purest essence and aged, longer than both of us put together, until the barrels stained it dark, rich amber. We were sitting in a park when she offered it to me, in one of those shady, private clearings, sealed away from the world, just the two of us watching the light dapple against our skin and clothes, talking about nothing in particular. It was stronger than wine by a long shot, and I felt it at the first swallow, felt myself relax, felt myself go mellow, placid and vulnerable, but it felt right in a way that my father’s wine did not. It was warm and spicy, smooth and sweetly addictive, a small, refined pleasure that slipped inside before I could notice, melting down my throat and coiling its vapors up into the root of my brain, leaving fingerprints across my soul.

Something – well, it didn’t quite click; it really just slid gently and effortlessly into place – something past the really conscious reaches of my mind. Cognac was the perfect drink for her, the perfect accent to the way she felt, comfortable and deeply intoxicating, perfect to just hold and cradle in my hands. She nuzzled up and we spent an hour passing the flask back and forth, lounging, lazy, breathing in each other, the earth and the plants, as we murmured our quiet thoughts. We didn’t do anything more, really; I don’t think we needed to. It was a gesture of trust, like a kiss along the jaw, all at once sex and not-sex, naked and not-naked, sweet and vulnerable more than anything I’d ever felt before.

Alcohol meant something. By the end of summer, Jackie and I broke up, still on the best of terms, but the moment stayed with me, this private, transcendent sort of experience, this intimate sort of space where you could slow time to a crawl. I learned to listen, learned to hear the thoughts in the glass, the attitudes and subtexts that it could hold. I can’t control it. It comes out of this primitive, sensory part of the brain, the part where smell and taste and touch and trust and love feel a little fuzzy around the edges, where alcohol blurs the line just a little bit more. It’s sex and not-sex, the lightest touch of falling in love, baser than instinct, more sacred than God.

You’ll have to excuse me if I wander a little. As I’ve said, I’m a little sensitive. Cognac’s a thoughtful kind of drink.

Later my friend Jen asked if I was going to ask her out or just consider it until she moved away, so I dated her until our time ran up. She didn’t like cognac, really. It didn’t suit her; she said she really wasn’t that kind of girl. Jen was the kind of girl who looks an awful lot like an unspeakably pretty boy, six feet tall in her bare feet, her hair buzzed shorter than mine. Scotch whisky suited her better, without water or ice, thick with the taste of smoke and peat. She dragged me out with her friends, made me drink with her until I wobbled unsteadily in my shoes, then caught me tight against walls and called me uke. It was a kick in the teeth, a sharp, sudden jolt that bled into a hot, enjoyable sort of rush, excitingly uncomfortable in its own way. We went to her friends’ apartments to drink, five or six of us at a time, for music and mayhem and small, cathartic confessions, staring at each other over the rims of our tumblers. A glass of Scotch was challenge and desire, agony and love, a whisper of boy-hard muscle under girl-soft skin, ink-black twill and glittering silver studs.

Sometimes we went to bars for the same, but we took the booths, shrinking the world down until it held the table and nobody else, maybe people we invited in to join us. Scotch was… not savage, just feral, confident and proud, almost too strong for me to handle. It made sense.

She taught me about beer, too, about its sharp, clean taste and its lightly bitter finish, the earthy taste of barley and wheat laced with hops. We drank it on her balcony, watching the sun set over San Francisco, or watching movies, just us, a dozen of her friends, whoever we felt comfortable drinking around. I think people matched their beers, too, bottles or cans, bock or dopplebock or pilsner, Corona or Guinness, microbrews and imports. Jen made fun of me for my choices, bottles of light, gentle Tsingtao next to her dark, grainy Munich beers, the taste of hops so strong in hers that mine were like water beside them. Beer is a casual thing, a picnic thing, a campfire thing, a thing for drawing just a little closer, never so sweet or dear as something stronger.

Wine I had to learn for myself, even with a friend who liked to make suggestions. Wine doesn’t keep the way liquor does, and it’s much more expensive than beer, so it took a while for me to find my bearings. I didn’t like so much the sweet, unpolished wines my father drank, but vibrant, moody reds with long, mellow tannins and the rounded bite of oak, wines that stayed in my mouth long after I swallowed, fading off into long, lingering memories that died with a single breath. They bled into my food, accented and changed its character. They had to go with food; I’m not sure why. Wine is a drink to share at the table, a drink to bring food together, some kind of primitive ritual of community, some personal introduction, just beyond the personal circle. I pair mine by tradition, darker wines with darker meats, light, clear whites with fish, but my friends like to mix them as they please, and it makes sense, somehow.

In Vino, Veritas, they say. In more than one way, it’s true.

This idea captivates me as I get older, this compounded observation built on the sheer power of memory, that a glass reflects its owner, somehow, that there are pairings made for people, just as much as pairings made for food. Amaretto is a guilty rapture, Hyptnotiq some vaguely distasteful kind of sin. Limoncello is cute, disarmingly sunny, Blavod a midnight, whispered memory. I can play with this idea forever, and some compulsion tells me to. When people drink around me, their glasses whisper to me, even through the masks of society and station, through the distance of instinctive politesse, even though I know it might be wrong. They tell me a little about their owners, and I listen, enchanted. It’s a subtle judgement I can’t control, but I don’t really mind.

It’s just the liquor talking.

I count her vertabrae, kissing up her spine, to her neck, along the curve of her jaw, finally to her ear. In the morning I’ll still taste her skin upon my lips. I tell her this, and it makes her laugh, makes her turn and nuzzle back at me before she settles down again, her breathing slow and deep, calm and even.

That is when I begin to write. There isn’t much form, or very much plot, only a thousand obscene fantasies, the texts of dreams that have come without her, kisses and caresses, licks and silk and collars, love and sodomy and cuffs and hard, careless fucking. They spill out, a torrent of words, just a million strokes of dark, elemental blackness against her skin.

I suppose they are good, these uncertain transcriptions, but somehow I do not feel them; in dream-logic they are not yet real, written in ink but not in flesh. Soon there is no more skin to cover, and she sits, bathed in the candlelight, to see what I have done. She reads, silently mouthing the words back to me. Her eyes glitter with approval, and the words crystalize against her skin. Made flesh now, they move with her, move over muscle and bone as she takes me into her arms, and it is there that they become complete.

I don’t remember how I met him, or when, only that it was very long ago, and that I had not yet learned that I could love men. Somehow we seduced one another, like heroes of old, two horsemen, each circling the other, endlessly jealous of the other’s smooth, effortless movements, until anger and fear bled into lust and admiration, and the four became two and the two became one, just as earth and horse and man and steel once blended into one seamless force of dangerous beauty. We talked for hours across the ether, staving off the loneliness of the world with our desire. He taught me to love my body, wiping away my shame at the soft-edged, almost-girlish curves, and I loved him for it, returning his quiet tribute in bright Kodak color and regal, epic language, my best imitations of the hot, just-barely-innocent styles I adored best.

I dreamed much more, then, still the quiet, beautifully confused dreams of the late-blooming child, and I often dreamt of him. I dreamt of his body, pressed to mine, like a coolie’s, strong and somehow controlling in his submission to my will, and its heat, seeping into my body as I took my pleasure upon it, so wonderfully hot against the cool night air. I dreamt of his skin, smooth and milky against the blackness of the sheets, and in the hot, bothersome nights of summer, I dreamt of him above me as I stretched, catlike, on the bed, egging him on with little playful yelps until his tribute of white, sticky gold had satisfied me.

He told me that he dreamt, too, told me, once, of the beautiful tomorrow that might one day come, the day that dreams and truth might come together. He poured me a thousand dreams of things we’d do together, and I drank his words eagerly, never feeling so wanted before. I recorded them, even, played them to myself at night, when I lay alone and frustrated, sliding my tongue against the roof of my mouth, yearning for fullness there, but finding only emptiness. As the months slid by, the calls became fewer, and shorter, though no less beautiful, but they blossomed now and again into their former glory, keeping me ever eager for the next. They turned into a year, fading again, and I pushed back against the void, wanting more, needing more, but it only pulled away from me, an endless tease that neither let me rest nor brought me satisfaction.

They were beautiful times, though, and his prince adored his lone subject, bound in a nut-shell but king of infinite space. Certainly even the most learned scholars of the court could never have prophesied his fall.

I spent each Saturday afternoon with some friends, in a comfortable refuge where we could indulge in our wordy playgrounds. We called it the the Circle of Scribes, and in it we shared our efforts and our smaller troubles, enjoying the banter, kinship, and petty little rivalries of the group.

I met Henri there, one day, another friendly soul reaching out to another boy another thousand miles away, close enough for hope but too far for touch. We played the ancient game of allusions, teasing each other’s minds from behind a dozen veils, each new story a Chinese puzzle-box, trying to stump each other or hint at our lovers so far away. Slowly, we came to know each other the most intimate way, from the inside out, slowly peeling away the beautiful words, to the literature beneath, and then the minds behind that. I knew his volumes of Dumas before I knew his fantasies, and he knew the reverent touch of my brush-pen on paper before he ever felt it on his skin. He taught me to love the cultured, rolling accent of his voice, faintly Cajun French, before I ever heard the low, feline purr of his sleek Yamaha, all glistening blue and chrome, wicked fast even standing still. He fell in love, he said, with the images I caught on paper, long before he loved the ones I caught on film.

That took time, though, less like two horsemen than like two friends, lovers in spirit but only barely aware of the seduction that washed unheard on the edges of our consciousness. It began, like so many other wonderful things, as we sat over our pads of paper, he with his signature strong, fragrant Turkish coffee, I with the thick, creamy milk that relaxed me so well. We talked a little, in our teasing, half-flirtatious banter, lapsing into silence as the urges came. He had written a story, and a beautiful one, but also a farewell, a mournful cry over a love still wondrous and perfect on the surface, but rotted away beneath, now only a gilded shell over the decaying body of memory and wishes beneath.

“You’re leaving him, then?”

“Yes. I’m happy you caught that. I only hope he will, too.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’ll shed no tears.” He was matter-of-fact about it, as though it had happened long in the past, and it surprised me; he showed none of the passion I’d seen in his words.

“It’s okay to cry sometimes, you know.”

“My tears ran dry a month ago, B.T., when I knew I had to write this.” He reached out, ruffling my hair beneath his long, elegant fingers, and I offered him a comforting little smile. “Sometimes it’s important to be able to touch someone.”

“You don’t have to tell me that.” It was a weak joke, but he smiled anyway, and ruffled my hair a little more. “But it’s a beautiful goodbye, Henri. He’ll hurt, I think, but in the way of poets.”

He got up to leave, crossing his fingers. “I hope so, B.T. Wish me luck.” I gave him a nod and turned back to my story.

He came over for dinner a few nights later, and we talked of our little troubles over fish and rice, and the sharp-bodied ice wine that he brought with him. His lover was uncaring, worse than uncaring, clueless, never understanding the depths of the beautiful, perfect requiem sculpted for their love.

I’m an easy, friendly drunk, though, and I smile a lot when the alcohol hits me. It’s not the kind of shy, little smile I usually carry; it’s big and goofy, the kind that makes you want to pull little happy sex-noises from, the kind, as Henri says, that couldn’t look friendlier until it was wrapped around your cock. And it’s real. Everyone’s my friend when I’m drunk. Henri holds his alcohol better, but he’s like the ocean, gentle and seductive in his confidence and muted, irresistible aggression. He had never seen my apartment before, and I proudly showed him around, like a schoolboy, everything he wished to see, never realizing the way he pulled me deeper into my drunken friendliness, slowly unfolding my life like a rose before him. He saw first my battered old Selectric and the small collection of calligraphy, but slowly, the show-and-tell grew more intimate, from my cameras to the prints they let me make, then to the half-finished letters I’d written to Val and the sheets I lay on while I wrote them. He even noticed the gentle curves of the toys on my shelf, half abstract and half obscene, leading me with his questions until I told him of each one and its smooth, special sensation, deep inside, and the ways they made me feel. “There’s something really special in a good toy, something wonderful when you’re alone,” I told him, licking my lips, watching innocently as he stalked around me, licking his own. “It’s the weight and shape of it, I think… the way it makes you feel warm and full and wanted, loved and wanting more.”

He was admiring the clear, perfect glass in my hands, I thought, until he caught me up against the wall in a smooth, fluid motion, swallowing my words with a kiss. I’d only kissed girls before, and they kissed as I did, understated in their gentle passion, inviting the slow wave of desire to grow as it willed to grow. Henri’s desire was already strong, though, and his kiss caught me as a wave might catch a shell on the beach, filling my mouth with its warmth, so deep and powerful that I could only respond. It held me captivated as I felt his hand cup my rear, picking me up as his strong fingers kneaded the flesh through the worn-thin denim. I felt his hips through it, too, and the thick hardness that he ground against me. “Don’t feel wanted, B.T., ” he breathed, breaking the kiss. His eyes sparkled in the light, like the brilliant sapphire stud in his ear. “Know you’re wanted. Be wanted. Don’t want more. Get it.”

My breath came deep and ragged as I melted into his embrace, comforted by his words. Through the heavy fog of alcohol and excitement, all I could do was nod, and pull him closer, to begin the kiss anew.

The moment melted into alcoholic bliss, and the next I knew, we were clutching at each other, scrambling to pull away the clothes between us, lost in the tangle of limbs, and he tore my jeans open, hearing the rapid staccato pops of the button fly. A hot, desperate longing grew in me, somewhere deep inside, as he pulled away the denim and the cotton beneath, making little pleased noises as he exposed the flesh beneath, and gave me a little kiss, a gentle press of his lips that slid down and opened his mouth wide as he swallowed me, bathing me in the hot, wet caresses that had filled my mouth a few moments before, as his eyes glittered up invitingly at me.

He brought my legs up, over his shoulders, and gently pulled away from the kiss, letting the warmth evaporate from my flesh in the cool night air as he slid up my body, raising my legs with him, until I felt them pressing against my chest. Holding me there, helpless beneath him, he ground his hips insistently to mine, leaning forward to whisper in my ear, just a faint hiss of pleasure as I squirmed beneath him, lost in the pleasure of his hands at my rear and his warm, hairless skin, soft and wonderfully smooth against my own. “You’ve never done this before, have you?”

I shook my head, blushing hotly; for all I’d written and dreamed, I’d never been touched this way before. “Only girls,” I murmured.

He laughed gently, lowering his weight onto me, pinning me beneath him as he slicked himself with lube. “Time to find out how the boys play, then.”

I’m afraid I only remember the rest in quick, sudden flashes, like my body, accepting him so easily, and my screams, sharp-edged with sparks of beautiful pain and unspeakable delight, and my writhing on my sheets, jerking every time he thrust into me, threatening to tear me in half with his thickness. More than that, though, I remember being a warm little plaything beneath his hands, and the way he held me tight afterwards, drifting off to sleep, as though he wanted nothing else so much in the world.

I woke up clear-headed and scared, remembering Val now, and my devotion to him. Henri’s comforting embrace still held me warmly captive, though, so I wriggled until he woke up. “Sleep well, kitten?” he rumbled, letting his long, elegant fingers stroke against my belly, feeling the hard, crusted reminders of last night’s pleasure.

Purring despite myself, I settled back down, pulling his arms tighter around me, and began to tell him my story with Val, of the sheets and the fantasies and our shared moments on the phone, too far apart to share any more. The gentle strokes never ended, playing a slow, soothing rhythm on my flesh, reassuring me as the words became a crying torrent, babbling out beyond my control, and I felt my cheeks grow hot in shame against his chest.

“It’s okay to cry sometimes, B.T.,” he soothed. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” He squeezed me close again, and I felt his lips press against my forehead, as he might have kissed a little brother. “Sometimes the body needs what the heart can’t have.” I made a little face at him as he pulled the sheets tight around me and slipped out of bed, leaving me to their seductive caresses. As I watched his fluid, jungle-cat walk slip confidently from the room, I realized that they had never felt so comfortably warm before.

I slipped into the shower as he toweled off. The air was thick with steam and faintly spiced with Henri’s cologne, and I breathed deeply of it as the deliciously hot water washed away the sweat and guilt from the night before, leaving only the dull, satisfied pain and tenderness of a body wracked by pleasure. My fingers began to wander as I slumped against the tile wall, exploring the sweet, sensitive places where he had gone before, and I felt a low, moaning purr escape my throat as the night came surging back to meet me, a flush of sweet, adoring pleasure cloaked in the ethereal fog of alcohol.

The sweet smell of fresh strawberries and crackling batter filled the kitchen by the time I broke my reverie and wandered out, wrapping myself in a soft robe. Henri greeted me with a hug, slipping an arm around my waist to hold me close against his side. “I don’t know what you like for breakfast,” he shrugged, “so I decided to make some crepes.”

His hands were an artist’s, I noticed, or perhaps a surgeon’s, slim, long-fingered, and elegant, his touch an effortless seduction of reality, light enough to fold the papery-thin pancakes without tearing them, but strong enough to melt on the curve of my body, as though it belonged there, bundling me into his lap as we began to eat. The crepes were wonderful, such a perfect, beautiful pleasure that I could have sworn them sinful, melting seductively from clean, crisp simplicity into the thick, pure sweetness of the strawberries and chocolate hidden within, catching me in some half-expected, half-surprised pleasure, and I found myself settling comfortably into Henri’s lap, too happily satisfied to move.

He wanted to cuddle more, to savor the way I fit against him, and deep inside I wished the same, but he must have felt my unease. “I’ll go now, and give you some thinking time,” he whispered, gently helping me to my feet, and kissed away a little trace of syrup at the corner of my mouth. “Take care, okay?”

Hours later, I found myself sitting under a lemon tree in the park, dialing Val’s number, over and over, hearing his phone ring, hoping to reach him, but he never answered. I ate alone that night, taking no pleasure in my food, and curled fast asleep, wrapping the sheets tightly around myself, as though their embrace could pull away the emptiness I felt within. Morning felt little better, so I reached once more for the phone, hoping to find some answers to the questions I felt. Val answered, this time, but only a few words passed before he left me to the quiet company of my thoughts. Henri’s answer came as a knocking at my door, a few gentle, persistent taps that stirred up memories of the hands that made them.

He’d come, he said, out of worry; I hadn’t joined the Circle the day before, as I always had before. The sheaf of papers in his hand lent some truth to it, so I invited him in and began to read, chatting idly with him as the pages fluttered beneath my fingers. I turned to his, almost unconsciously, hunting through it for the notes I knew it hid. His story told of a frontiersman, one of those big American heroes of legend, a man who wandered a thousand miles in search of treasure, only to find the wealth he sought in the town he once called home.

How long he sat there I still don’t know, but he let me think of what I’d read, knowing full well the turnings within my mind, and the troubled feelings within my heart, so he waited patiently, putting his arm around my shoulders. “Still the world turns, B.T.,” he murmured, eventually. “You can’t dwell on it forever.” I wanted to protest; a day was not forever, after all. I don’t think he expected a response, though, and one never came. Already he was pulling the warm, comfortable leather of his jacket over my shoulders and fastening a helmet under my chin. He lifted my gaze up, made a few adjustments, and kissed me between the eyes. “Come on, kitten. Let’s go places.”

I rested against his back for a while, as we drifted through the city on his Yamaha, watching the endless parade of street life. He smelled of New England oak in the warm spring rain and fresh, black pepper, of motor oil and sweet incense, and I held myself closer, intoxicated with the smell and feel and wonder of him, before I remembered myself, loosening my grip once more. I wasn’t ready to go there yet.

When lunchtime came, we found a comic faire, stretched out over a few awning-covered blocks of street, and decided to spend the day there, milling through the stacks of robots and Nazis, sweet, sexy schoolgirls and schoolboys, their little romances, and the slimy tentacle-things that tried to tear them all apart. The smell of yakitori filled the air, and we wandered together, chewing on the pieces of hot, tender chicken. We watched costumed dog-boys fall flat on their faces, arch-enemies shouting epithets at each other from across the streets, and legions of different skirt-chasers slapped silly by dozens of pretty girls, all in the fun, affectionate spirit of the day. I even found a new friend in one of them, a tall, svelte catgirl with a wonderfully bent view of the world that I found hard to resist. She noticed a book of Hokusai prints that caught Henri’s eye, so I bought it for him, despite his protests, and he bought me a soft hat with furry kitty-ears, in spite of mine.

Jen bought a big, gleaming black rubber tentacle and chased us with it, just for fun.

After the vendors had closed, one by one, and the crowds had begun to break apart, spiraling off into the night, we found a little French restaurant nearby, the end to our quest for dinner. There was no menu, the waiter explained, only a few questions, and the chef would make what he felt we would most enjoy. It seemed strange to us, but we played along, letting him scrawl notes on our tastes, and he left for the kitchen a few moments later. The chef made me a beautiful Trout Amandine, with golden slivers of almond over the crisped golden fish, and Henri found a lightly browned rabbit beneath a silver cover, carefully glazed with a delicate brandy sauce that drew quiet praise from the waiter, as he left us to our food. It seemed a crime to mar his art, but in the end, we ate in reverent silence, watching each other through the candlelight.

When the last roll was eaten, and the last bone picked clean, our waiter returned to offer us our final drinks, and a bill for the evening’s fare. Henri took a glass of aged Bourbon whiskey, but I remembered too well the fruits of our last drinks together, and drank only Pellegrino. He saw my hesitation, I think, and his whiskey sat untouched.

We wandered a little more in the labyrinths of the city, stopping now and then to feed quarters into the loud, flashing machines that we found, shouting our obscenities at the endless digital zombies and a thousand glittering balls of polished chrome. Perhaps we were too loud, too indulgent of our whims, but also we were too caught up in simple, innocent fun to care. In time, the arcades closed as the bright city lights began to dim, and the Yamaha carried us home.

The morning sun found me tucked neatly into bed, sleeping happily despite its warm insistence. I wore my pajamas, and I found my clothes neatly folded on the chair nearby, but I could not remember undressing, or even reaching home, only feeling the warm, soft leather of Henri’s jacket against my cheek, and the low, rumbling purr of the engine beneath us. It was a pleasant memory, and I stayed there for a while, watching the sunbeams play against my pillow, before I rose to meet the day.

It went slowly, with the horrible creeping pace of uncertainty, and many times, I wanted to find Henri or call Val, and beat against a door, or scream across the ether, until I found the truth behind my jumbled mess of feelings. Eventually I found myself sprawled beneath the lemon tree once more, numbly scrawling away at my little pad of paper as I ate at take-away curry beneath its spreading branches. I called Val, then, losing myself as he told me his secret dreams of pleasure, and we talked for an hour, as beautifully as we ever had before, but then he had to go, before I could speak of my indiscretions. The wind ran cold soon after, even through the curry’s fire, leaving me miserable and alone on the hill as it blew flower-petals from the gardens below across the setting sun.

My sheets felt colder that night than they ever had before.

A few days passed, and life fell once more into familiar routine, much as it had gone before. I ate only mechanically, when I was hungry, as my food lost its taste, and my playthings gathered dust on the shelves, unused, as they ceased to bring me pleasure. Still I wrote, though, still I felt the keys against my fingertips in their beautiful, clicking rhythm, reaching within, into the dark and secret places from which my passions grew, but now the words came with voices and feelings I barely felt were mine. It scared me, a little, and I pulled away, bottling them up until they became too much to bear, and the words came bursting out, time and time again, pouring onto the paper as fire and tears that I could barely hold within.

It felt horrible, like beating myself endlessly for things beyond my control, and it felt beautiful, like touching the fundamental act of creation, like riding an unbelievable surge of energy that I had never dreamed possible. It became a drug, an addiction, and I let it eat of me as I ate of it, pushing myself harder, faster, through the pain and silence into the golden light beyond.

Three weeks passed before Henri noticed, three weeks before the nights of broken sleep began to show, three weeks before my fingers began to twitch as they sat above the keys. He walked me home, as was his way, and bought me an icy little mint-drink, letting the cool cr?me de menthe caress my aching brain. “You need to relax, B.T.,” he said, his arm around my shoulders. “You’re all tense, like a spring wound too far. Hold it like that, and it’ll snap you.”

I didn’t really want to talk about it, though, and just sipped quietly at my drink as he walked up to my apartment beside me. I’d let it break into a mess since he’d last come, with scraps of paper and oily, half-empty boxes of take-out food stacked wherever I could find the space. My bed was a mess, even, littered with bits of writing and a mess of sheets bundled tight where I’d cocooned myself the night before.

“You aren’t sleeping so well, are you, B.T.?”

“Henri… I don’t really want to talk about it.”

He left at that, but came back later with a thick, soft quilt, deep blue and embroidered in silver, and bundled me up into its warm, fluffy folds. “Well, if you don’t want to talk about it, at least you can sleep better.”

I made myself a little hood and glared out at him from under it, but he only laughed. “Admit you like it, and I’ll go away,” he said, looking so contrite that it delighted me, and I leaned out to kiss him on the nose. He made a little face at me, and a playful, mraa-ing noise, like a cat, and the moment erupted into frantic, playful wrestling, all ticklish laughter and blanket-wrapped scrambling away from his grasp as he chased me around the floor.

I lost, of course; Henri’s bigger and stronger, and being wrapped in a blanket is no way to wrestle. So I lay there as he settled above me, keeping me pinned in a cloud of soft, happy warmth. He smiled that faint, satisfied smile, and leaned forward to return the kiss I’d given him.

“Do you treat all your friends like this?”

“Nah. You’re just adorable.”

I glared at him again. “You want something, don’t you?”

“Yes, but I’m not telling.”

I huffed and thrashed against him again, trying to wrestle my way to the top, but that didn’t work any better than the last time. “I wanna know!”

Henri laughed, ruffling my hair, and slid his arm into the blanket, beneath my clothes, splaying his hand flat against the small of my back as he leaned in and whispered his secret. “What do I want, kitten? I want you. I want to cuddle up to sleep at night, too tired to fuck anymore. I want to hold you, like this, and know, ‘He belongs to me, and I to him, and that is all that matters in the world.’ I want to hear you begging for me, and the unspeakably wonderful things I’ll do to you. I want to hear your words and see your pictures and know, ‘He made those for me.’ More than that, though, I want to love you without guilt, and have you of your own will, not because we’re drunk, or because I want you. You’re with Val, I know, but I can wait a while. You’re worth waiting for.”

As I lay there, stunned, he kissed me on the cheek and stood.

“Careful what you wish for.”

I was still thinking it over, half excited, half afraid, when I heard the door click shut behind him.

I don’t know how long I lay there before I drifted off to sleep, still buried in the thick mess of quilt, but the morning sun found me snuggled up inside, and I had to wriggle my way out, so tightly had I wrapped it around myself. It was wonderful, though, I admit, soft and cocoony, and I shivered as the cold morning air slipped in around my legs.

I shivered for other reasons, too, even as I found my way into the shower, even as I turned it up as high as I could stand it. The water cleansed away the worry and frustration, as it had so many times before, and the air grew heavy with steam. It filled my lungs and sapped my strength away, until I could barely stand, and I crumbled, kneeling against the cold, unyielding smoothness of tile and glass. Weak, then, as much in my body as I felt in my heart, I crawled out, into bed, lying wet and naked on the tangled mess of sheets and quilt, and lost myself in thought, staring up through the skylight at clouds that went drifting by.

Morning gave way to afternoon, and the sun stabbed into my eyes before I rose again to dress. Hungry now I wandered out, in search of the dull happiness that came with food, and bought a big bowl of sweet eel and fragrant jasmine rice. Henri found me eating beneath the lemon tree, watching its blossoms float away, one by one, on the breeze. He stood there for a moment before he joined me, eating his own meal in silence, as if he understood my confusion, and wished to comfort me, but not to disturb my thoughts.

Jen wandered by, a little later, and dragged us off to distract ourselves. The bookstores entertained us for hours, one after another, letting us browse through a hundred beautiful tales, but she wanted something else, and we followed her through the shopping centers, watching as she wandered from one store to the next, trying a hundred different looks, a hundred transformations of the same irrepressible girl. I made one myself, in the end, after Henri joined her in egging me on. They helped me dye long, bright streaks of racing blue into my bangs, and we ended the afternoon sprawled across Henri’s couch, cheering at Kurosawa heroes until the sky turned red with the setting sun.

I’m not sure, anymore, about what I thought as I walked home, talking things over with Jen. I don’t even remember what she said about it. There are times in life when you don’t have to think, really; something just takes you, deep inside, with a certainty so perfect, almost crystalline, that there’s nothing to do but put your chips on the line and hope for the best.

When I got home, though, I just stopped and stared at the phone for a while. I didn’t want to do it. I think I knew how it would end, and I feared the realization. Denial is comfortable, sometimes, and it hurts to feel it break. But sometimes, you know that things have to get worse, before they’ll get better, so you push yourself against the pain, cut yourself on its edges before you can heal, and I think I knew that, too.

I took a deep breath and called Val.

He answered on the third ring. “Hello?”

“Hello, Val.”

“Ah, my Prince. How’re you?”

“Not so good.” I paused for a moment, not wanting to go through with it. I swallowed hard and pushed further into the hurt. “Listen, can I ask you some things? It’s really important.”

He seemed to think about that, at least for a few seconds. “Uhm… listen, B.T., I’m really busy today. I’ll call you back tomorrow, okay? Promise.”

I curled a little tighter into myself, trying not to cry, trying to accept his words for what they sounded like. “Okay, tomorrow. You promise, right? I really need to know.”

“Yes, B.T. Take care.”

Click.

That night, I took a bath, as hot as I could stand it. It cradled me gently, lulling me down into blissful slumber, where even my worries could not reach me. I hadn’t slept so peacefully in a month, maybe more, I remember, and I felt good, cleansed, pure, as I crawled out of the bath in the morning. I dried myself and curled up in my sheets, holding tightly to them as I watched the telephone. Over and over again, I played recordings of his voice, promises he’d made and sweet things he’d said, like sacred mantras that might hold off the silence, until the tape broke and left me to my loneliness.

Val never called.

I didn’t sleep that night, just stared at the phone in denial and pain, until the sun began to rise anew, and I could deny the silence no longer. I cried as I stripped the sheets from my bed, and washed them. I cried a little more as I folded them and wrapped them in tissue paper, and I choked back the tears as I boxed them away and walked to the post office, sending them back to the man who had given them to me. And so the prince became a kitten, signing away his kingdom for a warm blanket and a caring heart.

Henri filled the void, in his graceful, confident way, so easily that I might never have noticed, had I not wanted that comfort so badly. The first day, he only held me, held me for hours, safe and warm in his arms, letting me stain his shirt with tears as he whispered his sweet words to me. He fed me, brought me rice and fish and warm, creamy milk, and he soothed me to sleep at night, leaving me tucked into the soft, beautiful quilt he’d brought me, or letting me sleep cuddled tight against his chest. For days, he never left my side, my rock, my pillar of safety against the frustration that a year of emptiness had built and only now let loose to torment me.

The flood abated, in time, and I learned to walk again, wandering out into the world, still clutching tightly to his side, as he guided me with the arm across my shoulders, and the hand at the curve of my waist. I learned to see again, too, as each simple pleasure returned, like a long-lost friend I thought I’d never see again, and somehow, Henri kept them gentle, let me grow into them once more, made them sweeter than I’d remembered. And slowly, as the time wore on, he let me remember the reasons I’d pushed myself into the hurt, reminded me of the reasons he’d felt like even more than my dearest friend.

It was two weeks before he kissed me. I wanted it earlier, even asked for it, and he’d pressed his lips against my cheek, or between my eyes, but never really kissed me. He wanted nothing, he said, that came from my grief, and he kept his promise, to my frustration. We’d spent the day indulging in all the things that I’d lost for a month, all the wonderful, exuberant pleasures, until we staggered back to my apartment in the tiny, dark hours of the morning. I was using his lap as a pillow, I remember, almost ready to sleep admiring the glittering silver tips he’d dyed into my streaks of blue, when I realized that I was happy again, simply, purely happy, full of that beautiful contentment that doesn’t really need a cause, so I made purring noises up to him, pulling myself up to rest my cheek against his jacket, and listen to his heartbeat through the soft leather.

That’s when it happened. His hand slid up my back, then, pressing me close, up to my neck, until his fingers curled into my hair, and he leaned down to press his lips against my own.

The kiss came like a hot shower, the kind that purifies as much as it cleans, the kind that restores you with its heat until you want nothing more in the world, and your back arches against the torrent, coaxed by the lover you wish were there. I knew that kiss, I realized; I’d dreamt it a thousand times before. I’d dreamt it with the wrong boy, though, the wrong face and the wrong name, and I’d suffered all for nothing. That thought excited me, and I curled against him, pressing him back against the couch in my desire. He only held me closer, letting me breathe his scent as a year of emptiness all poured out at once. Dreams and life blurred together, and I grew hungrier, stronger, wanting everything that I’d been denied.

He let me lead, this time, only holding me close as I slid my hands beneath his jacket, beneath his shirt, and peeled the fabric away from his smooth, perfect skin. I helped him pull my shirt off, over my head, and pushed hard against the heat and the pleasure of his kiss, washing away my doubt and guilt in the strong, enveloping embrace of naked skin, until I felt his pants tighten and press insistently against my side. Only then did I stop for breath, panting heavily with him as I slid my hand down his chest, to set him free.

His hand slid down my back, resting at my waist. “You’re sure you want this, Kitten?”

I curled my hand around him, feeling the soft, silken flesh, and my fingers only barely met, sending a hot shiver down my spine. “For a year now I’ve wanted it,” I breathed, knowing it in that deep, instinctual way. “But I was looking too far away.”

The phone took that instant to ring, shattering the moment, and we looked guiltily at each other, like schoolboys caught in some forbidden moment. I lowered myself gently, sprawling across his lap, and wriggled forward, trying to answer it. I tried even harder to ignore the hot, insistent hardness of his body, pressing against my belly. Henri swatted my rear impatiently, just hard enough to sting. I made a little face up at him, and he smiled, in his predatory, teasing way, but didn’t do it again.

“Hello?” Henri’s fingertips played against my spine, like a wave rolling back and forth from the blades of my shoulders to the small of my back. I squirmed obligingly, tracing him along the long, gentle curves of my belly, and felt him sigh happily. So much for ignoring it. So much for caring. It felt good. Being his plaything was even more fun sober, and I wondered, now, why I’d waited so long.

“Hello, B.T. I’m calling now. You needed to ask me something?”

“Oh, hi, Val.” The name brought a frown to Henri’s lips, but I pouted up at him, and it melted into a smile. I felt him slide my pants past the curve of my hips, and I had to bite my tongue to keep from giggling when he began to tease. “That was two weeks ago, you know.”

That didn’t seem to faze him. “You sound happier.”

“I am.” Henri brought the phone’s cradle over to me as he continued to tease, pulling his hand gently away. I offered him a little smile, pressing back obediently. “A lot happier.”

“That’s good, then. Sorry for keeping you waiting. So, what did you need to ask?”

“It’s okay, Val. I’m better now.” Henri’s hand patted me, letting me stop, crouched on my knees beside him, like a cat, and I rested my head in his lap, taking my revenge with my breath, long and deep, warm against his sensitive skin. He glared playfully down at me, as if threatening a thousand wonderfully dire consequences. “You got my package?”

“Yeah… I don’t get it.”

“No, Val, and I’m sorry for that.” I rested my cheek on Henri’s leg, remembering the sadness, and tried to shrink into myself. Even perfect truth hurts, sometimes. “That’s why I sent them back. You don’t get it. You never did.” I hung up. The click sounded like a guillotine blade coming down on that chapter of my life, cold, hard, and final.

Henri patted comfortingly at my shoulders. “If you want to stop, B.T., I understand.”

I lay there in silence, thinking it over, and a sudden chill washed over me, turned away by the warm touch of Henri’s hand against my skin. “No, Henri.” I traced my lips with my tongue, almost unsure of the words. “I’ll shed no tears. I’ve cried them all.” I reached out, absently caressing his side. “He didn’t get it. He never got it.”

He only nodded in silence, understanding all too well.

“But you, you get it.” I brought myself up, kissing him in a new, intimate way, as he’d done to me a month before. I lingered on it for a while, stretched my jaws wide around it, just barely bathing him with my tongue. “You always got it, right from the start.”

He still does.