Oh, such thoughts that swarm; I should feel ashamed, but I have had excellent tutelage in the sublime art of shamelessness. Much has changed since I was asked, straight-faced, whether I was aware of the location of a certain erogenous zone. I, the innocent child of summer that I was, answered, "No?" (He purred "…Let me educate you, then," and made fireworks explode behind my eyes, setting my petroleum-saturated skin alight.) Much has changed, indeed.

We passed our meagre days ensemble withered languorously between the sheets, exhausted yet unsated; that flickering expression that crossed and re-crossed his face kept pulling me back and back to him, until my skin, for the first time ever, flushed and weeping, felt truly mine. My kind cruelties; the deliberacy with which I would touch him; all qualities learned from mon petit marquis francaise. His eyes; his eyes are deeper than ancient Aelid wells, so plein de la tristesse, yet they burn with a fire which is wholly unholy – a collusive, collaborative incendiary.

Tracing my outline with every tactile limb, back those eyes would travel to my face, always with the same expression. It haunts me; wriggling into my mind and making me shiver from my left cheekbone, sliding downwards until even my toes tingle. The sensation of being watched – such a double edged sword – is something that I cannot erase from memory. That specific look; 'like he wants to fuck me, and kill me, both at the same time. It scares me; it turns me on.' As if he wants to devour me, utterly, but hold the knowledge that doing so would negate me. Perhaps that's why his eyes are as they are; - that strange yet poignantly morose combination, a fight between want and self-denial. Perhaps I simply read too much into the face of a lover whose idiosyncrasies I am not yet familiar with, but I can't seem to help myself from reflecting upon these things. They have shaken me, like a terrier with a captured rat, to the very core of whatever it is I am.

His eyes: the directors of his clever, clever hands. They work me over and over until I'm rendered insensible, until all words leave and thought becomes obsolete, until feeling and being are the limit to my capacities, and even they are overwhelmed in a sensory overload of such heady peaks and height that I can do little but gasp; a happy, asphyxiated starfish. He is my escape. In him, I can finally lose myself completely. No. "lose" is entirely wrong. In him, I forget myself as I feel and relate; merely accepting his reflection, the reflection he holds me in, within the circle of his dark eyes. Il a les yeux comme une nuit de tempête, et ils me rendent paralysait.

However, passivity has never been my forte. Within blood, semen and sweat-defiled sheets, his skin, from the surface through to the nerve endings, became my sole point of focus; his edges, the unutterably gorgeous way in which is face subtly shifted as tactility became sacrosanct. The beautifully precise shape of his mouth; the way tes levres moved as those oh-so-feminine helpless whimpers slipped out…the way his eyes slid upwards like a final, blasphemous prayer. (I myself withheld that I enjoyed watching him squirm possibly even more than being made to do so…my voyeurism is a facet that he has yet to unearth.)

Afterwards, or - more accurately - in between, there was little awkward, sappy pillow-talk, merely a return to lewd jokes. The act itself, therefore, is isolated within my mind as clearly as cut diamond, and was…such an intense thing. Words only exist in retrospect. It's a realm of utter incomprehensibility, where I cease to exist and yet exist more forcefully than ever previously; where there are no walls, which would terrify me utterly if within the circle of his regard I did not feel so incredibly safe yet unsafe. It's built on applicable paradoxes which can work only because they're paradoxical by nature. Living in a contradictory realm of feeling sans thought lets day slip by, consumed by deliciousness itself; barely noticing the damage done to each other or the surroundings. I never comprehended any of this before. The act of fucking was not so much an act itself as a sigh of submission, face averted and eyes closed, waiting until a groan signaled that one was free to leave. Now? I fear we'll never make it from 'twixt the sheets.