The word that would describe him best, I think, is 'frustrating'. His cocky swagger and self-assured grin... he struck me as strange, too loud when it came to his personality. He was handsome, yes. He was a capable fighter, of course. He was the most painful, most pleasurable mistake I ever got involved with, yes.

Something seems to always snap in place when we were together in the numerous confining places we found ourselves in. In dorms, in transport vehicles, on water, land, or in space, he and I together, alone, was dangerous. Frightening...

In the darkness and closed spaces, he had always made the first move. He was the initiator, and I was the recipient of all the pleasure and, quite possibly, all the pain.

The very first move was on the way to New Edwards, as we flew together to the base. He was quiet, and, by definition, so was I, as the earth spun below. As I reclined deeper into the pilot seat, I thought of very little. The mission was already planned to the extreme, so I was not worried. I was aware of little else but my breathing and his motions in the seat beside me.

I heard him shift in his seat and get on his feet, but I didn't bother opening my eyes. I knew where he was and where he was going just by listening to his footfalls on the ground.

I felt his heat get closer as he stopped and stood between my legs and leaned in, shortening the distance between us. I opened my eyes then, and I was greeted by the look his eyes were giving me.

They were lit with amusement, seduction, something about as interesting as the way his palm pressed against my groin.

My surprise must have shown as he kneaded my cock through the fabric of my clothing. "May I?," he smiled against my right ear, his hair brushing against my cheek. His hand became more persistent.

My breath started to hitch as he moved down my body and kneeled in front of me. Our eyes never broke contact as his skilled hands pulled my almost-hard member out and began pumping it slowly.

He took me in his mouth, nearly causing me to cry out. His warm, wet mouth enclosing the tip of my cock was tempting, teasing. His hands clenched my hips, pressing them down into the chair with enough force to form bruises, as he took more and more of me into his mouth.

He knocked down my control with that wetness, with a hum and a swift-moving tongue. I climaxed eventually with a shudder and a groan. He drank all of my cum and licked what remained on me before tucking my cock back inside.

As my body recovered, he lifted himself up and wiped away the tiny bit of cum still on his lips with the back of his hand. As he did this, he gave me another of those soft, sensuous, completely predatory smiles and said, in the same whisper as before, "Thank you." With that, he pulled out a stick of chewing gum and popped in his mouth as he walked out of the cockpit and towards where the Gundams were stored.

For a while, I just sat there, trying to get my mind and my body to function normally. There was too much. What he had just done was too unusual, unfamiliar for me to comprehend.

And yet, I let him do it.

I got up from my seat and followed him, hoping to find out why he did that, though, in hindsight, I think I wanted to return the favor as well.

I found him sitting down on the edge of the catwalk with his legs dangling out and his head resting against one of the bars. He was fast asleep and there was no scent of sex around him, compared to myself.

In those dark, small places, it was always the same. Many times, we would discuss what missions we had together and other trivial things.

We never talked about the 'encounters' as I soon dubbed them.

The few times anything of that sort did happen between us, it was always the same. He would initiate, smile, and do what he wanted to me as I received what were extremely pleasurable sensations. Sometimes, it was just a blowjob. Sometimes, a handjob. Once, he used a dildo and drove it into me so perfectly that I almost cried.

Every time, I would be the only one that came. Every time, he would keep all his clothes on. Every time, he would never kiss me on my lips. If he kissed me at all, it would be on my neck, my chest, my groin, but they were rare as well.

Every time, after I came, it was over and he would walk away, not to masturbate, but to sleep. He gave me no embraces, no unneeded time with him.

I couldn't explain it then, but I knew what he was doing was hurting me. The inconsistency of his consistency left me addicted to the few times the 'encounters' actually occur. The consistency of his inconsistency brought me more pain and guilt because, although it was freely given on his part, it didn't feel as sincere as I now wish it was.

I don't know what I was thinking when I asked him to stay with me after the war. In spite of the strangeness of the 'encounters' and his own peculiar behavior, I considered him to be a good friend. All the times he didn't do something to me, he was kind, energetic. He became my best friend, if such a thing can exist.

Perhaps I was being too presumptuous, or perhaps I was begging for something more mutual and 'formal' whatever that meant, for I had the apartment laid out as if it was for a couple. A large bed, connected to a small, cozy kitchen and a large bathroom for two...

He stayed for a few months, either to make good on his promise to be with me for a while or as a base from which he'll find his own place. At the time, I didn't care.

The 'encounters' became more frequent, since we were sharing the same bed. I became bolder with my own demands, and he consented to a few, but he still edged away. He would make me come, leaving me with such dizzying aftershocks that I was left disoriented and weak, before turning his back to me and falling asleep.

All those times, he never came. Not on me, not with me, not in me, no matter how many times I begged for his touch, his cock, in the heat of the moment. He never yielded, and he never allowed me to touch him in return.

The day he moved out and away, he left a note. It hurts so much I still haven't read it.

In the afterglow of all of it, I still thought of him. He kept in touch, with a letter, a call, a grin and a greeting whenever he found himself in my presence. He never talked about what happened between us, but I saw it was foremost in his eyes whenever I saw him.

Did he regret it? Was he incapable of being what we both needed him to be?

He still wrapped his arm around my shoulders and made fun of my short, messy hair. He was still too loud when it came to his personality, and god, I still missed him.

He came one day to my small apartment, years after all the wars had been fought and years after we stopped being close. He came with a sad smile of apology and a clean, crisp white envelope, stuffed with a few sheets of paper.

I looked at him and he looked right back. Without waiting for an invitation or some other form of initiation on my part, he took my hand and placed the envelope in it. He gave me another sad smile as he grabbed the handle of the door and closed it in front of him, leaving me alone in my own confined space.

I lowered my body to the floor and sat down as I opened the envelope and pulled out the sheets of paper.

On them were all sorts of things. Poems. Stories. Apologies phrased in all the possible ways. Explanations. Declarations. More apologies, and the scent of cologne. There was a suggestion nestled in all those words of regret, a request on his part to try again. To reach out to me better than before.

After what was probably an hour of reading, I got up and opened the door. I didn't expect him to still be there, waiting for some sort of reply, but he was there nonetheless, with the same sad smile he gave me when he closed the door for me.

We stood there, on opposite sides of the doorway, each waiting for the other to take the initiative.

For once, we both stepped forward as one. I took his hand and he leaned in for our first kiss.

~~~end

Head back home...

Please send me comments at jezebel_17@hotmail.com
Or sign the guestbook instead...
Trust me, I'll appreciate it big time.