Sometimes, as a result of ridiculously hectic schedules, the weather, the time of month, the price of fish in Taiwan and the colour of the tea leaves in downtown Tokyo, Purrrvert and I find ourselves meeting on a more vanilla basis.
I do not complain. Seriously, I really don’t.
I enjoy spending time with him, talking to him, just being with him. And he me, i venture to dare to suggest… since he has called me since quite a few times, just to say how lovely was the time we spent together.
Which goes to prove that it’s not all about the hot, sweaty, passionate moments. Not that I knock the heat, perspiration or passion. No, no. Heaven forefend. But it underlines the reality, that what we share goes way beyond all the physical fun stuff.
“You’ve dropped some raita on you,” he says, and he reaches over to wipe it off the soft skin just above my cleavage.
I look him directly in the eye.
“Did I really? Or did you just use it as an excuse to cop a feel?”
It’s also part of any number of everyday discussions, regardless of where we are, or what we’re doing. (Excluding, for this instance only, fucking gloriously or being in any way naked.)
In the supermarket, for example. He follows my gaze to a can of tuna, as his long-ago remark that I’d never look at anything in a supermarket in the same way, once he’d corrupted my thought process with a “pervertible filter”, glides across my brain. He reaches for my hand and squeezes it warmly. No words are spoken, no groping is deployed, nothing tubular — or, indeed, of any other shape — is inserted into any bodily crevice. But the passion and the love are manifested just as much. More so, even.
In the hardware store, that’s when the situation peaks in terms of nothing existing but the moment. We stand gazing at the pet accessories, and i gently reach out and tug a leash.
“It’s a pretty colour. ”
“There’s a collar that matches.”
Eyes meet, glances are exchanged, thoughts of restraint meet in the middle and quietly dissipate, like so many bubbles.
“I’d rather buy leather.”
“I’d rather wear leather. But soft leather.”
A stroke of my arm, and my hair.
“Of course. Soft leather. The natural preference of the pink tabby.”
There are few things that make me as knee-meltingly wet as the discussion of pervertible sex toys in ostensibly innocuous surroundings.
Particularly with him. Each glance holds a million words and thoughts and evil smirks, and not a word is said.
Life is good.