Counting.

These are the feelings people write novels about.

The first time it ever happen was, as most first intimate contacts usually are, awkward. His lips
were distinctively soft against mine and my plans to respond were gone once the pleasant scent
of him reached me, leaving me more than dazzled and unable to react even as he pulled away
leaving to Cernunnos knows where. So I stood there, replaying the moment in my head like a
broken record.

Our second was more passionate, needy in a way from my part. He was gentle, hands away
from me as if I was made out of glass, I could sense he feared that I would somehow break, but
it didn’t bother me. It was what I wanted, how I hoped an experience like this would be. Even
though it all seemed like an eternity inside my thoughts the whole ordeal ended rather quickly
(as well as our first) thanks to an unnecessary interruption. So I went back to my private
thoughts, convincing myself it was all real.

Third, fourth, fifth, sixth… they all went by pretty quickly after that, from the common chaste
pecks when we walk past each other on our way to class to the rare and passionate
endearments we share when we managed to find some solitude. It isn’t a commitment, nothing
is established and no words state that this all has a purpose, but it keeps happening… glances
are shared, skin is touched and everything seems too ideal. Absurd theories start evolving
inside my head on how perhaps I have reached the utopia my gods had so longed for just by
accepting these small pieces of bliss this man, skin both warm and cold, has given me. Then my
feet are planted firmly on the ground again, and I remember that one should not have such
high expectations for a mere human with a beating heart (special or not). And I lie to myself,
convinced that it will all end like most things do.