Love, I Don't Like To See So Much Pain, So Much Wasted And This Moment Keeps Slipping Away

Evening, fine gentlemen and ladies. I'm not sure if I need any introduction since it seems that every inch of me has already been exposed in yesterday's post. I suppose I'm here to give that final exclamation about a story that involved two people, the "money" shot if you will.


me last year as opposed to the 17-year-old me that gets posted up here

Goddamn, goddamn. The uproar that this story caused among the small group of people that mojo and I both know was heady. Pandora's box is definitely open for business.

Earlier this morning when I came upon this site like I tend to do on days I'm not with clients I discovered some things I had thought, up until today, he had forgotten. He sent me the post yesterday, asking little 'ole me for permission, to print what was up until then a private moment shared between us. And when I first read it I was bemused and bedeviled by the amount of smutty detail mojo had inlaid into what I thought was an absolutely beautiful experience. I was hurt that he thought so derisively of our night together that he would reduce it to its barest components. I honestly had thought mojo was a better man than that. I told him that I'd be a three-legged dog if he thought I was going to allow my honor to be besmirched in such a fashion. A lady simply doesn't act the way he had me act in his post. And, most definitely, this lady does not act in such a fashion.

I told him to write it over. I told him that what makes a sunset breathtaking is not the power of the sight hitting you over the head like a mallet, it’s the subtleties, the subtext, and the sublime of the sight. Capture that, I told him, and I would let him post our story even though it was against my best instincts.

There’s music in the melody of a perfect moment. There’s something that can’t be over-explained. He was over-explaining something I thought was really simple. The truth of the matter was that night was about two people who cared (and still care) about each other deeply, not two people who were horny as jackrabbits out in a field somewhere. If he couldn’t capture that then the story should have been better left unsaid.

Then he surprised me. He pulled the toy surprise out of the cereal box. I woke up this morning and read this wonderful account that touched upon the anticipation and nervousness we both had gone through. He captured very poignantly and with decency what amounted to my first time doing much of anything. He made this story a gift to me.

That’s why when I read a couple of the readers wanting to know how the whole story ended I immediately e-mailed mojo and asked if he would allow me the honor of penning a suitable ending. I originally told him that I wanted that part left out. I thought it better if we left the rest to the imagination of the audience. I did not want our kisses to be told.

But then I thought about how it remains one of my best memories and how good memories, if they are any good, should be told so that others may say the goodness too. A shuttered house gains no admirers in much the same manner an untold memory dies with its participants.

So, briefly, here’s my ending to that one moment in time when a girl stood in front of a guy and asked him to love her.
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“I’m not sure what to do here. I’m scared,” I said as I still motioned closer to him. He was the second guy I had ever stood completely naked in front. And the first was my father. And I hadn’t been naked in front of him since he stopped bathing me when I was three. You could say he was the first “boy” to ever make me feel that comfortable that it almost didn’t matter I was sharing myself with him. It was our time. It was our place. This moment belonged to us.

“Don’t be scared, Breannie. It’s only me. I think you’re beautiful. So don’t worry about what I think of the way you look. And you know I’m not going to ask you to do anything you don’t want to. It’s your show. Run with it.”

I have never been expressly proud of the way my body looks. People tell me that I’m cute or pretty or striking, but there have only ever been two people I have ever completely believed when they told me that I looked good. One is my husband. And the other is mojo.

I sat down on his lap and laid my head on his shoulder. I felt my heart beat inside of my chest like the wind beat down on our house when it stormed near our house. I felt the same security in being held like that by him that I felt when my mother held me. I have always been scared of storms, of the thunder, of the crashing noise of chaos that a storm brings with it. The only thing that has ever calmed me down is touching and being touched by someone I feel close to. And in much the same manner the chaos of the storm died away when my mother soothed me when I was younger so his touch soothed me now.

I wanted so much to be a part of him. I wanted so much to reach that level of understanding that only people in love are supposed to feel. I wanted that feeling. I wanted that feeling with him.

I reached for his hand and started moving it to my left breast. I wanted him to feel how calm my heart was because of him. I wanted him to feel how safe he made me feel. And as I felt the fingers of this individual I felt absolutely close touch the exposed skin of my breasts I steeled myself against the shock I was sure I would feel. But instead of the shudder of electricity I came to expect I sneezed. More importantly, I sneezed on him, on his shoulder specifically. I laughed to myself, but I still continued to move his hands upon me. I wanted him to feel every inch of me.

“Do you want me to…” I asked, motioning to my underwear.

“Not yet. This is nice right here. I think I’m happy right here.”

After about five minutes of him exploring every inch of exposed skin I asked him simply, “Do you want to get in the sleeping bag with me?”

“Sure, but first I think I need a little help in getting these pesky clothes off of me. Think you can assist in that area?”

I mock-saluted him. “I shall do my best, sir.”

So off came his pants. Then his underwear. Then mine. And soon we were naked as jaybirds on jaybird street. I wasn’t so much surprised as I was amazed that there he was letting me see him as he was, unprotected. Then he led me to the sleeping bag and instead of doing what we both expected would happen that night, we kind of just got lost in each other. We just stayed up for hours exploring the wonder of each other and laughing and playing. We just enjoyed each other. We just lay next to each other, being there without restrictions or reservations, with nothing between us figuratively and literally. We were as close as two friends could be without crossing this imaginary line where friends become more than friends, before consequences would come into play, before hearts had a chance to be really broken. And there we stayed, the train of our “relationship” never to leave the station.

We'd shared something, true. But what it meant to us couldn't be explained by what we did. You could only really understand it by who we were doing it with. That person next to me leant more meaning to the whole night and the nights that followed than acts or positions or labels. It was special in every sense of the word because he was special.

We feel asleep like that—in each other’s arms. We woke up the next morning in much the same manner. Maybe I hadn’t gotten to sleep that night as innocent as the night before, maybe I was more experienced in the ways of man than I had been the previous morning, but I didn’t wake up with any regrets and I didn’t wake up resenting myself or him. I woke up feeling happy. Unbelievably happy. So, yeah, maybe we didn't go at it like pros. That night we just had fun. Just sex would have been good.

That night I think we had something better.

Breanne