Ivy '03: Any Minute Now

If this were a normal morning, he'd be on his back right now, spread- eagled, taking up two thirds of the bed - not that it's a problem, the bed is huge - snoring. I don't mind the snoring, it's not deafening, actually it's quite comforting, lets me know he's there, alive, safe. If this were a normal morning, any minute now he'd roll over and snuggle up to me. First there would be the dream, little murmurs and twitches, same time every night, probably the same dream. When he dreams the dream, he looks so unhappy, sort of - lost I guess. I wonder what he dreams about? While he's dreaming he'll suddenly roll towards me, one long leg overlapping my hip, head pressed up against my shoulder, hand trailing across my chest. Then he settles down again, and looks content and relaxed, it's only then, when I know he is once more at peace, that I go back to sleep.

I do have an alarm, but he's the one who wakes me up, a gentle 'mornin' love', kisses brushed over my lips and cheek and ears. Oh God I love that, he nibbles on the lobe, sucking and running his tongue up behind the shell. I know I'm saying something, but I have no idea what. His morning hard-on presses into my hip. I don't usually wake up hard - he does, every single day - but those morning kisses soon do the job for me. His kisses move down, shoulder, neck, and chest. He'll stop there, and teases my nipples, knowing how much I love to have them kissed. Not too hard, not this early, just gently, just enough stimulation to excite. My own erection will be filling out nicely by now and he'll move on down to it - stopping on the way to give my belly a few soft, tickling kisses. Once he reaches my shaft, he'll lick at the head a few times, never taking his eyes off mine, smiling. Then he'll engulf the whole length. Oh God what he can do with that mouth, how skilled it is, how gentle and yet how powerful. If he wants to he can keep me on the edge for what seems like forever, but not in the morning, in the morning he brings me to full hardness quickly.

"Time to wash," he'll say, a simple statement you might think, but not the way he says it - oh no. He can make anything sound like an invitation to fuck, which in this case it is. He bounces off the bed, how the hell anyone can bounce that early in the morning, I have yet to work out! Once up he goes to the window and pulls back the drapes. And there he stands, unashamed, erection proudly on display to the world. What I have yet to resolve is whether this is a good thing or a bad thing. That said, this place isn't overlooked. Because you see, I am so very proud of him, of his love, of his care, of the fact that he has forsaken all others for me and me alone. I yearn to tell the world at large that this man loves me. Sure it would probably be bad, professionally at least, but sometimes I think it'd be worth it.

After giving me a brief weather report, he will turn back to the bed. "Come on then, I'm only gettin' older here." Same thing, every morning.

It's almost comical - or it would be if it wasn't so damn hot - the way his cock bobs about as he heads across the room and into the bathroom. By the time I get there the water will be flowing, the temperature perfect. It's a room shower; there are no walls, no tray to step into, just the tiled floor and a central drain. He holds out his hand and takes mine, pulling me gently into his space. First he kisses me, but not for long, this isn't the time for long kisses. The kisses will move to my shoulder and I will respond in kind. Things will escalate from there on, hands and lips moving frantically, exploring - isn't it amazing how you can find something new every time you explore your lover's body? You should know every inch of him, I do and yet I can't, because I keep finding new things, new reactions, new pleasure points, new scars. I hate that, I hate that he has so many, that he has been hurt so often, yet how can I hate it? Those scars are a testament to what he is. He's been hurt so often, because he puts himself in danger so often. My hero, my own white knight, my protector. By now we will both be so worked up we have to move fast. I turn around and brace myself against the back wall, spreading my legs. I don't need to look to know his fingers are already scooping up generous portions of lube - there are tubes and Jars of lube hidden (and sometimes not so hidden) everywhere in this apartment, just in case! Even in the warm shower, the lube feels cool, as he presses one skilled finger home. With expert precision, he finds the spot and works me open. I know some people see this bit as a kind of necessary evil, not me, I like it. I love the tantalising preparation, the promise of more to come, the tingles of pleasure that come with every deft stroke.

I generally lose track of time at this point, the world around me fades, and there is only him. Most mornings I don't even register when his hand pulls back and he enters me. But; once it's in I know all right. Oh God do I know! He fills me like no one ever did before - not that I have a vast experience to base this on you understand, but from my limited experience there is no one like him. And there never will be, because it's him and him alone from now on. He reaches around and captures my cock, which by now is leaking freely and which I am stroking.

"No," he whispers, as he brushes my hand away. "…let me."

Who comes first is a toss-up, sometimes me, sometimes him, on a few memorable occasions we come together, in wonderful synchronised harmony. After we have recovered a little, he pulls out of me. I will still be leaning on the tiled wall panting as he turns me around.

"Love you," he will whisper as he holds my face in his hands and kisses me.

"Love you, too." I will breath back.

"Love or not we have to get moving," he will remind.

With that we pull away slightly and set about washing, ourselves and each other. Nothing romantic, nothing erotic, just the necessary task of getting clean. He will scrub my back and I scrub his, but other than that we wash separately, albeit under the same spray.

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He shaves as soon as he gets out of the shower, standing naked and unabashed in front of the mirror. I dress, but for my shirt, and come back in to the bathroom to shave, as he exits to get dressed. Once we're both dressed, it's time to grab a mug of coffee, I have it black, he likes just a dash of milk, Then we watch ten minutes of CNN. We sit, side by side, his arm over the back of the couch, hand resting on my shoulders. Then it's off to work, stopping at the coffee shop on the corner for breakfast. He has orange juice, more coffee, wholemeal toast with butter and raspberry preserve, and - of all things - a bran muffin. I have to confess it was surprised by that the first time, I never saw him as the healthy eating type, certainly I had seen no evidence of it. He must have noticed because he smiled at me.

"What?" he questioned. "You think I don't know how to look after myself?"

That is how every working day starts, or at least it has for the last ten months. We have fallen into a routine, a comfort zone of predictable behaviour. There are those who say that this is dangerous, that it is the slippery slope toward the boredom and resentment. But not me. Our lives have so much uncertainty in them, no one day is like the next, anything can happen, and usually does. Routine is comforting, routine feels great, to know that whatever else happens, at least the start of the day can be relied on. He gave me an anchor, and I hang on to it like a limpet. I sometimes wonder how I managed without him, and that anchor, for all those years.

Our friends say we are becoming like an old married couple, we have even started to finish each other's sentences. They seem to see it as a bad thing. They hang on to their bachelorhood, one very tenuously if you ask me, as if it were the last ray of youth, they resist the joy of a true partnership, the delights of having just one person to love, they don't understand the wonderful comfort of a morning routine.

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But not today, today there will be no morning fuck, no blow job, no shower for two, no weather forecast. For my big, brave, wonderful lover has the flu. He's not spread-eagled on the bed; about to roll onto me, he's curled up, spooning in my embrace. I can feel the heat radiating from his fever-wracked body, every tremble, every shiver, is transmitted to me. It near broke my heart to see him so miserable when I returned from work. The wounded look I received, when I relayed the well-meaning suggestion that I sleep in the spare room, would have put a beagle puppy to shame. So here I lay, my arms wrapped around my sick and suffering love. I'm told I'm not risking much, he was probably contagious for days before the symptoms arrived, if he's going to give it to me, he has probably done so already.

I am amazed how much I will miss the morning ritual. Not the making love - oh all right I'm gonna miss it too, who wouldn't? I mean, being woken up with a blowjob and then getting your brains fucked out, all before breakfast, everyday - who wouldn't miss it? But more than that, I will miss the comfort that goes with the knowledge that I know exactly what will happen for the first two hours of each day. That kind of certainty had been missing in my life, until now. As I look back on my past, I can see that I was always looking for certainties, trying to find order in chaos, create routine were there was none. Children, I am told, need this routine, they need to know what will happen next. Since I never had this, do I seek it now, in compensation? Or does everyone need it?

I still don't know a great deal about his past, but I get the feeling that he too, craves this certainty. He also enjoys the comfort of knowing that at least once in the day, there will be no unpleasant surprises, no great decisions to make, no ugliness to confront.

Flu or no flu the dream still came, it seemed stronger to me, murmurs became whimpers, and twitches became frantic clutching at the bedclothes. I was already holding him close, so I whispered words of comfort and love in his ear, but he was still restless, so - and to be truthful this was not a conscious decision, it just happened - my hand moved down to stroke his flaccid cock. It didn't respond of course, he's too sick for that, but, my gentle ministrations must have been pleasant or comforting or both, because he settled down immediately. Pressing back against me, seeking even closer contact, as I did the only thing I could think of at that time, to show him he is not alone, and he is loved.

So here we are, to all intents and purposes married, happily approaching our first anniversary with - not trepidation, not boredom, not resignation, but with excitement, and joy and yes - even pride.

End