He Became Different

He became different shortly after the inception of the love affair. That is the natural course of things. Supposedly. His kisses were just as tender, he still lent his body into my embrace and let my hands guide his waist. Only his waist felt different under the pressure of my roaming fingers as they moved around the smooth surface. It felt tender as if my touch was sculpting him. His hips, too, lost their turgidity. Pressing my body up against him denied me the safe feeling against his sturdy torso.

I remember when we fell in love. Or at least when I fell in love and felt the glorious reciprocation. We were floating in the sea until the surface glowed with an oily opalescence; when the sun slouched down beyond horizon and the tide stretched out, making the journey back to shore longer. Every inch of each other’s bodies laced and observed, acknowledged. His legs, long and bow like, stopped short at the ankle as they hung over the inflatable boat. Lying on his front I felt the clenching of a parcel of muscle. Too afraid to head back onto mainland in case the dip of his spine between lion-shoulder blades, a trail that began to mark a journey south with a sprinkling of pale body hair.

I did see him again and that’s when he changed. People no longer looked at our lust or discovery of every cell of each other with envy nor disgust. Perhaps they noticed with curiosity what I began to: the inconsistency of his body from the upside down triangle it used to be. How his hips were no longer snake-like but wider, less fixed in place – beginning to rotate and swerve. His hair was no longer slicked back and tame but wild. His kiss was delivered by sloppy, thinner lips. They were becoming red and moist. I no longer got grazed as my face met his stubble. Tracing my fingers along the new curves and sensitive front I precariously, intrepidly pressed my knee below his abdomen…

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