Amazing
by J.C. Sun
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It's amazing.

It's absolutely amazing.

I've never kissed him. I don't think I've even hugged him for Chrissake.

It's absolutely fucking amazing.

Considering that I've never put my tongue into his skin, the idea's pretty amazing. Damn impressive, considering, damn impressive that I know what he must taste like--what he out to be like, gliding underneath me, the flavor of his fingers and his skin.

Mind you, I don't know for sure. Most likely never will, but I've got my ideas. My theories.

Clean. Very clean, fresh scrubbed, almost, but with a slice of tang. The edge of something bitter, pungent, like crushed pine underneath foot, very crisp yet heady, dizzying in faint intensity. Biting, like sweat. And salty, just a little, the smell of ocean, water pounding shores and the mist wisping in my face, there, yet not. Things wisping in and out, a hundred flavors to match the hundred facets of his personality, joker and mourner, Don Juan and Columbo. But not sweet, always bitter, just slightly off, my Tom.

Correction. He never was mine, and at the rate things are going. . .

I'll bet you next month's replicator credits she knows what he tastes like. Bet you the bitch knows for sure, ever taut inch of his skin, the cup between his clavicles, the fine curve of his calf, the long muscles of his inner thigh. I bet you she knows what his face looks like knotted up tight with ecstacy, I bet you she knows the milky perfection of his skin in starlight. That she knows what it must be like to lay him ever-so-gently down, to hold him close and hear the soft rhythm of his sleeping breath or the thud of his heart, to open your eyes and see him down there, doing things that feel so good they're undoubtedly illegal on some backwater planet. . . To slide a hand down his taut back and to hear him purr, that your hand is causing him to cry out, and to know that the love, the vulnerable open softness in those eyes is for you, you alone. . .

And it's not that I hate her: more simply, I simply want what she has, what she takes with such easy confidence. To be automatically entitled to the seat across from him at meals, to be the one his eyes search for in a crowd. I want those rights, the privilege of looping her arm around his waist. Or walking down the corridor, hand in hand, hip to hip. I envy her in that she can kiss him in the turbolift, that she can make him smile, give him that gently bewildered glow he has in the mornings.

And now, they sit, loved and lovers, floating in a serene world of their own as the riotous life of Sandrine's pulses around them. They are oblivious, wrapped tight in the surety of their mutual warmth and the foreknowledge that they will leave together. And now, he bends his head to whisper a joke for her (only her), and she laughs, a sound carried away by the music, but I watch her catch the back of his neck in her hand, bend him down, and I watch her opened mouth, her hands wrapping around his neck as she sinks into his kiss, his hands closing around her waist, pressing her into him as their bodies flow together, corsucating in the dim light, and I can only imagine, only imagine and wonder what he might, just might taste like.

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End