The half-laugh shout carries on the autumn-cool morning air across the hallway between our respective rooms, my voice a sing-song sillyness, startling the morning stillness.
His response is an audible slap-stick scramble to disconnect from his machine** – click, beep, beeeeep, “StopStopSTOP!”, whir, click, “Grrr!”, blip – and then he is bounding into my bedroom, all lanky excitement and raised-brow swagger, grinning like loon and eyeing me the way a starving giraffe on the African savanna would ponder a sudden inexplicable oasis-buffet vision of tall leafy trees.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” I say with a wink, and onto my bed he pounces.
We laugh and paw and wiggle, retrieving lube and putting down towels, tossing clothing and snuggling together and arranging covers until our bodies achieve some semblance of coital positioning. Somewhere between his “Do you want my fingers?” and my “…Ummm…I think just your cock” (and his resultant wide-smile enthusiastic compliance with my unexpected request), his head gets covered, Casper-the-friendly-ghost style, by the recalcitrant comforter, which makes me want to play peek-a-boo.
(Which I do. Of course I do. Because, PEEK-A-BOO! And he tries – very hard, failing miserably – to look stern as he instructs, “Focus on your clit!” Which I am rubbing lazily in three-quarter time to his unsyncopated laugh-rhythm ghostly thrusts.)
So I give up on any semblance of need-to-cum concentration for a moment and just play.
“You look like the Headless Horseman,” I tell him, holding the top edge of the Casper covers over his face above me while the remaining trail of linens billow behind him like a cape. And this, for some reason, topples us both into ridiculous fits of giggles. Me, because he *such* an adorably gangly Ichabod. Him, because… Well, I have no idea why he’s laughing, really, other than the fact that my own laugh is infectious. But whatever the Why, we are full-belly, side-crampy, laugh-out-loud giggly, and it’s completely absurd but sex is meant to be fun, right? And besides, the bubble-over of mirth just feels so.fucking.GOOD.
In more ways than one.
It’s good in that a weight has been lifted; a heavy shadow that had fallen over the already What if…? future has now lost its heft in the bright (green) light of a heretofore checkered-flag medical “GO.” There is a freedom in the all-clear*** that has lifted a shroud we didn’t even realize was gauzing our interactions (sexual and otherwise) until it was gone.
And it’s good in a full-bodied physical way, joyful and filling and overbrimming with riotous sweetness and affectionate nonsense and gentle-full lightness of being.****
I know he can feel my PC muscles contracting in time with my laughter because his cock grows harder inside me with every squeeze.
“I think,” he chides, between each now-gentling cachinnation, “that you’re a little bit distracted.”
Oh, but I’m not.
At times I am. Yes.
But not now.
And so, with an arch of my back and a slap to his cheek, I set about showing him – with still-smiling pleasureful focus – exactly how not-distracted I am.
