Every Time I Think of You by Jim Provenzano

his butt. He leaned over again, and in the shaft of a streetlight, combined with the candle glow, his buttocks rose, and I understood what we were about to do.
    Placing a small towel underneath himself, Everett lay on his belly, turned back to grasp my cock, then aimed it toward himself. After tugging the covers over our bodies, I positioned myself closer.

    “Just lay on top, first,” he whispered.

    “I never…”

    “I know. You’ll figure it out.”

    But first, I did what I wanted. The pot had settled, no longer inducing the antsy itch. I felt free to indulge, to caress his back, to hold the mounds of flesh and toy with the dark wisps of hair between them. My fingers, sticky from the lubricant, burrowed lightly. Everett raised his hips in response. “Come on, Starsky. You promised.”
    I pressed myself atop him, concentrated kisses on the few slight freckles along his shoulders, the nape of his neck, his ear, the side of his face as he turned, opening his mouth for a sideways kiss that became a shared soft humming between us as I slowly began to grind my hips above his.
    Nudge by nudge, I dabbed, then poked, then retreated, then slid in, then out, overwhelmed with the sensation of his muscles clamping around me, then releasing, relenting as I slid further inside him. I found myself needing to think not of him, looking up at those reserved French people in the poster on the wall above us. Thrusting with too much intensity, realizing I finally had some power over him, I tried to hold off, wanting it to last, to grab some kind of memory before it all dissolved.
    The album had finished before I did. The slight squeaking sound of the sofa bed amid the silence made me starkly aware of what we were doing. Abruptly, Everett shoved himself out from under me, rolled over, repositioned his legs, wrapping them around my hips, guiding me back inside him.
    The covers had slid off us, but being exposed made it more intense. The shock of looking eye to eye, of kissing him, arching my back up to clearly see his face under tousled hair, and his own strokes to himself, assured me. Now, remember this, burn this into your racing heart, ignore all else but his almost proud smile and his panting breath.
    With a gasp, he unleashed on himself. I followed inside of him, and the wet puddles glued us together as I collapsed atop him.
    His fingers grazed my back as I panted, then soon calmed. He eased me off his chest, slipped the towel from under himself, wiped some of the sweat and sperm from our skin, and repositioned us into a more comfortable sideways hug. We tugged our disheveled sweatpants back on, but remained shirtless. Under the tugged-back blankets, our mutual body heat sufficed.

    His face adjacent to my own, he whispered, not exactly into my ear, but actually at my forehead, “I told you we’d be great.”

    “Are you always right?”

    “I’m right for you.”

    “But when will we see each other again? I mean, what, Tuesday’s school. We’ll be totally separated.”

    “ Pro tempore .”
    “What?”
    “‘For the time being.’ Shhh.” His fingers touched my lips, then slid from my face, past my sternum, settling at my waist after a playful cupping at my groin. “Time means nothing.”
    I didn’t believe him, but didn’t argue.
    Our romantic post-coital bliss was interrupted by an unpleasant odor.
    “Sorry,” Everett pulled the blankets off himself, fanning them as he left for the bathroom. “Tried to get by with a silent but deadly.” He winced, then let rip a comical toot before padding off to the bathroom. I almost thought I heard his sister giggling from inside her room.
    After some sounds in the bathroom that he managed to disguise with the running faucet –great minds think alike– he returned, momentarily bashful. I wanted to say how something so clearly human endeared him to me even more, but I guessed it would hardly be romantic to compliment his farting.

    We tried to sleep, but our hands continued