I am looking at him in the picture. His hands in his pockets, he poses with six other males I do not recognize. They all look different. Some look hard, others lifeless. Their masculine postures make them look straight. They are straight. Litson looks straight too. But nobody—no stranger at all—would look at him in this picture and think he is gay. No stranger would think he is into boys.

I smile.

Litson is twenty-two. He is masculine. I am twenty-three. I am feminine. I am Soter.

Litson likes me. He told me himself. I like him too. I did not want to at first. You cannot always trust boys, you know. They say they like you, but really they want to be a leaf in your life. When the winds blow, they are gone. Hardly do they ever want to be a branch, let alone a root.

But there is something about Litson. It is different with him.

Boys I have liked in the past made me feel like someone worth having. But Litson makes me feel like I am in a fairytale movie. He makes me feel girly—not the graceful, beautiful kind, but the kind that is helplessly and deliciously vulnerable.

People think this boy is cold, unfeeling, irritatingly few of words. They do not know that with me his tongue loosens, that he wants to say a thousand things a thousand times. They do not know that with me he becomes small, seeking warmth from my lap, seeking solace from my lips. They do not know that he quivers under my gaze.

Is this the joy girls feel when they realize the power they wield over their men?

I think I am in love. Suddenly, the world is beautiful. The colour of the sky—beautiful. The way birds glide over trees—beautiful. I want to tell the world there is a boy who makes my heart feel magical things. But my love is forbidden, and I cannot declare it.

That is alright. It is better to enjoy love privately than to make it a public thing.

Besides, I have an exam tomorrow—Geo 325 (Aerial Photography). I should be reading. But all I see on the pages is his face. I read the words aloud, but I only hear his voice: you are very attractive; you make me vulnerable; I cannot resist your power; I am in love with you.

I want to cry and smile and laugh at the same time. I drop my book and wander with him in my thoughts.

They will say Soter is the girl in this relationship. They will say Litson is the man. I do not care. All I care about is being with this boy who wants to be with me. And if they ask, I will tell them—with stars in my eyes—that I love him. That I love the way he touches me. That each touch comes after a question of permission—can I? That he likes to start with my buttocks, caressing the two soft parts as if they were rubies, diamonds and gold.

That he inspects my body as if it were a work of art. That he drops warm kisses after feeling a part. That there is a secure feeling I get when I am flat on my back and he is hovering above me, smiling down on me, turning my insecurities over so they become precious.

I smile at the picture and put my phone away. I start cleaning my room. Litson is coming tonight.

My heart is singing love songs.

There he is an hour later at my door. I cry because he is beautiful and he smiles at me like I am something rare. Tonight, he lets me do the talking and while I speak, he watches me—smiling, not listening, completely charmed by me.

Afterwards, I lay him on the bed and beg to line his lips. He agrees. I reach into my bag for my liner and red lipstick. I have an exam tomorrow—Geo 325—but here I am, painting my love on Litson’s lips, his eyes fixed on me.

Tonight, he does not undress me. He pulls me close and wraps himself around me. It is the first time I feel the beat of another person’s heart against mine. Later, he turns me and holds me from behind. His body presses into me and again, I feel his heart beat against my back. It feels like his heart is beating with mine, beating in mine. His warmth settles me. My body responds to his, and for the first time, desire feels safe.

I look at the faces of people in my mind and say, yes, I love him. And I am not ashamed.

After tonight, he will disappear from my life.

And I will never see him again.

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Veroll Sterling on Unsplash