More mental blocks, stacking up. I start composing sentences when I am away from the keyboard, but as soon as I drop down in front of once, fuzzy silence in my brain tilts on, full-throttle.

We met on Sunday afternoon, 3PM.

I was an hour early, so I ended up pulling my usual routine of parking in the ArcLight structure and spinning through Borders, for once denying Amoeba, and depositing myself on a couch at the coffee shop on the corner of Cahuenga and Sunset.

I shared the couch with a thin blonde man reading The Brothers Karamazov, "HOME" tattooed across his right knuckles, a faded batwing protruding down his arm, escaping from the rolled up sleeve of his sweater.

Fifteen minutes and several pages of my book later, I left to go meet with GV8.

It was... a little awkward at first.

We kissed, hugged, but there was a slight... misalignment.

Not physically, of course, but just a reserve. Dipping toes into cold water, hesistating if one is going to jump all the way in or curl up in a towel on shore.

He showed me the work on his loft, the new ideas, the changes. More mirrors have been installed, and it is rapidly becoming obvious that this short project that was supposed to be off the ground by the end of October at the latest is going to be pushed well into January.

But he wants to do it right, wants to make it perfect.

While he showed me, our eyes rarely met. He was avoiding that contact, which is unusual. It wasn't a sign of submission, I think, but more of an avoiding of things you do not wish to look on, closing your eyes to something unpleasant. We did not touch, we did not stroke or pat, fondle or hug. None of our usual hand-holding as he would tote me about the site of construction, even when I tried to touch him, he would not lean into it, would slightly dodge... nothing noticable, unless you're me and have a habit of dodging unwanted physical affection from male friends. The signs are there.

It worried me.

It still does.

We moved around each other in an ever-widening circle, until returning to the apartment.

I told him on the phone, a few days ago, that I would give him a rubdown to ease his muscles after so much physical labor. He stripped and crawled onto the bed, I followed suit.

It is a pleasure to please him. Holding the oil in my hands until my heat removes the edge of coldness and then dripping it onto his back, onto his waist, his arms, legs, feet. The slick slide of my hands over his skin, kneading his muscles, hearing the quiet groans that signal his contentment.

I used to be so good at this, before the accident, before the surgery, before I lost most of the strength in my right hand.

Even though I will likely never have that strength again, I can still feel and move the muscles, I can still relax and understand the body in that way that is so unexplainable to most, but has been second nature to me since I was small.

The massage turns into something sexual when I have him roll onto his back and straddle his pelvis, my own natural oils coating him, gliding up and down on his shaft while massaging his arms and chest, using the weight of his head to get the solid knots on the back of his neck.

This is when it turns to harmony.

This is when that ever-widening circle vanishes and we're speaking to each other with our skin and sweat. Barriers are removed, awkwardness vanished, reserve gone.

We are perfect beasts, so in tune, so woven together, running through the woods of our lusts.

When we finish, we are one again.

Words unneeded,
Our flesh's communion,
And then... peace.