KISSING GIO

This is mainly to all the Getty Girls and a special mention to Livia, Nena and Sweetie who already have this experience… at least in fiction California-land.

You feel exhausted and turn off the computer.

Your eyes are sullen but you feel that in spite of what others might think, it isn't really a waste of time. What do people know, anyway? You have finished posting a few thoughts in that favorite forum of yours, watched one of those episodes (again). You know the lines by heart and yet, when it's ever too many times? You might have even stared at some of his pictures. Someone found new pictures on the internet and posted them. Not watching those strong arms in your screen would have been an unforgivable sin. Definitely a deadly sin punished by the holy saints.

You sit on your bed and you find it wise to take a rest. A little nap would do. You rest your head. Relax. Close your eyes and slowly your mind is taken elsewhere. To that ethereal place where active thoughts wander freely when the body finally lets them.

A noise. You wake up. Somewhere there's music coming from out of the room. A party?! You still feel drowsy and walk to the door and open it a bit confused. There's surely a party going on out there.

Your heart stops. You feel a presence in the room. You are not alone.

You turn slowly and there he is, sitting in the corner of the bed, his back facing you.

But you don't cry for help. You don't panic because, though you've never met him before this time, you know who he is. You know him like he had been part of your life for a long time. You know everything about him.

Yes, you are familiar with those hands holding his head, the elbows resting on his knees, the bulging arms showing those strongly-built sun-tanned muscles. You also recognize that haircut, the one you like so much on him. And you are amazed of the urge of your fingers that so madly desire to caress his head and feel the touch of his hair.

You gasp as you look around and realize that you are not even in your room. Those books are not yours; that bicycle, that leather jacket hanging in a corner, that half naked woman poster on the wall... not yours at all.

So your mind is still fussy but your heart tells you that if this is not reality, if this is a dream, you must let it be and live yourself in it, in that fantasy, for as long as you can.

He suddenly turns and looks at you. You jump a little and you notice those black eyes looking directly at yours. They are surrounded by dark marks of distress and sadness. And you are very conscious of the person he must be thinking about. The one he loves but doesn't love him back: the woman who broke his heart.

I just wanted a place. He says, looking at the door past through you. From far away you can hear the laughter, the music and the commotion. You close the door behind you. You walk a few steps towards him. You are both alone.

Me too. You have ordered yourself to live the moment and your body acts to this command. You sit by his side on the bed. It's too loud out there.

Yeah. He smiles that smile that has so many women swooning all around the globe. He welcomes your company. You notice the dimple shyly forming in his cheek. The tension starts disappearing in your nerves just from the thought of being the cause of that smile.

Your arm meets his arm and you feel his warmth and the faint smell of aftershave. So close you can hear his breathing and you just wished you could hear his thoughts. The arms feel nice being half naked wrapped tightly but precariously in the short sleeves of his t-shirt, those very arms that invite the hug just by looking at them. You shift your body weight slightly to his side. He does feel warm and inviting.

But he is troubled. You can tell. You know it's about Betty … But he wouldn't have the slightest idea (he better doesn't) of how much you know about him and her.

Love? You ask, making conversation.

He doesn't respond. He obviously doesn't want to talk about it.

He is twirling his ring between his fingers. His ring, his trademark. One of his many, really, as are the tight jeans, the candid smile, the dimple, the huge shoes, the silver bracelet: the ring. You feel like saying something.

You know, I like that.

You curse yourself. What the hell was that? You blame your inner fangirling state of idiocy near him. It's nothing but a dream. You try to pull yourself together.

Really?

You are startled for a second.

You like it? He looks at you and you must be blushing. You swear quietly that you must look like an idiot because he is still staring at your face smiling in obvious amusement. Try it. Must look good in you, sexy.

Did he just call you that in that sleazy tone? Not what you were expecting. You have not chance to make up your mind of whether you feel upset or flattered about it when you feel the cold touch of the metal ring inside the opened palm of your hands.

Like hypnotized, you automatically try it on your middle finger.

You laugh at the look of that huge ring dancing loose in your finger. His laughs follow yours and blend together in a pleasant alchemy echoing against the walls of the room.

Only the two of you.

Then suddenly, his hands takes hold of your hands and he slowly pulls free the ring and slides it gently in your thumb imprisoned between his own soft fingers. The fingers of a chef, the hands of an artist.

There. I think it fits better. Like I said, it looks good on you.

That husky voice travels the air and pierces your ears tickling your body and cutting your breath.

You swallow hard and try twice as harder to take notice of the silvery ring but you can't take your eyes off his hand still holding your wrist, still touching your fingers. Waiting.

You look at him. Those bewitching black eyes answer you back and you can't even remember where you are, who you are or even your life before this moment.

His lips part and he slowly whispers your name.

You don't care how he knows it but how beautiful it sounds coming from him. Your heart rings in your ears like drums on the battlefield of a war you aren't sure you want to fight, anymore. The closeness between you and him is unbearable and deliciously torturing.

Then you give in.

You lean closer and conquer the distance meeting his lips in a gentle touch.

But he is quick and responds with urgency. You feel his sweet lips wrap yours in a soaked embrace, sucking your breath away and draining any sense or decorum left from your body. You take hold of his neck looking for strength and he guides your back gently on the bed.

You welcome him as your body reacts to his every touch and the weight of him over you. Your hands travel the back of his head, his hair, his neck… you feel his force take control and overpower you making you submit to his silent commands.

His tongue explores your mouth and you invite him in without resistance. As you play his game and massage the tender skin of his lips you are consciously surprised that your brain is still working, still thinking. That in the middle of all that storming pleasure you feel the need to erase his pains and drain him clean from inside out. Wishing silently that you could strip her from his body and his soul with your kisses and your strokes. But you don't fool yourself. You can't deny your wants and your own desires. You calm your thirst with the taste of his nectar sipping eagerly from him in between moans of pleasure and gasps for air. His lips taste of sweet and his heavy breathing burns in scorching fire against your skin, feeling the passion of his youth in every gentle bite.

Your fingers feel tired of touching his muscles through the coarse material of his t-shirt. You pull free a bit of cloth from the prison of his jeans and slid your hands inside to the encounter with the smooth touch of the hairless skin of his stomach. The tip of your fingers travel in a bold trip under his shirt discovering his chest, playing with his belly button, his nipples, exploring his back… and he lets you do it freely. He feels you. You know it from the pressure of his lips hammering against yours dancing the crazy dance in synchronization with your own movements, sinking deeper and deeper into the insanity of your desires.

Then, he stops.

He stops without a warning or a sign.

Sorry, babe, I can't do this to you.

Oh, but you want him to! You don't care for nothing else. All you can feel is the hunger burning inside of you.

He pulls back and sits by your side.

This is not fair to you… or me.

Or her. You think as you stand up and look into that beautiful face of his. You really know what's on his mind. Fantasy or dream, he is still thinking about her.

Of course he would never wash his pains with another woman. He is a gentleman. A rarity: a blue collar gentleman from Queens.

You smile. Half understanding, half disappointed. And yet, you realize he has never looked so handsome.

You are a good guy.

No answer. It's your cue. You must leave. You walk to the door and look back at him one more time.

The pain. It will pass, you know?

As you leave the room you finally breathe replaying each and every feeling that was born into your body from that kiss.

Then you notice that the ring that's not yours is still hugging your finger.

You hurry and open the door one more time.

But he is gone.

And you recognize the bed and the color of the walls: your memories and your life. You are back. Left with nothing but the fuzzy memories of what had just happened.

But your heart is still maddened inside your chest, your lips feel heavy and wet, the blood running wild in your veins, your fingers still trembling in excitement and the memory of his smell in the air around you.

You feel exhausted and turn on the computer.

You just can't wait to tell The Girls.

THE END