Girl on the Net

The next time I see my boyfriend, I’m going to make sure I brush my lips really slowly against the soft skin in the curve between his neck and his shoulder. I’m going to run my hands up the back of his t-shirt and relish the warmth of his body through the cotton. I’m going to tell him ‘I missed you’ and mean it more than I have since early August, when I very rudely disappeared for two whole weeks in the early days of our relationship. On the morning I returned from that trip, we went to the pub for a couple of hours before I took him home to my place, and when I stood up to get my round in, I ran my fingertips down the back of his head – recently-but-not too freshly-shaved, feather soft against my skin. He later whispered to me that the touch had made his cock jump. So fuck it, yeah: the next time I see my boyfriend, I’ll want to do that again too.

As I write this, I’m not entirely sure when I’ll get to see him. There are two possibilities. The first is that he comes home from Christmas tomorrow, in which case I will be submitting my application to either come round his gaff, or ask if he wants to come to mine, so I can ravish him as soon as is humanly possible. The other is that I don’t see him for a bit longer, when we’ll be at a gig getting drunk and sweaty, then piling back to my place with our mates before eventually rolling into bed together at four o’clock in the morning.

Tomorrow

This – for reasons that will be obvious to those of you who tore open your Christmas presents first thing in the morning – is the best option. I will run to the station as fast as my legs will carry me (in the smart-as-fuck ankle boots I’ll be wearing to show him how sexy I’ve remained in his absence) and pace up and down, feeling like the human embodiment of the heart-eyes-emoji, while staring at his most recent texts. I’ll be trying to picture his face, because sometimes I forget the details of these visual things when I’m busy focusing on the way someone makes me feel, occasionally poking my head up like an eager meerkat to try and catch a glimpse of him among the crowds pilling out of the station.

The next time I see my boyfriend, I doubt he’ll be as visibly excited to see me as I will him – he’s an understated man, most of the time. But I’ll grin the deliriously happy smile I’ve become acquainted with in the last few months of my lucky, lucky life, and wait to catch his eye as he looks up when he bleeps out of the ticket barriers. He might be awkward about how enthusiastic my greeting is, although I hope also secretly pleased.

When I get him back to mine, we won’t fuck straight away. That isn’t what we do. First, I’ll roll us a joint and we’ll catch up a bit. Listen to something chill and horny on Spotify while I gently stroke the back of his head. Show him my best Christmas present, and ask about his in return. And when I think he’s ready to be properly seduced, I’ll straddle him the way I did on our second date, grind against his dick through jeans till he’s hard enough to be hungry for it, then abandon him completely to stew in frustration as I run upstairs to change from jeans-and-jumper into thigh-high-socks-and-nothing-else.

The next time I see my boyfriend, I’m going to tie his wrists to the bedframe.

Tease the head of his cock with my mouth: first with kisses up the length, squeezing a little at the base so I can feel it twitch, taut and full with blood; next long, flat strokes with the tongue on the underside, making direct eye contact to see how well this is being received; then round and round the coronal ridge with the tip of my tongue. Finally I will take the shaft in both my hands, holding it tight and hot, and suck the whole head into my wet mouth. Hovering there, very short strokes back and forth, until he starts to squirm about it.

While he’s away, I allow myself to let my excitement spill over into texts: I miss you. I love you. I cannot wait to see you. But he feels so very distant when we haven’t seen each other in person. This guy who I want to just bury inside me is suddenly reduced to brief one-liners, words on a screen. An aching emptiness that WhatsApp cannot fill. It feels frightening and inappropriate to send fantasies to this not-quite-a-person, so I write them here in my head instead.

The next time I see my boyfriend, I’m going to ask him to kneel behind me when I’m on all fours, both of us facing the mirror, so I can look into his eyes as he shoves his dick all the way inside me – to my cervix, right up to the hilt.

The next time I see my boyfriend, I’m going to put my face right up against his and almost-but-not-quite kiss him, as I hover with my cunt over the head of his cock. Holding the base tight with one hand so I can angle it perfectly. Then in the moment I’m ready to sit fully down for the first stroke, a split second before I do it, I will finally allow him to kiss me. Parting my lips, I will slip my tongue into his mouth at the same time as I slip his cock into my pussy, and although he’s tied so he cannot touch me, I hope he will moan down my throat. Like the starting pistol for this week-long longed-for fuck.

The next time I see my boyfriend, I am going to devour him.

Not tomorrow, but the next day

We’ll meet at the pub before the gig: him, me, a few of my friends, hopefully one or two of his. There’ll be pints, chat, catching up. But before that there’ll be the moment he walks in the door and I see him for the first time in over a week. I get to watch his face for whether his eyes light up when he clocks me, or whether he plays it cool and/or shy. It’ll probably be the latter. Or there’ll be some weird awkward dance where he arrives at the same time as other people I know and I won’t be able to properly hug him and press my lips into the crook of his neck and shoulder, because it’ll look rude that I haven’t already said hello to the pals who rocked up at exactly the same time.

There’ll be a weird dance of handshake-hug-or-neither, and some introductions, I’ll give death-ray-laser eyes to anyone who tries to sit in his seat (the one I’ve saved beside me). I’ll put my hand on his thigh and smile at him. He’ll smile back, and I’ll mouth ‘I missed you so much.’ He’s not into public displays of affection. But I’ll run my hand a little further up his thigh and squeeze it in a way that means ‘I cannot wait to get you home and into my bed so I can dig my fingertips into the meat of your arse and yank you inside me.’

We’ll chat to our friends a bit about what we got up to at Christmas, what we’ve got planned for New Year’s Eve, and what each of our respective cultures calls this section of time between the two (my best friend calls it ‘the netherdays’, my boyfriend calls it ‘the gooch’). And while we’re hanging out, I’ll glow with delight that I get to show him off again. Failing to hide the thoughts which shine so smugly out of my grinning face: isn’t he sexy? Funny too, right? And look how hot his tattoos are!

We’ll go to the gig.

We’ll be slightly pissed by this point. Drunk enough that he’ll drop his ‘no PDAs’ rule a little, like he has at other gigs in the past if there’s a dark corner for us to stand in. He might slip a hand down to pat me on the arse (I’ll obviously wear my tightest jeans for this exact reason) or maybe glance down my low-cut top (DITTO) and make a playful comment about how great my tits are (they fucking are). Maybe he’ll return a kiss if I give him one. He’ll definitely tolerate me putting my arm round his waist and then leaning in to smell him.

We’ll listen to the band, and we’ll sway and drink and sing along with our friends. And it’ll be warm and fun and convivial, and beneath it all will pulse the intense, powerful thud of promise that later I’ll be allowed to touch him more.

The best part of this second possibility is that I have no idea when I actually will be allowed to touch him. Potentially after the gig finishes, if everyone’s tired and wants to head home. But if they’re up for more partying then I won’t be able to touch him until long gone 3 in the morning. We’ll hang out with our mates first, and maybe he’ll sit on the sofa with me on the floor, gently stroking his feet beneath everyone else’s eyeline, maybe sometimes texting him to say ‘I can’t wait to get you upstairs’ or ‘You look so fucking beautiful right now.’

I will listen to him talking and watch the way his lips move and think about the weight of his cock as it swells in my hand. Or the way he swallows, catches his breath, then exhales just before he whispers: ‘I’m gonna come’.

The next time I see my boyfriend I will wait so fucking patiently you’d think me Penelope, watching the horizon for returning ships. With the desperation I have to press my face up against his and put my lips on his lips, ten minutes will feel like the years for which she waited so steadfastly for Odysseus.

I can’t remember if, when she finally got her hands on Odysseus, she straddled his thighs and plunged herself down onto his rock-solid cock, murmuring about how much she’d missed him and how desperate she was to get him all the way inside her but… I bet she did something like that. Maybe held his dick by the base in one hand, with her other hand clasping his jaw tightly so she could turn him toward her – ‘look at me look at me look at me’ – as she pushed the head of it into the hot, wet, aching hole of her cunt and then hovered there, gently sliding up and down by no more than a centimetre at a time.

Deliberately making him wait for what comes next, while compelling him to appreciate the intensity and pinpoint-focused pleasure of exactly what’s happening now…

The next time I see my boyfriend I’m going to look into his eyes and crack the deliriously happy smile I’ve been accidentally practicing since he wandered into my life, and tell him ‘I’ve missed you sooooooo much’ as I sit firmly onto it.

Add as many ‘o’s to that ‘soooooo’ as you like. The length of that word is the duration of the time I’ll take to envelop him completely. Two seconds, twenty, two hundred – I’m more than happy to take as long as I need, because while I do it I’ll be enjoying the heat of his body beneath me, clamped between my legs, and the colour of his eyes as he stares back at me, and that slight wetness in the centre of his parted lips as he breathes out – ‘ohhhhh’ and ‘I’ve missed you too’. Above all, I’ll relish the gentle-soft way he touches my hips, like he wants to hold me but doesn’t dare clasp too tightly in case I disappear from his grip. Like a shining bubble popped, then gone. Like someone he’s imagined.

The next time I see my boyfriend he will hold me. I will kiss him. We will murmur about how we’ve missed each other.

And finally – finally – after over a week of waiting and so much dreaming and imagining and (of course) fervently wanking over possibilities, I’ll get to feel the whole taut length of him sliding deep and hard inside me.

The next time I see my boyfriend, I’ll look him dead in the eye as I squeeze around him.

The next time I see my boyfriend, I’ll feel the heat of his cheek against mine and his breath on my neck as I fuck him firm and slow and whisper:

“God. I’ve fucking missed you.”