Free Stolen Moments by Radclyffe Page A

searching for a loose bit of skin to fasten on and worry, pull at until a small drop of blood would well and her soft pink tongue would dart out again to taste the salty red. Exquisite torture. Fuck, I wanted to kiss her, make her mine.
    We went to the pub to watch the boxing. She was the first girl I ever met who liked it too. I was falling for this girl and I started to look for a flaw, a blemish, a trait that would drive me mad, but I found none.
    I’d been king-hit. This love had blindsided me, left me with no balance, no direction. No legs to stand on or tongue to talk with. This love had hit me square on the chin. My brains crawled down my spine and out my ass. I’m…punch-drunk…cunt-struck. I’m in the red corner (red for passion, red for the color of my swollen clit, red for my heart and the blood that beats through it). I’m in the red corner and they’re telling me to throw in the towel. I know she knocks me out and I want it. I’m in the red corner and I’m losing the fight. I’m in the red corner and I’m fighting to lose.
    I invited her to a picnic in the park with the ulterior motive of letting my few friends check her out, a last unconscious attempt at finding someone to spot a major fault in this girl before the last traces of reason had left my brain and I fell madly for someone I’ve never even kissed. No luck, everyone thinks she’s great and my heart is a lead balloon.
    I sat in the park alone. Everyone had packed up and gone home. I sat alone untangling silence, trying to figure out the thoughts I didn’t have. The universe was crammed into my skull. She made the blood pound drum solos in my bones. We watched movies that night at her place and she kissed me and I melted. She kissed me and her mouth was cold from the ice cream we were eating; she tasted like chocolate and felt like velvet. I was nervous and excited and hot. She made me smolder; I wanted to start that same fire deep in her belly. She said I gave her tingles. I left when the credits rolled, we kissed at the front door and my feet didn’t hit the ground the whole walk home. I giggled like a fool and fell asleep with a smile on my face.
    I was horny. I couldn’t concentrate. I was supposed to be working, studying, cleaning, exercising, eating, anything but sitting in my room thinking about her. It was different this time. I won’t say that I wasn’t thinking of fucking her—I was. I was a twenty-five-year-old chronic masturbator. It’s the way I was thinking that was different. I was thinking of her smile close up, just before we kiss. I thought about the kiss, not how it made me feel but how she felt to me. I thought of her body, but not her tits and ass. I thought of her back just above her ass where her hips curved in and that smooth indent that traces the line of her spine. I was thinking poetry not porn.
    I didn’t close my eyes when we kissed; I didn’t need to. Her skin failed to take on the aspects of an alien landscape this close… She was still beautiful to look at. It was so different to the boys I’d kissed, faces growing grotesque and monstrous as they got closer. If I didn’t close my eyes by the time they got to my lips I didn’t want their kisses. I was happy for the first time in ages. I couldn’t stop smiling. I was crazy like a monkey, like a fox in love.
    She’d had a fight with her flatmates. She rang me and asked me to meet her after work. I felt like I was going into battle. My hair spray was my helmet; I armed myself with heels and camouflaged with powders and perfumes. I went into battle with my pink jeans on. We walked to a bar and I met one of her friends. I got drunk and ended up playing barroom footy with two boys I know. We all ended up in a heap on the floor. We were out on the street after that—barroom footy wasn’t endorsed by the management. The night was over, we were in the kitchen talking soft so I didn’t wake the girls I lived with. It was past my bedtime and I offered her