Free Every Time I Think of You by Jim Provenzano

sad.”

    “Whatever.”

    “Maybe…” His face scrunched slightly, as if in a ruse of calculation.

    “Yes?”

    “You’ll definitely be home?”

    “Yeah.”

    “Okay. Don’t hold your breath, but…”

    “But what?”

    “Just cross your fingers.”

    “Okay,” I said, intrigued.

    We kept the goodbyes short in his driveway, scribbled addresses and phone numbers. I didn’t get out of the car, but he did lean over to offer a clumsy hug-kiss.
    I watched him walk away and, as I’d hoped, or perhaps because he didn’t hear me pull away, he turned, smiled and waved.
    Having prepared an edited version of the odd and wonderful events from our little Pittsburgh adventure in my head on the drive home, I unfurled it for my parents without too much effusive detail. The minor fender dent was explained with relative truth, minus the motivation.
    “I’m glad you had a good time,” Mom said as she eyed the dormant Christmas tree. While we traditionally waited until New Year’s Day to strip and remove it, she seemed eager to bid it farewell. Most of the ornaments had been put back into the boxes on the floor.
    “You sure you’ll be okay tonight?”
    All alone , she could have added, but didn’t.
    “Yeah, sure,” I answered. I momentarily considered asking her if Everett could stop by. But since I had no idea if he would, I felt no need to do so.
     
    The television showed celebrations in Australia, Asia and Europe, and the crowds eagerly anticipated the countdown in Times Square. I lay on the sofa, distracted by my more abstract thoughts about the concept of time and its association with this ritual, even the concept of Gregorian calendar years based on Jesus’ birthday, which, according to some, hadn’t even occurred in December. I found it absurd for Jewish and Asian cultures to celebrate a day, which didn’t even exist on their calendars, with fireworks and paper horns.
    I hadn’t noticed that the sound of one of those horns wasn’t being tooted on TV, but on the other side of our porch door window. A soft tap on the glass made me turn with surprise to see him.
    Everett stood under the porch light, the horn curling and uncurling from his lips, a bottle of champagne in one hand.
    I stumbled off the sofa in my rush to let him in. Once again, his chilled skin met mine as I plucked the paper horn from his lips and kissed him.
    “Happy New Ear,” he joked.
    “Oh, it’s gonna be happy, alright,” I said as I let him in, dragged him to my bedroom, where I peeled off his parka with a bit of the fervor from our first time together. Everett glanced around my bedroom. It was then that he remarked, “I wanna hump every surface,” but then shut off the light. “I can’t stay long,” he said between our licks, tugs and hurried disrobing.
    In my hall-lit but otherwise darkened room, we tumbled to the floor. The cheers on the television echoed distantly from the living room, and a few random hoots down the block accompanied our passion. It was as if we were rushing through a menu of positions until, my sweatpants tangled around my ankles, he abruptly parted and lifted my legs. His tongue lapped around my balls, then down to my butt. I flinched at the odd sensation of his tongue slathering around, then in me. As I relented and gasped appreciatively, I kept thinking, where did he learn this?
    Approaching an all too soon overriding sensation of bliss, with just a few of his insistent tugs on my cock, he aimed his erection between my legs. But before he got more than a few insistent pokes inside me, I spurted up and onto myself. Easing my legs down, he shifted again to straddle my chest while frantically stroking himself, and aimed for my open mouth, nearly succeeding.

    Stunned by the abruptness of our lust, we collapsed and clung together, panting, until he laughed, pointing at the floor.

    “What?” I asked.

    “We didn’t even open the champagne bottle.”

    I clumsily stood, pulling up my sweatpants.