To Say the Least I Thought I'd Seen It All
Chapter 1
He’s singing again.
His body is positioned at a strange angle. His feet are together, his legs are back, his butt is sticking out, and his back is arched, his face is pushed close to the microphone.
I’m watching him. His eyes are closed and his lips are moving. It’s so easy to take away his screaming and imagine the whispers spilling from those perfect red lips.
The way his lips brush against the microphone in the same way that his lips mumble words against the skin of my body.
I watch him with his head thrown back and his mouth open wide. It is no stretch to picture him with that same face lying in my bed, caught up in the passion.
He’s moving now.
Running and skipping across the stage. Spinning and hurling himself around with an energy that I haven’t ever seen in anybody else.
Just Frank.
And it’s that overflow of energy that drew me to him in the first place. More than his smile, his laugh, his beautiful skin or his body.
Oh that body.
But none of that would mean anything without his energy.
His smile would be just another smile, it would never stretch across his entire face, big and bright, like he’s smiling at the most wondrous thing he’s ever seen. His laugh would be just a laugh. A laugh to be heard and forgotten. Not the laugh that he has now. That little giggle. Even if he is laughing at my expense, which happens quite often, that giggle seems to make it all right. Make it worth it.
And that face, that body. He would be just another pretty face, another pretty boy in a sea of pretty boys. But the energy he has makes him so extraordinarily gorgeous. Makes his body something I hunger for. So easy to worship.
He’s standing next to me now. So close, I can feel the heat radiating off of his body. I can feel the power behind his arm as he plays his guitar.
Those strong arms and skillful hands.
I love his hands.
The way that his hands caress my body so lightly. The way his fingers trail over my skin. His touch on my cheek, on my sides, on my chest. And other times how he grips and squeezes and claws.
He knows just what to do, just what I need him to do to me.
And that’s what he does right now. Only, its not to me, its to his guitar.
His hands are seemingly in control at all times, and I can almost never look away when he plays.
Plays me or his guitar.
His body is positioned at a strange angle. His feet are together, his legs are back, his butt is sticking out, and his back is arched, his face is pushed close to the microphone.
I’m watching him. His eyes are closed and his lips are moving. It’s so easy to take away his screaming and imagine the whispers spilling from those perfect red lips.
The way his lips brush against the microphone in the same way that his lips mumble words against the skin of my body.
I watch him with his head thrown back and his mouth open wide. It is no stretch to picture him with that same face lying in my bed, caught up in the passion.
He’s moving now.
Running and skipping across the stage. Spinning and hurling himself around with an energy that I haven’t ever seen in anybody else.
Just Frank.
And it’s that overflow of energy that drew me to him in the first place. More than his smile, his laugh, his beautiful skin or his body.
Oh that body.
But none of that would mean anything without his energy.
His smile would be just another smile, it would never stretch across his entire face, big and bright, like he’s smiling at the most wondrous thing he’s ever seen. His laugh would be just a laugh. A laugh to be heard and forgotten. Not the laugh that he has now. That little giggle. Even if he is laughing at my expense, which happens quite often, that giggle seems to make it all right. Make it worth it.
And that face, that body. He would be just another pretty face, another pretty boy in a sea of pretty boys. But the energy he has makes him so extraordinarily gorgeous. Makes his body something I hunger for. So easy to worship.
He’s standing next to me now. So close, I can feel the heat radiating off of his body. I can feel the power behind his arm as he plays his guitar.
Those strong arms and skillful hands.
I love his hands.
The way that his hands caress my body so lightly. The way his fingers trail over my skin. His touch on my cheek, on my sides, on my chest. And other times how he grips and squeezes and claws.
He knows just what to do, just what I need him to do to me.
And that’s what he does right now. Only, its not to me, its to his guitar.
His hands are seemingly in control at all times, and I can almost never look away when he plays.
Plays me or his guitar.