Opposite: A Golden Soul

Hot kisses in the neck. Really warm. His thick, shiny hair smelt of tobacco, and his lips were really soft. His goatie was tickling my collarbones and his fingers were stroking my neck. Slowly.
I liked this.
My arms around him, the pressing of his lips in the curve of my neck, his glasses put down next to me, and my nose nestled in his shoulder.
It was nice. Private. On the couch of my apartment.
His lovely little ears and the strands of sliky black hair around them, framing his face with longish raven curls.

I met Jamie Oliver in a gay bar. He wore a red shirt and he had a car. He had a red trucker hat, and baggy jeans. And as soon as I saw him, I knew I wanted him.

He wasn't the kind of people I'd go for. He wore really clanky rings and didn't take care of his shoes, he walked over them and they were stained and dirty. He wasn't wearing glasses in the club, but I could see he was chubby under his red tee.

He swore like a sailor and drank like one. He sang really badly and he smoke. And he was a terribly oafish flirt.
I wanted him.

I brought him back home and we had terrible sex.

The day after he was still there and basically oggled at me like he couldn't believe what had happened. I gave him breakfast, didn't ask for him to leave because I didn't want him to.
He didn't stay half naked like I did. He dressed all the way back up and stared at my legs and my tattoos and my stretchers and my chest hair.

I gave him my number, told him to call, to text.
He didn't. But when I found him again at the gay bar, he wasn't drunk yet, and he didn't look at me, but I wanted him.
His blond friend was laughing, and I heard him going, oh, Jame, look at that stunner checking you out! What's it, nerd fetish night?
And Jamie to shun him, and the blond to insist, hey, Jame, he looks like he wants to eat you alive, you should go talk to him, that would do you a nice fuck.
The blond was obnoxious. And way more my usual type of men. And it would have been easier to pick up that guy and his neat white shoes and his skinny shapely little body but I wanted Jamie.

By a twist of drinks we found ourselves next to eachother. The blond friend was getting fondled in the middle of the dancefloor and Jamie was drinking beer at the bar. I settled next to him and he turned his head.
Desire filled me at the sight of him so close, and my hand jerked, touching his shoulder. He jolted, and stepped away.

"Stop it." He said in a low voice. "I get it, you're Ron's gay friend or something. Leave me alone. I know I'll never be near as good as you or Ron or any of you guys. Now just leave me alone, I don't need to get more humiliated."

"Who's Ron?" I asked, the only question I could ask.

"Oh come on."

He rose his hazel eyes and met mine.

"You don't know anyone at the art school?"

"I'm a cashier. I do civil engeneering. I don't do art. Besides, it's on the other side of town. Why? What have I done wrong?"

He let his head fall.

"So you haven't picked me up the other night just to make fun of me. Right. Now, WHY did you pick me up?" He asked, putting down his beer.

In a corner of the room, the blond friend was getting fingered.
I frowned.

"Um, isn't that what you do in that kind of bar?"

"Yes, but why me?" His voice was very high pitched, almost annoying. "I mean, look at yourself, Mike, you're way off my level! You're a knockout and I'm a fat nerd! Why? And after that pathetic night, why the fuck did you come back to me?!"

I didn't answer. I couldn't answer, I didn't have an answer. I didn't know why.

"Is it pity? Do you have something for losers? Is it what turns you on? Pathetic people? Do you jerk off to Jeremy Kyle or what? Well guess what, I don't need your pity and I don't need you fetish. Find yourself someone on your level. I'm not playing these kinds of games."

He turned around, grabbing his beer, and joined the people on the dancefloor. The blond and his newly found partner took it to the restrooms. And I stayed there wondering why I wanted Jamie.

And I still didn't know. So I got on the dancefloor between all the grinding men, my ass getting grabbed in the process, until I found Jamie.
Then I put my hands softly on his waist, by behind, and pressed myself onto him, rubbing my body on his back, and leaned in, whispering in his ear.

"I don't know why I want you but I sure do."

He pushed me and tore himself away.

"Fuck off, you're creepy!"

"You told me you were attracted to me" I tried.

"Yeah, like you're attracted to Ian Somerhalder! I told you, you're not on my level!"

"But why does it matter so much?"

"Because I don't understand!"

"Me neither but-"

"If I go with you I'll always be worrying about not being good enough, about people talking behind my back even more than now!"

"I don't know, I-"

"You can have anyone! You don't even know me!"

"I can't have anyone" I shook my head. "Just because you consider me hot doesn't mean I automatically am. And, on last news, pretty people don't always go with people you find pretty. What if I find you pretty?"

It was a lie. I didn't know what I liked in him.
He looked at me. A long time.

"If so your tastes are fucked up."

"What if they are?"

"I'll bore you. Annoy you. You won't like my personality."

I sighed, exasperated.

"Stop being an insecure teenager and just fucking accept it!"

He stared at me. Hard. So I grabbed him and I kissed him. Hard.

"We're going to go back at my flat and we're gonna fuck. Hard." I whispered in his ear.

And he gave in.
He took me by the hand and tugged me through the dancers and out the nightclub and into his car.
He started the motor and I stuck my hand on his thigh.

"Shit" he bit his lip.

I didn't answer. He drove us to my flat safely despite the alcohol and lust.

And so we fucked. Hard.
It was better than the first time ; not good, but better. He was bad and inexperienced, probably a big porno freak who only had seen actors fucking and had no idea how you really do it with a guy.
So I got him hot again, and this time went on top. I didn't really fancy being a top, but I was apparently good at it and I really needed to come.

He moaned really loud. He told me he wasn't a virgin, and to be fair I could say he'd already had something up there but it could have been a dildo or fingers.
Anyway, that was definitely better, and way hotter. He was actually pretty beautiful when he was enjoying it.

I looked down at his belly and sure he was chubby, but that was cute. His hands were a bit rough, but warm to the touch. And I wanted him whole.
I pressed him to my chest and he clutched back. He was very soft.
And his half lidded, pleasure-filled eyes looking into mine as he let out small groans, they were so pretty.

The day after, I woke up wrapped around him. His chest was comfortable.
He offered to suck me off, and I accepted.
Well, turns out that if he was good at anything, it was oral.
His face was all flushed up, eyebrows frowned as he bobbed his head up and down unto me, his piercing enhancing the sensations.

And it was perfect.

When he was finished I was a mess, and for the first time with him I abandonned myself. My yielding was sincere. It wasn't pure desire. It wasn't leaving him my number after a terrible all-nighter.

It was letting him light a cigarette in my room as he lay next to me, and not minding, and feeling good, and feeling right, and looking into his eyes and watching him smile and staying naked and touching him as he chain-smoked furiously.

That's how I got Jamie Oliver.