A wonderful thing is being a boy standing half-naked, just jeans and nothing else, your bare feet gripping a narrow ledge and you are stretched, your fingertips keep you upright as they grip the edge of the ledge above you.

The only thing between you and the night, you and the freezing fog, you and the claustrophobia that darkness brings to mountains and large stretches of land, is your skin.

It's freezing cold and your balcony doors are open. Music is pouring out along with the heat in your expensive mountain house. You turn your head and you can see that heat shimmer while it rolls out. The music is the King of Pain, by The Police, and you close your eyes and imagine that blue whale beached by the springtime's ebb, because that's how you feel.

You're up and out of water. Where at one time you were in a place where you were beautiful and you could do the most amazing things, you've now come to a place where you no longer belong. The funny thing is it's the same place. The place is beside your husband and you've traded a dry mountain home for a wet one.

Gravity transforms the beauty and strength of a whale into a helpless beast. The sun which barely reached him before as the weakest blue tendrils now eats him alive.

That's how I felt last night. I was freezing standing there on the ledge of my balcony, but not shivering. The forest, the mountains seemed as small as me and as large as my blown up heart and the fog had sound.

All I wanted in that moment, on the ledge, and when you stand at an edge you feel this pull, and it comes from your stomach, and it starts in the darkness underneath you and it blossoms in your chest, stings your shoulders and arms, and makes you want to cry, because you're standing at the edge, above a fall which could hurt you very badly at least, and kill you at best all I wanted was him.

All I wanted in that moment was his arms to wrap around my hips and squeeze me hard. Then that hook in my stomach that falling down feeling, wouldn't be as strong, wouldn't be as much, if he were there with me last night, if my husband was home.

I closed my eyes as the ice air attacked my chest. The piercings in my nipples were small circles of slow fire, they were so cold. The buttons in my fly freezing through the denim became a part of my cock that was hard despite that falling feeling, hard despite the fear, hard despite the fact that Greg wasn't there.

It hurt, but it felt fucking fine, so fine when I did look down, because breathing cold air hurts and I didn't want to start coughing and lose my hold on the ledge above me and fall a raw smile unfolded inside me when I saw the head of my cock standing up out of my jeans, over the edge, squeezed tight by the fabric red and pink because it was freezing outside, my precum pooled there thick on the inside edges of my foreskin a conduit to the cold and it was the sharpest, most precise needle that pushed in from the frozen outside into the inside of me.

All I wanted in the moment was my husband's arms around my hips and his hands undoing the freezing metal buttons on