At certain angles, and especially early in the morning—when the light is soft enough and he hasn’t been hardened by the day, Greg looks like a boy, a cute, sweet boy with a nose ring.  Too bad he doesn’t feel comfortable enough to show that side to my friends—he’s just way too defensive around them.  But if they could only see that sweet boy face, and the timber of his voice when he says MattAttack (weird nick—long story), soft almost a whisper because he doesn’t want anyone else to hear that he’s soft almost a whisper sometimes, and God do I feel privileged that I’m probably the only person he will be this way for.

If you ever want to see him at his best—you would need to wake up with him.  I’m the only one who can do that, but I can tell you about it, about him. Through all of swagger, and posturing, glares, huffs, slamming of doors—he really craves contact. But he’ll never ask for it. He needs reassurance on the most basic of levels—I know his family is a big part of that, they just never accepted him—they live in their dream of who he should be, and what he should do.  So there’s no talking about his real life in their house, and that deeply hurts him, because he can’t be himself. And I don’t know, but when he’s holding me all night—which he does every night, it’s like he’s reaffirming that I’m there and we’re real.

I don’t know how many times I’ve woken up, a little short for air because I’ve got just about 250 pounds of a slightly damp, too warm (but just right) human comforter wrapped around me. Even though breathing is impaired, and I have to maneuver just a little, because when I do that earns me “a still sleeping no don’t move hug”. Sometimes it’s just a little aggravating when I have to get up to check my level—or god forbid go to the bathroom, but squirming out of those “no don’t move sleep hugs” can result in “yes move sleep/but I’m awake now keep squirming, isn’t it grand we sleep in the nude, we can do this blindfolded—the dark is no matter because his hand--my dick, his mouth--my shoulder... are slip and slide because the dark and sweat remembers, and my body remembers too, and it’s that sweat, sometimes a little spit—and that certain twitch my muscle memory opens... hugs”

Suddenly there is teeth on the back of my shoulder he bites soft to take away some sting, replacing sting with sting... but not all of it because his cock is where his two fingers were just a second ago...ahhh, and this is just my need for him when I push back, and he moves his hand from my ass and takes hold of my hip. His entry is one long pull on a cello—the lowest notes, the lowest chord, the bow pulls straight and long, because the head of his cock