I loved his body and so did he.
The perfect squareness of his shoulders as I viewed him from the back. The muscles at the tops of his arms that would not yield when I squeezed with all my strength. The smooth and yet contoured surface of his torso: from neck to groin, from clavicle to hips. His hard thighs, long legs, firm buttocks. I’d not looked so long and intently at a man before, not one stood there before me, all flesh, and sinew and bone.
He never tired of talking about his body, and for a while at least I was equally rapt. He’d explain things I had not even considered until I met him, about muscle groups, and the best kind of stretches to do before a run. When I watched Casino Royale one evening at home alone, I kept on replacing Daniel Craig with him in my mind. Both specimens were equally beautiful to me. Of course I told him, and even over the phone, at long-distance, I could feel his ego swell and grow. It only made me think of his cock, hardening and expanding in my hand. But I didn’t tell him that.
It is not that he was without his flaws. But they seemed to add to his allure. He had a tattoo on his left upper arm, a snake-like, wavering line, that might have been drawn and coloured in with turquoise felt pen. A botched job, obviously. I wondered when and how (and why) he’d had it done. Was he drunk one night on holiday? Was there a woman involved? But for some reason I never mentioned it all the time we were seeing each other. It was as if it would break the spell his body had cast. I didn’t want realism. I was living a fantasy and so was he.
The sex was good. I want to say it was mind-blowing, but my skills at creating a fantasy world are not as highly developed as I’d like them to be. The fact he was so tall and strong gave him an immediate advantage. As soon as I was in his arms I could bury myself in his chest and feel him overpowering me, on a primal, physical level. I loved it when we were fucking, in quite a traditional pose, with him on top of me, his weight pushing me into the mattress. He would grab my arms and push them behind my head. I could not have stopped him if I’d tried. I told myself he was doing this as an act of dominance, enjoying the hold he had over me. But really he was just moving my arms out of the way, to get better access to my tits, my face, my cunt.
Once I asked him to give me a fireman’s lift. I’d never experienced a man before who I knew for sure was strong and bullish enough to want to try. He chucked me over his shoulder as effortlessly as if I was his gym bag. But instead of hauling me upstairs and throwing me onto the bed, to manfully take what was his, he just put me down on the kitchen floor. We probably had a beer and discussed his plans for climbing on Stanege Edge the next day. If it had been a battle between me and the rock, the rock would have won hands down.
The final frame came as it inevitably would. We were in bed, in our favoured missionary pose (I had introduced him to anal, on a weekend away in Snowdonia. It was a bit DH Lawrence in atmosphere. He liked it but I think he felt scared of the intensity, the way it made him face up to how animalistic all this is. He never tried to repeat it and I was too proud to ask). So I lay back and enjoyed the crush of his bulk on me. I got into a rhythm. My breath started to shorten, quicken. I held on tight.
And then I sensed something a little odd. It was as if his attention had lapsed. Like he’d seen a fly on the wall or something. Or an ex had flitted through his mind, just at the wrong moment. I turned and saw him, looking in the full-length mirror at the side of my bed. Staring at… himself. I could lie and say it was an erotically-charged moment, when we both suddenly realised the potential for getting off on watching ourselves in the act of having sex. But I won’t. He was definitely checking himself out in the mirror. I just happened to be the context in which he was admiring his mighty physique. I can still see his expression now, as he examined the sight of himself, straddling me. ‘Looking good’ it seemed to say. ‘Nice work’. And then he turned back and finished what he was doing.
And I finished doing him very soon after. I liked fucking a narcissus. But I wanted him to pretend, at least, that he was fucking me, not making love to his own reflection, the real object of his desire.