The Finger

Call us old fashioned, but we didn’t rush physical intimacy in our relationship.  I’d been too quick to do that as a teen and didn’t want to make that mistake again.  Mark had never made the mistake of jumping in blindly the way I had, but his mindset was that sex was to be cherished and not given to just anyone, so his partners of the past had only been two other men—his high school first love, and a boyfriend in college whom he had cared deeply for, but upon graduation they had both realized they weren’t meant for the long run and had parted amicably; something he tells me he doesn’t regret, but which still took some time to heal from.

Now I know our time has come and my heart is ready to pound out of my chest.  We are a committed couple, having just that day made the jump of moving in together—the first time either of us has chosen to do that with a partner.  Deepening the commitment is the fact that our new home is a cottage we’ve both fallen in love with and have purchased together—both our names on the mortgage.

Boxes are scatted everywhere, but the small house’s lone bedroom is set up and completely free of packing peanuts and cardboard.  Mark is locking the front door and I’m standing near the window, feeling nervous and excited and hopeful that we’ll mesh as well in our intimacy as we do in so many other areas. 

When Mark joins me in the room, my mouth goes dry as he closes the door purposefully, despite knowing there’s no one to interrupt us.  His shirt is already unbuttoned and I wonder how I managed to last in the time we’ve been together without sharing a bed with him.  He hasn’t even touched me and I already feel ready to explode!

With a soft look he moves to the foot of our new bed, shrugs out of his shirt, and silently crooks a finger at me.