Author's webpage: http://www.geocities.com/SoHo/Cafe/8298/titles.html

Author's disclaimer: Not to me but to DeMeo, Bilson, Pet Fly be the glory, world without end.

Author's notes: Another Sine Nomine story. I never know when these are gonna pop out.

Cuddle
by Merri-Todd Webster
(28 December 1998)

I used to think that the best part of sex was the moment when you lose control. The moment when, if you're a man, you're just pounding away and nothing else matters--who you are, who you're with, whether they like it, whether you'll ever see the other person again. That moment when getting hit by a freight train couldn't stop you. It used to take me a hell of a lot of effort to get to that moment, to really lose control. It didn't happen every time I had sex, orgasm or no orgasm. It took me a while to realize that it happened less often when I had sex with a woman, more often when I had sex with a man. And it took me a while to realize that losing control--not feeling good or even coming my brains out--was what I really wanted out of sex.

Then I met Blair Sandburg. Fell in love. Found out how great sex can be with someone who's not hung up on losing control, keeping control, taking control, or being controlled. And I discovered that the best part of sex, for me, is what comes afterward.

The best part of sex is flopping over on my back and letting Sandburg drape himself over me like a 5'8" rag doll. Looking down and seeing his hair spread out over my chest, and reaching up and burying my fingers in it, feeling it, smelling it. Wrapping an arm around him, and feeling his arms wrap around me. Lying there, holding each other, stuck together with sweat and spit and come, until our body functions slow down enough to think again, or even enough to fall asleep.

The sex is fantastic, but what I can't get enough of is holding the man. Feeling his skin against mine and dialing up my sense of touch until I could count the hairs on his chest. Feeling his hands wander up and down my arm, my hip, my thigh. Feeling the slow rush of his breath tickle me. The days when I fuck and roll over are long gone. I think I could give up having sex with him, if I had to--temporarily--sooner than I could give up holding him like that.

One night a couple weeks ago, he volunteered at a homeless shelter, working the overnight shift. I couldn't sleep without him. It wasn't so much that I was worried about his welfare, though I was, as that I missed his being in the bed, missed his smell and his heartbeat and his snoring and his shape and weight. Missed--cuddling with him. Is this what the homophobes are afraid of--that guys might like to cuddle? That if you learn to like wrapping your arms another man, holding him, kissing him, you might not be willing to hit a man, or kill him, the next time they want you to? I sound like Sandburg now, theorizing--believe me, he's got a truckload of theories. About everything. That's his department, theorizing and Guiding. Mine is enjoying him, protecting him, needing him.

I need him so much it scares me. It's not just that I need him to love me, in some abstract sort of way. I need him to touch me. I need the kiss before he leaves for Rainier and the hug when he gets back. I need his shoulder tucked under my arm, his arm flung across my stomach, in order to get to sleep. I need that little pattern of kisses he likes to give me when we're lying in bed: forehead, eyebrows, tip of the nose, right cheek, left cheek, chin, mouth. I need his knee touching mine while we drink beer and watch the Jags. I need his hand on my arm while I dial up my senses and scan a crime scene.

I don't know if I've been in love before. I don't know if what I feel for Blair is "being in love". I just know that I've never felt this way about anybody else, and I'm pretty sure nobody else has felt about me the way that he does. And I know he's a great cuddle. I'm just not going to spread the news around the bullpen.

I've got a secret.

It's a nice secret. A warm, fuzzy secret. I want to laugh like crazy every time I think of it, but if I want to keep my hide, I'd better not breathe a word. Not even whisper it down a hole in the ground like King Midas's barber.

Here goes:

James J. Ellison is a big ol' love sponge.

I always knew the guy would be great in the sack. Or the shower, or the kitchen, or the living room, truck, closet, men's room.... But somehow I never guessed he'd be such a cuddler. He's hungry for affection. We fuck like wild men, and then he doesn't want to let me go. I fall asleep with my head on his chest, his arms around me, and damned if that's not how we wake up, most of the time.

I should have guessed, maybe. He's always been touchy-feely with me, in an appropriately guy-buddy sort of way. Maybe I could have guessed that if we ever became lovers, after fucking my brains out my ears, he'd treat me like a giant teddy bear and hold me all night long.

Did the man ever have a teddy bear? That's the question.

Actually, the more I think about it, the less I think he had a teddy bear, and the madder I get. Not that I mind his being so affectionate, oh, no, no way do I mind. But I get the feeling that I'm making up for decades of neglect. Long cold years when nobody touched Jim Ellison who didn't want to kill him. No hugs and kisses from Mom--she wasn't there. No pats on the back from a proud dad. No mock-wrestling, no noogies from a brother who was also a buddy. Just a slow quiet process of turning to stone, until he was ready to hurt people just for the excuse of touching them.

I wonder if he was ever affectionate with Carolyn. I doubt it, though I'm not gonna ask. She doesn't strike me as the type of woman who'd let down her guard and be that "femme" in a traditional sort of way. Men are from Mars, women are from Venus, and Carolyn is from Mercury or
something. An Athena type who doesn't really let men touch her.

Okay, I'm being unfair. It's not her fault Jim is the way he is. They just fitted together in all the worst ways. At least they didn't spend too long torturing each other. But sometimes, when we're cuddled up together after sex, I run my hands over him and think: This one is for Carolyn. This one is for your dad. This one is for your mother. This one is for Stephen. This touch, this petting, my hand on your chest, is for all the people who've ever not touched you, not hugged you, not kissed you, not loved you enough. Here's a kiss for every kiss you missed, and another kiss because I love you. I love you so much, Jim.

Sometimes I worry that he needs me too much, that he needs more than I can give, but then I just breathe deeply, calmly, and remind myself I've got lots of emotional reserves. I've got lots of love to give. I've got lots of commitment. And it's all his.

C'm'ere, big guy, I'm feeling cuddly again.

end