Orgasm.

Shawn and I are bored one Saturday and go for dinner at this little Italian place we know because we're craving wine and bread. An hour or so later, we're drinking wine in this other little place down the street because Shawn knows someone who works there and a few of the patrons. "Someone" turns out to capture my gaze all night, and as I spend the majority of my time half-listening to what the people around me are saying, I'm watching the fluidity of his motions, sexualizing him, wondering what his touch, smell, grasp, are like. This hasn't gone unnoticed; I'm thinking aloud. Like some kind of shocked idiot child I repeatedly ask "Who is that?" and Shawn raises his glass, says "dunno, but he pours a damn good martini", and gives me a coy smile.

A few minutes later I'm smoking outside, trying to make less than awkward conversation with my newly appointed dreamboat. His voice is deep, and he blows through sentences quickly, punctuating them with a quiet, self-possessed chuckle. We each run out of cigarette and go back inside. I don't even catch his name. An hour later he buys my table a round of shots and we exchange names and handshakes while Shawn grins at me from across the table. My friend Natalie invites him back to a late-night party at her place.

Several hours after the shots begin to take hold, I'm sitting in Natalie's kitchen, wondering where drunken stupor has taken everyone else. He comes inside from smoking and we start arguing about some trivial musical detail. He's standing above me, and he gently touches the bottom of my chin, tilting my head toward his mouth. I'm shy about it. He pulls me toward him, near him, and I find out that his arms are much stronger than they look, and his grasp is firm but tender. He tries to teach me how to dance, but I'm all arms and legs and no rhythm on a good and straight-laced day. I lay my head on his shoulder and wonder if it's one I will grow used to.

A week later he buys me dinner. I make sure every hair is in place, every eyelash in check, and I get mildly drunk as I sip my beer too quickly on a nervous and empty stomach. I note every detail. I have always been fascinated by the way people move their hands--it shows so much of their personality--and his are exacting but playful. He doesn't talk with them exactly, but they react to his words. His sarcasm is spot-on. He tells great stories. And the more comfortable he gets with me, the more his chuckle becomes accessorized by raised eyebrows and boyish grins.

Several hours and several drinks later and I'm cautiously infatuated. We sit on my small couch talking and interlacing our fingers. This doesn't last long. We're in my bed and he's got me firmly in his arms; I feel hermetically sealed from all danger and sorrow. His skin is so smooth--even more so than mine--and I run my hands up and down his back, his arms, his chest. Our kisses are long but don't loiter, firm but not taut, quickening and slowing but never messy. This is not the passion I am used to: the erratic, panicked, ripping and tearing and pounding. But I am so at ease, and so incredibly aroused, that I realise my definition has been faulty. He is giving my body silent worship with his lips and his breath. He envelops me now, and slowly lets me slide on his hand. The warm, creeping vibration seizes me--I have heat in my veins. I shake and grasp his arms, praying that he is real.

Four weeks later he tells me he loves me. We are calm and unconditionally loving, and it's something neither of us has ever known. I can't get enough of his smile, his hands, his stories, his mouth. I love watching him get dressed, undressed, smoke cigarettes. And I am relaxed: I don't care about the future because I have him now. And my definition of love has drastically changed.