It isn’t an everyday feeling. It’s not even one that you can guarantee a person will ever have in their life. So how do I justify having felt it more than once? Am I super-special or just damn fucking lucky?
And how does a person quantify the feeling of complete and under comfort in the presence of another. The one where you feel as though you’ve known them for a thousand years. Where you gaze at them with warmth and affection, until they put their hand on your thigh and then your gaze turns to one of smoldering longing.
This is comfort born not of familiarity but of chemistry and mutual like-age. Incorporating NRE with unbridled lust, and a propensity to constantly feel the skin of the other beneath your fingertips. Where a finger run softly across your back turns your knees to mush, and you thank the deity of your choice that you are sitting down, as you know that were you not, you’d be in a crumpled heap on the floor.
And then later, as you tingle all over from their touch, and try desperately to catch your breath after a protracted and deeply satisfying gush of an orgasm, you realise that you have to bid them farewell soon — but you know you’ll see them again. And again. Soon.
Ain’t nothing better.