Maybe...

His lips were there, hovering close to mine, but not so much as a single breath was shared. That bastard!
Never before met someone for whom I would gladly play the Goddess. Or pay. And certainly, I would pay. I would give it all for just a taste of those supple lips, and to feel his body against mine.
I had kissed him in the past. It was before I knew better, and completely on accident. It was the kind of chaste peck on the lips that I habitually share with his lover. I was too surprised to enjoy it. I didn't like him then.
One of those men who is finally blossoming into his manhood from gawky teenage boyhood, who might have the mind, and yet the body is just beginning to catch up. Of course he would be a genius. Smarter than I. Book-smart in the lazy, indolent way of all self-unaware gorgeous men, his long limbs attaching to loose joints and still not yet causing him to look the least puppetlike. Physically, he's dynamite. Too skinny to be healthy, but as he'd reach up to readjust his hat, my eyes would be drawn to the supine mowhawk falling across his brown eyes, and then down the long, lazy line of his torso, to the flat, gorgeous skin of his stomach, tautly stretched, gently spread with hair. The hipbones mocking me.
I lie. I wouldn't give anything to feel him against me, because I feel him almost daily. Hugs, not even hinting at the banal, carnal lust that flows through my body, the thought of which, numbs my mouth, and I have to swallow dryly.
I wouldn't have even noticed him in a sexual way had he not been an outrageous flirt. Had I not been irresistibly drawn to his actions, I might have been considered a better friend, for he was involved with my oldest local friend, and I, a married woman. Brown eyes, brown hair dyed to have a hint of red tint, facial hair, and white skin, my God- he was the epitome of complete and utter attractive male, in my book. To make matters worse, his tongue was pierced. Damn, damn, damn the man!
Okay, so let's just blame the entire attraction on him. Had he not been in a serious fight with my friend, I would not have stumbled back from the bar, with our arms around each other, singing songs of nonsense, and glowing with every compliment he paid to me. How cute I was drunk. How sweet I was. How I began to burn for him! The feeling of his arms around me was like heaven, the smell of his deodorant was like heady cologne, and as he and my friend threw barbs of hate at one another, and I played devil's advocate, I fell in love with him. Well, maybe not love. But, of course, I long to make love to him- there's something about the sexual attraction that a Taurus oozes like a pheromone, something about how he passionately argues about philosophy, something about the way I felt a few weeks prior when I read to him from The Liber Al Legis.
Maybe it's his love of Tori Amos, or the way that he looked at me with envy as I spoke of meeting Neil Gaiman. I just do not know when or why his flattery made an impression on me. Maybe it's the fact that most of his music makes me want to puke needles.
Why do I have to burn? Why must I think back to the weekend of insomnia, drunken driving in a canyon 40 miles away, and the way we touched as we talked and sat before the fire? Why did he have to make those sexual comments, he was aware of the attraction as much as I! Why did he say those things? Why did he slide his body over mine, clothes brushing, hips gyrating, why did he hover his lips over mine, and why did he have to make me wet for him? Why did he have to make me desire him? And if this was something that was impossible to avoid, why did he not follow through?
I still want him. I am sitting here in my seat aching, and thinking, looking at his Myspace pictures and cursing that when I saw him last, he made no physical mention of that night. No caress, no brush of his lips, and no overt move to allow me that he felt that what feelings were stirred in the wee hours of the morning meant anything at all to him. The thing that bothers me the most is that I feel that either he really is not attracted to me, he's too loyal to a "love" of my friend or a care for the sanctity of my so-called marriage, (which he freely admits is not what keeps him coming around), or if he simply enjoys to flirt with a woman who he calls pretty while she's drunk, and has no second thoughts, or regrets. That's fine for him, have no regrets. I just wish he'd kiss me, once, long, lingering, and gently. In my mind's eye I can feel his lips brush mine, as his hands tangle in my hair, and slowly, ever so slowly, our lips part whilst our tongue-piercings tangle, and we share a single breath, a single thought. Fantasy is always better than reality. Maybe if he'd kiss me, the feelings would go away. Maybe.