Remember this kiss

I wanted you almost immediately that I met you, but never more so than that night under the bridge.

It was raining, but not romantic rain; cold, horrible, black, Romford rain. I was wet and you were wet and my short hair hung in wet clumps around my face that made me look like a boy with tits. It was January and I was still a teenager. I don’t know if you actually said shall we go down here for a kiss? but that is what happened. We slunk, hand in icy hand, into the shadows, and I stood, tall and shivering with the cold and the damp, against the wall. You pressed yourself against me and I felt you, hard and old against my thigh. You pressed your mouth onto mine and I kissed you and kissed you until I wondered if I would suffocate. I realised suddenly that I would remember this forever, whatever happened I would always remember this kiss, in the shadows, opening my eyes and seeing that yours were open too, huge, fat, black pupils up against my own. I grabbed your head in my hands, and pulled at the hair on the back of your head. You pressed the heel of your hands between my legs and I groaned into your mouth. I had never felt longing like this, passion and terror in equal measure. You tasted wonderful, like wine and the future. You pressed me harder against the wall until I thought my bones would crack, and you pushed me up until my feet were lifted from my shoes and I was suspended, high on the wall of the bridge, kept up by your desire, looking for all the world like someone hanged from a noose. You grabbed my hand and pushed it against your crotch, and I was scared and thrilled and more alive than I had ever been, there with dead leaves under my shoes and dark winter wind throwing my wet hair against my face. I loved you and you had never fucked me, never screamed at me, never thrown me, helpless against a wall.

Welcome to the happy ending.