(c) Aiden Lovely
The best night I had in a long time began with my boyfriend forcing us to leave the bar on my 29th birthday. I couldn’t recall how many drinks I had, but the bartender slid one after another my way—and the guys that night were hunks fighting for my attention. We were known as the “regulars” since we frequented the spot often. It was a nice joint, mostly used by gay couples like us. Good friends, good drinks and good chitchat surrounded us, so the nucleus of his bad mood wasn’t the party.
His name was Jacques and his last name was too abstract for me to pronounce when I drank. His cologne seemed more potent when it was mixed with the scent of raspberry vodka. He carried a stern look on his face, a square jaw, standing about 6 feet tall in his penny loafers. He ran his fingers through his raven hair and said, “Come on. We’re leaving.”
He beamed a sarcastic smile at the bartender as he ushered me out.
The snow circled my ankles. The cold air sobered me up as well. I wore a flimsy jacket, thinking the alcohol would keep me warm—I shivered. Jacques lit his cigarette, released a cloud of smoke from between his lips and put it back up to his mouth. I said nothing. I didn’t have the words to say.
“Aren’t you cold?” was the first sentence exchanged between us outside. A faint tremble resumed with my rhythm.
“A little,” I replied.
“Here,” Jacques peeled off his jacket and handed it to me. I wrapped it loosely around my body.
After walking a few paces in silence, I looked back at my foot prints left in the snow. We were approaching the driveway to our apartment on the first floor of the duplex—it was a shabby place built of memories. I stopped walking. The coldness of the weather was now spreading throughout my body again. Jacques unlocked the door, but he didn’t go inside. He stopped and turned to me with a look of “hurry up” or “what are you doing?”—a mixture of both and that was when it hit him. The snowball burst into speckles of white on his shirt. He looked at me. A strong shudder controlled my body. The thought of pelting snow at my partner played out funny in my mind, but the reality didn’t follow the script. “What the hell was I thinking?” I thought.
“I’m sorry,” I said. Jacques hesitated. All motion ceased between us. His eyes were locked on me. I looked away, scolding myself for my actions.
Then I felt it—the snow colliding against my chest. The feeling startled me. I jerked back. I looked up at Jacques with wide eyes.
“The last time I had a snow ball fight, I was in primary school,” his words were strung out in a serious tone with a smile stretched from the corners of his mouth. His expression relieved me.
By the time I launched the last snowball in the battle, we were close enough to kiss. His hot breath tickled my skin. I flinched. Soon I melted in the warmth of his arms around my body. I parted my lips and allowed his blazing muscle to enter. A faint dizziness seeped into my mind. It was just his tongue coiling around mine, but I felt my cock growing firm. It was always his sweet kisses that drove me the craziest.
His fingers drifted from around my body. His hands slid under my flimsy jacket. He lifted me up. He sat me on the hood of our car.
“W-what are you doing?”
He smiled at me. His hand rustled around in his pants pocket. I waited with my eyes glued on him. He then revealed a velvet box. My heart anticipated this moment. It was pounding so hard in my chest. He pressed one knee into the snow and opened the box. A diamond ring.
“Will you marry me?” he said.
I couldn’t speak at first—I couldn’t think either—only stutters pulled from my throat, “Oh my god,” the phrase fluttered out.
Jacques stood to his feet and leaned into me.
“I take that as a yes,” he then pressed his lips against mine. It started as a simple kiss, but soon I was kissing him back with my arms draped around his shoulders. Snowflakes began to fall. We didn’t bother to go inside. Instead we spent the night of my 29th birthday making love on the hood of the car—the very spot Jacques proposed to me.